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bookquotes-20 · 3 years

Text

Crashing

Fandom: Folk of the Air

Ship: Jurdan

Rating: T

Fluffy Angst

Little had changed since Jude’s ascension to the throne. As when she was Seneschal, she coordinated the kingdom’s affairs with unparalleled grace and tenacity.

Perhaps the greatest difference was the respect and admiration that shone in the eyes of her subjects and colleagues. Some entertained the sentiment freely while others offered their appreciation with reluctance, but even those that loathed to admit it, could not deny that their Queen was remarkable.

Oh, and of course, the revels.

As Seneschal, Jude could still make up excuses of work to avoid attending the unending festivities that were often separated by little free time. Cardan was never far from “a party mood,” as it was called in the human world. And when she was considered a mere accessory to the crown, she had no direct obligation to attend each meaningless celebration.

Now that she wore said crown, the lavish parties were considerably more difficult to avoid.

Jude still did not attend them all, nor did she attend them in their entirety. She would, though, make an appearance alongside her husband at the beginning and end of each.

It was a thrill like no other, walking to the dais boasting their thrones, her hand firmly in his, both draped in finery.

He would brush a kiss across her knuckles each time before they took their place together, and his voice would boom across the hall to begin the merriment.

For years, Jude had watched Cardan’s lithe form adorned in lush garments and glittering powders as he maneuvered through galas and feasts and festivities. And yet still, he managed to take her breath away each time.

First with his otherworldly beauty, for their was no other way to describe it. She hesitated to call it Fae beauty because he truly surpassed all the Fae she had seen. The slant of his high cheekbones accentuated by the faint shimmer of gold. The sensuously dark eyes rimmed with kohl that only served to increase their depth, through the contrast they provided against the white around his irises. When a sheen of intoxication covered them, they glimmered like the night sky. The wine he indulged in throughout only served to darken his sinful mouth, accentuating his lips against his pale skin. Unfortunately, Jude was acutely aware that she is not the only one who has noticed Cardan’s painful beauty.

Beyond this carefully crafted beauty, though, through this new lens placed upon their lives, Jude saw something else that set her stomach aflutter in ways she could not hope to explain. Her disinterest with the merriment gave her the opportunity to watch her husband with rapt interest. Observe in ways she had not let herself indulge before.

She watched Cardan charm their guests and dignitaries, smiling wide and tipping his head back in laughter at their stories. His lighthearted demeanor and mischief coaxed grins from even the most stubborn of their guests. Enough so that they’d miss the coy turn to his lips, the sly gleam in his eyes that indicated he was there for more than celebration and mirth. He would masterfully put all around him a perfect ease and walk away having gleaned whatever political advantage he sought. Every. Time.

It fascinated Jude to no end. Her husband was cunning. And no one was the wiser.

The thought enticed a chuckle from her chest.

The sound seemed to catch Cardan’s attention. He turned his head toward her and gave a small smile as he started up the dais to her.

“Would you grace me with a dance, my queen,” he said, eyes shining. She smiled and took his outstretched hand.

His gaze never wavered from hers. Not when he maneuvered them through the crowds to the center of the room. Certainly not when he placed her hands on his shoulders and his own firmly on her waist. Absolutely not when his fingers pressed with careful deliberation against the small of her back to arch her towards him.

“You’ve danced with quite a many people tonight, my king.” Her voice was mostly teasing. Although, a seasoned ear — and his was most definitely seasoned when it came to Jude — would swear there was the faintest undertone of jealousy. Cardan’s lips twitched into a smile.

“I have only wanted a dance with one person all night, and I have her in my arms.” Jude rolled her eyes in attempted annoyance, but the barest pink on her cheek betrayed all.

He raised their joined hands to twirl her. If he deliberate cut the spin short so she would fall against his chest, neither of them mentioned it. The longer they danced, the more the world around them faded away. As it often did when they were together.

The King and Queen had a way of losing themselves in each other. The time, the location, the circumstance was of little import. The ever burning spark between them would flare into a wildfire that burned all else out of their consciousness.

Flint and tinder indeed.

That’s why both startled when a loud cough beside them brought them out of their reveries. Jude nearly jumped backward, she truly would have were it not for Cardan’s firm grasp on her. They turned to see The Bomb waiting with an amused smile.

“Pardon the intrusion, lovebirds — I mean Your Highnesses,” she corrected with a giggle. “If I may borrow the Queen for a moment?”

Cardan threw The Bomb an annoyed glance, as if to say Really? but it only served to fuel her laughter. Jude squeezed his hand apologetically before starting to pull away. He held on to her till the last second, reluctant to let go, desperate to maintain the physical connection between them.

“I’ll see you in our chambers,” Jude whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before The Bomb pulled her away.

The Roach and The Ghost are waiting for them in the shadows of the exit arch. The Roach glances behind the two, suppressing a laugh at their High King who looks downright forlorn at the loss of his queen. What is the expression the mortals use? Whipped?

“What’s wrong?” Jude asked as they approached the spies. “Is there immediate danger?”

“No immediate danger,” The Roach reassured, “A messenger just arrived from the Court of Teeth with a letter. Nothing too serious but it does require a prompt response. They would like to meet with you and the Cardan in one week’s time regarding expanding and fortifying trade routes between the Court and Elfhame. Since it is a four day journey, we thought it best that we send the messenger with a response immediately to avoid rushed panic.”

Jude nodded, “That would be wise. Take me to him.”

In nearly an hour, she had received the message, formulated the perfect response, sent the messenger on his way, and planned the critical details of the summit. The Roach shook his head in amazement, a small smile curled The Ghosts lips, and The Bomb just looked on in respect and adoration. Their Queen was frustratingly talented. When it came to everything except her own safety that is. Her lack of self-preservation was a source of anxiety for them all.

“Would you like an escort back to the revel?” The Ghost asked softly. Jude smiled and shook her head.

“No, thank you, I think I’ll retire for the night. Enjoy your evening.”

They nodded and bid her good night as she started towards the royal chambers.

A deep breath left Jude’s chest as she closed the doors behind her. Her hands rose to her temples, fingers massaging the skin softly.

A brief moment passed until she felt a pair of arms encircle her waist. She didn’t hesitate to melt into her husband’s embrace, allowing his body hold up her own. Her hands covered his as he placed a soft kiss to the skin of her shoulder. Jude found herself thanking Tatterfell for choosing a sleeveless gown for the evening, held up by an intricately embroidered chord of fabric wrapping around her neck.

She tilted her head to look up at him. “You returned from the revel quite early.” Her brow furrowed and she scanned his face for signs of exhaustion. “Are you tired?” He shook his head.

“My heart was elsewhere.”

The phrase was simple, but the weight of his gaze made it anything but. The corners of Jude’s eyes softened.

“I believe I still owe you a dance, my king.”

Cardan’s eyes brightened. “I believe you do,” he took her hand, brushing a kiss across her knuckles, “my queen.”

She turned in his arms to face him. His arm didn’t move from her waist, simply shifted to better accommodate her.

“Music?”

Cardan smiled and pulled her in closer. His cheek brushed Jude’s and his lips moved to her ear. He began to sing softly.

Jude’s eyes widened in amazement. His voice.

It was unlike anything she had heard before. Deep yet soft, like waves of velvet washing over her. Something in her body thrummed at the sound.

Resonance, was the term that came to mind. It was as if his voice was a frequency her very soul was tuned to. A sound made just for her.

Her forehead fell forward to rest on Cardan’s shoulder. She heard the smile in his voice as he swayed their joined form gently around their chambers. Jude felt the music vibrate through his body against her own.

“You have a beautiful voice,” she whispered against his shoulder.

“Thank you, my love.” He pressed a kiss to her temple.

“What song is it?”

“It’s an old Fae ballad, a tale of two lovers whose very natures pitted them against one another.” Cardan spoke low in her ear. Even in the privacy of their chambers, it seemed as though he was hiding the words from the rest of the world, speaking only to her heart. “Just as the lovers constantly fought with each other, their hearts fought them. Their souls were made for one another, yearning to be united. Despite the world of circumstances separating them.”

There was a heavy silence. “I thought of it often in your absence,” he admitted.

Which one? Jude wanted to ask. During her exile? When she was taken by the Undersea? She pulled back to search his eyes. Or perhaps, even in their childhood? When they claimed to feel nothing but hatred for each other.

She rose on her toes to press her lips to his. A silent thank you for his trust, his admission. He kissed her back with more fervor than she expected. Jude braced a hand against his neck, fingers creeping into his dark curls just briefly while his lips moved against hers. Cardan pulled back slightly, breaths coming heavy as he rested his forehead against hers. His brows were furrowed, lines of tension contouring his face. Like he was reliving the pain of losing her all over again. Her fingers traced his face, smoothing the lines away.

“Every time I saw you, there was a fire that lit my veins,” she says into the space between them. “As you said, I always thought it was hatred.” Jude paused. “But I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out why that fire burned so much brighter when I saw another girl in your arms.” His eyes snapped open at that, lips parting in slight awe. The corners of Jude’s mouth twitched. Success, she thought as she saw the pain slowly melt off his face as mirth creeped in.

“My queen,” Cardan began, his eyes sparked anew, “were you perhaps, jealous?”

“Were might not be the right term, are is more appropriate.” Jude scowled slightly. Her fingers stroked the back of his neck absentmindedly. “I still don’t like all the women that try to weasel themselves closer to you, with no regard for your wife’s presence.” She felt a tremor run up his spine at the word. Wife.

Jude paused, hesitating before reminding herself of Cardan’s admission to her. One piece at a time.

“They’re all quite beautiful too,” she muttered under her breath, averting her eyes.

Cardan looked at her as if he didn’t quite hear her correctly.

“My love, you can’t possibly be insecure about your appearance?”

“I mean, I’m not blessed with their Fae beauty or anything.” Truth be told, Jude had never cared about her appearance in front of the Folk. Her battle physique and training were most important to her, they still are. But she would be lying if she said she didn’t occasionally reflect on the differences between her and the beauty of the women that threw themselves at Cardan.

“Jude, look at me please, love.”

When she did, her breath hitched at the intensity of his gaze. “I understand insecurities are normal, everyone has them. Gods know I have more than most. But you have absolutely nothing to concern yourself with.” His hand tightened on her waist, pulling her closer. “You are without a doubt the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. No one else has the power to take my breath away with a single look. To make my heart race with a single touch. To undo me with a single kiss. You have ruled my heart, my mind, my very soul long before any of those women you speak of.”

Jude’s breath froze in her lungs. She knew Cardan loves her. He knew she loves him. They had whispered the words against each other’s lips and skin in dark nights of their chambers, spoken them through their eyes when their gazes locked across the throne room, laughed them to the wind as they danced in the royal gardens (at Cardan’s request). Yet the raw emotion in his words right then, the surety in his voice, nearly cut her open. She wanted to return the sentiment, to tell him what he means to her, but the words froze in her throat. A flash of hatred coursed through Jude at that. Hatred directed at no one but herself. For still freezing when it comes to laying her heart bare before him, the one person she trusts. The one person who deserved her vulnerability. Instead, like a coward, she caught onto his earlier words.

Jude snorted. “Please, you don’t know what the word insecurity means when it comes to looks.” She poked at his high cheekbones jokingly, before tracing her finger down his sharp jaw. “You’ve never looked less than perfect a day in your life.”

Cardan’s hand rose to cover hers. His gaze pinned her in place. “And yet when I saw true contempt in your eyes, the day you returned to Elfhame, I felt uglier than I ever have in all my days.” He flashed back to the hate she directed at him. It felt like a steel net, weighing him down, closing his airways. He could hardly breathe under the weight.

She brushed her thumb over his cheek.

Tears in his eyes were the last straw. Jude searched his face, her thoughts racing. No more, she decided. No more hiding. Cardan deserves better. He deserves more. He deserves vulnerability and to be loved freely. He deserves no more armor. Jude steeled her heart and something shifted in her eyes.

“It’s interesting that you saw contempt,” she murmured. “Considering I couldn’t bring myself to be angry with you the way I wished to.” Cardan’s eyes widened in surprise. The corner of her lips twitched. “Unfortunately, hating you has never been easy.” Jude stroked his cheek again. “There are days I question whether I could truly manage it at all.”

There’s a lightness in her eyes he’s unaccustomed to. No. Not a lightness, but rather the absence of weight. Jude does not often voice her feelings, but when she does, there is hesitance. Fear and reluctance swirl in her heart and heavy her tongue. The words she normally would have had to force out, flow today from her lips as naturally as water. Her lips ticked upwards, settling into the ghost of a smile.

Her arm wound tighter around his neck, decreasing the distance between them, while her other hand remained pressed between his hand and his cheek. His own arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer still. Her mouth rose to his, just a hairsbreadth from touching it.

“Did you ever truly hate me,” she whispered.

“I believed I did.” Cardan’s gaze never wavered from hers. “I convinced myself the intense emotion that clouded my every thought was hate, because it seemed like the only acceptable answer. I tried to nurture those thoughts further towards darkness and hatred. At least that I understood.” His temple pressed against hers and a breathy chuckle escaped his chest. “What a fool I was.”

Jude paused a moment before asking another question.

“Can you tell when I lie?”

Startled again, Cardan thought. He contemplated his answer. “I believe so.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t think I can put it into words,” he said. “Truthfully, I don’t think I myself understand how I know. Perhaps it is a product of watching you with such scrutiny all these years. There are parts of you I find myself so attuned to that it surprises me. Very little of myself is conscious when it comes to you, my sweet nemesis.” His thumb brushed back and forth over the skin exposed by a cut of her gown at the waist. The ministration in conjunction with his smooth voice is mesmerizing. She finds herself losing awareness of everything but him. “Your eyes usually give me my answer. As you speak, whenever I look in your eyes,” he moves her hand from his cheek to his heart. “something in here just knows whether you are telling the truth.”

She locked her gaze with his now.

“I love you.”

His breath froze in his throat. And he knew, something deep in his heart knew, that it’s true. He returned her honesty with a kiss. Whispering his greatest secret against her lips.

“I love you, my dearest Jude.”

#jealous!jude #why are they so adorable #I’m obsessed with writing them #angst #fluff #fluffy fluff fluff #cardan greenbriar #jurdan #jude x cardan #jude duarte #tfota #tfota fanfic #jurdan fic #high queen jude #tfota fic #booklr #ballroom dancing

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

Looking for a Place to Happen 4

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape, age gap, general stupidity, some violence and threats, coercion, manipulation, hand job, loss of virginity

This is dark!biker!Sam Wilson x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Series Synopsis: There’s lots happening in Birch and you find it all too amusing.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown, When the Weight Comes Down, Little Bones, and Fully Completely

Note: Sorry it took so long to get this out. Hopefully I can work on part 5 now that I have this posted.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter 4: With its gallery gods and its garbage-bag trees

💀💀💀

Sam left you in the same daze that fogged the entire day. The night was restless as you tossed and turned, replaying the scene over and over. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the lens staring back at you, imagined yourself on a screen, your hand moving between your legs, your pathetic mewls as you came for this man and who knew how many others.

Well, he did say it was up to you how big the audience was.

You woke early and only checked in with your nan to fill a mug with coffee and start your day ahead of time. You needed to keep yourself busy after a night bombarded by your own thoughts and yet, you couldn’t focus enough to do more than stare at the blinking cursor.

You put on a Twitch stream to keep your mind from wandering too far but it did little to help your focus. You fidgeted, still without your phone, and again thought of the previous day and what you’d done. You’d never done that in front of anyone. You only ever joked about it online, that persona was everything you weren’t irl.

All your stupid online jokes and exaggerations got you into this. You fucked up because the line between virtual and reality was too blurred in your head. You got carried away and now you just had to deal. Well, you guessed it was a lesson no one learned the easy way.

You didn’t realise how much time passed until your stomach growled loudly and squeezed. You felt like throwing up but only had the slice of toast you scarfed down that morning to coat your stomach. You rubbed your eyes and headed downstairs to sneak some of your nan’s sugarless jelly cookies. She hated your snacking but she rarely finished a box on her own.

As you entered through the kitchen, you came to a sudden halt. You tilted your head and frowned as you heard your nan’s voice and the one that answered had you knocking your hip against a chair as you rushed into the living room.

“Just over there,” she directed as the leg of the couch scraped on the floor, “slide it against the wall.”

Sam stood straight dusted off his hands on his jeans. He stepped back and looked over the old floral sofa.

“Definitely looks better over here,” he remarked.

“What the hell?” you blurted out.

“There you are!” your grandmother tutted, “I called up to you but you do what you always do and tune me out.”

“I didn’t-- I was working, I--” you cleared your throat and looked at Sam, “what are you doing here?”

“He’s being very helpful,” your nan praised, “how many times did I ask you to help me with this thing?”

“Sorry, I…” you swallowed and glanced between them.

“And smell that,” your nan inhaled deeply, “he’s making us dinner.”

“And I brought sugar-free dessert,” he added, “anything else I can do?”

“You’re so sweet,” she squeezed his thick arm.

“So are you… once you get past the frying pan,” he chuckled.

“I see a man in leather, I’m swinging,” she scowled, “you’re lucky you came bearing gifts.”

“Hey, look, we’re not all bad,” he smiled as she sat and he handed her the book from the small table that held the lamp and her ashtray, “I’m not like those guys who threatened your granddaughter.”

“And more honest than her,” she shook her head, “you didn’t tell me you were down at that bar. I warned you-- you really are lucky he was there.”

“Uh, sure, yeah,” you squinted at them, “didn’t you just tell me the other day I should grab any biker by--”

“I’m old, I say things,” she laughed but her eyes had a glimmer of ‘be quiet’.

“Would you like some more tea, Millie?” he asked as he took her empty mug and neared you, stopping in the broad archway that opened up into the living room.

“One more, if you don’t mind,” she smiled sweetly. She never smiled.

You hid a scowl and turned to follow Sam into the kitchen. He moved the kettle onto a burner and turned the knob. He stopped and opened the door of the stove and peeked inside as a blaze of savoury hot air blasted out at him. You felt it just before he let it snap shut and turned to lean on the counter, crossing one foot over the other.

“What are you doing?” you uttered.

“I told you I’d be back,” he shrugged.

“I didn’t think you’d--” you lowered your voice and glanced at the doorway, “what have you been telling her?”

“Everything she wants to hear,” he ran his fingertips along the precise line of hair of his goatee, “and nothing she shouldn’t… but that can change.”

“I did what you wanted. End of punishment,” you put your hands on your hips.

“End? Hmmm, I don’t think I said that,” his forehead wrinkled, “we’re far from finished… and come on, we both know you had as much fun as me.”

Your nostrils flared and you sucked in your cheeks. He was entirely too hard to figure out. He was that sort of man you hated and feared all at once. You just couldn’t predict him.

“I don’t… I don’t care what happens to me, just don’t hurt her,” you said quietly.

“Hurt her? Now why would I do that?” he taunted, “I mean, right now I have no reason to do anything like that.”

You squirmed and let out a breath, “please, alright?”

“Settle down, honey, you’ve been good… so far,” he said, “you just gotta keep it up.”

“Yeah,” you grumbled as the kettle began to shake and he turned his back to you, “any chance I can have my phone back?”

He chuckled as he searched the cupboard for the tea and plucked out a bag, “you’re funny… I like that but you gotta stop acting like everything’s a joke. It doesn’t hold up.”

💀

You found it hard not to wear a look of unamused confusion as Sam served dinner at the table and your grandmother sang his praises as he poured her wine she could actually drink. Just one glass but it was enough to loosen her up. You hadn’t eaten in the dining room since you were a kid, more used to eating at the counter, sitting on the wobbly stools or in front of the television.

Sam offered for you to clean up and do the dishes. Your nan was overjoyed at that, almost mocking. When you finished, you found them in the living room, some old Robert DeNiro movie on the television. You sat on the couch, as far from Sam as you as your grandmother yawned into her hand.

“Well,” she stubbed out her cigarette, “I should really be getting to bed. That wine is kicking in.”

“It’s early…” you argued weakly.

“You kids don’t get into too much trouble,” she warned as she stood with a groan and gripped her hip, “these ears still work.”

“Trouble? Me?” Sam kidded, “you don’t have to worry about me. I haven’t been a kid in a very long time.”

She smiled and nodded but for a moment she hesitated. She looked at you and pushed her tongue to her denture.

“Good night, girlie,” she said.

“Night, nan,” you forced out as normally as you could.

You knew if she sensed your fear, she’d act out. She was always too brave for her own good and while you admired that, you didn’t need to get hurt because you were dumb as a brick.

She left slowly and you heard her television begin to crackle and the voices of the Law and Order actors were muffled behind her door. You hunched your shoulders and rubbed your hands together as you stared at Deniro’s wrinkled forehead and that characteristic squint.

The lamp went out as Sam pulled the cord and the screen glowed in the dark. You felt the cushion dip as he shifted closer without subtlety. He slung his arm over your shoulder and you smelled his earthy cologne as he turned the TV up a few ticks. He pulled you to him as his hand came up to cradle your cheek.

“Shouldn’t we go… somewhere else?”

“She won’t hear us honey,” he cooed, “you just gotta be good. Be quiet.”

“Let’s go upstairs. Please,” you grabbed his hand as you pleaded.

“You keep arguing and I’ll make sure to wake her up,” he warned, “now,” he twisted so that he had your wrist in his grasp and forced it down to his lap, “put your hand down my pants.”

You gulped loudly and your hand trembled. You read enough fanfic to know what to do but your lack of actual experience had you nervous. Much like many things in your life. All talk, no skill.

You turned awkwardly on the cushion, your body uncomfortably contorted as his legs stayed pressed to yours. You struggled to unhook the button of his fly and the zipper was slow to descend. You felt the bulge as your hands moved against the denim and you hesitated as your fingers pressed to the elastic of his briefs.

“Mmm,” he purred as he hugged you closer, “that’s it, honey.”

Your eyes widened and you were happy the room was dark enough to hide your face. You pulled the elastic back with two fingers and shoved your other hand blindly beneath the fabric. You brushed against his hard dick and angled your hand so that you could grip him, his smooth length felt peculiar against your palm. Was he big? He felt big but didn’t have anyone to compare him to.

“Tighter,” he groaned at the friction as you moved your hand.

You squeezed and his hot breath grazed over your hair and he pushed his head back over the couch. He twitched as you kept a steady motion, trapped in the limbo of mortification and cluelessness. Were you doing it right? What were you even doing?

“Ah, honey, you’re so good,” he said as he rubbed the back of your neck, “goddamn.”

You said nothing as you focused on your hand. He snaked his arm under yours suddenly and pulled you over as he lifted his ass. Your hand was caught in his under as he laid you down beneath him. He reached down and fixed your grip on him as he held hovered atop you, his knees pressed into the cushion between your legs.

His arm crossed under yours as he poked along your jeans and shoved his hand beneath the denim and cotton. His palm was flush to your pelvis as he slid two fingers along your folds, held snug to you by the fabric. He swirled his fingertips over your bud and you gasped as your other hand gripped his arm in surprise.

“Honey, you’re wet already,” he whispered, “you sure you haven’t been waiting for this?”

You moaned as he pushed back along your entrance and dragged his fingers back, spreading your wetness over your clit. You quivered as you struggled to keep your own hand moving. He inhaled and groaned as played with you and pressed his lips to your cheek. He trailed up to your lips and kissed you, forcing his tongue inside as he shuddered.

He drew away with a sloppy noise and withdrew his hand from your pants. He sat up on his knees and pulled your legs to rest against his torso. He gripped the back of your jeans and yanked them down along with your panties. You smothered your cry as you were shocked by the force of it and the air of the room on your bare ass and legs.

He let your jeans dangle from one ankle as he bent over you again. Your leg fell over the edge of the couch as he held himself over you with a hand just above your head, fingers tight on the cushioned arm. He wiggled as he shimmied his jeans and briefs down with his other hand and you pressed on his chest.

“Wait, wait,” you hissed, “you… please, just… slow down… I never--”

“Shh, honey, you’re making too much noise,” he muttered, “it’s okay.”

“No, no, please, can’t we--” your voice caught as he lined his tips up along your cunt and rubbed it along your clit, “I’ll… I’ll use my mouth.”

“Later,” he whispered as his tip slipped down along your entrance, “honey, I need to feel you.”

“Pl--” your voice evaporated as the head of his dick stretched you.

You whimpered as he brought his arm down and nestled it under your head. He pushed further in and you gritted your teeth as you whined at the pressure of his intrusion. With each inch, the strain grew worse as a deep pain flooded your body. He shushed you as he forced past your resistance.

He covered your mouth as you cried out and barely kept your voice under control. He kept your head on his arm as his other hand cupped your lips and smothered out your agony. He forced himself in as deep as he could and your body tensed as your walls squeezed him. Your eyes rolled back as tears welled and spilled over the corners.

“Honey, it’s okay, we’ll go slow,” he coaxed, “just like that.”

He rocked his hips carefully but it still felt terrible. He pulled back and slid back in, each time it felt like he got even deeper than the last. His breath hitched and your own grew laboured as you huffed through your nostrils.

He growled and sped up, just a little at a time, your cunt slickening his intrusion as his pelvis brushed against your clit and sent tendrils down your thighs. Even so, the pleasure was not enough to mute the pain.

“That’s it,” he uttered, “that’s it.”

He fucked you faster and the couch shook beneath you. His flesh slapped and the noise seemed to be monstrous, so much sure that you were sure your grandmother would come out and catch you.

You grasped his wrist as you felt your climax rising. You squeezed and arched your foot as you were overcome and crashed down harshly as the pain tore through the ecstasy once more. He turned his hand and framed your chin as he kissed you again, swallowing your murmurs as he thrust into you over and over.

He lifted his head and dipped his thumb into your mouth as he held in his voice. He quaked and his motion stuttered but kept on. You felt his release, hot and wet, inside of you, a strange sensation that made you both sickened and aroused you.

He eased up and stilled at last. He brushed his nose against yours and chuckled under his breath as he wiggled his hips and you swore at the way it made your walls squeeze him. You blinked as your vision cleared of tears and the darkness. His features were blue with the light of the television, sinister and shadowy.

You went limp under him and breathed out slowly. You shook as he ran his thumb along your bottom lip and left a line of spit down your jaw.

“We’ll have to get that on tape next time,” he said, “but I doubt you’ll forget that, honey.”

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coepiteamare · 3 years

Text

depth of field

pairing: yoongi x female!reader genre: angst (are we surprised), fluff, reader is an actress, yoongi is photographer warning: a lot of feelings, uhm there’s like 2 lines about sex but it’s not super explicit, bad break ups, not beta read, heartbreak, header credit: lovely isa! she’s so talented please check her out @monvante word count: 9.5k (how and why this became the longest thing i’ve written, i don’t know) rating: sfw though slightly mature (2 lines about sex but not explicit) collab: the valentine’s day collab with a bunch of awesome writers! please check out everyone’s stories!

summary: yoongi is a nature photographer and you’re an actress who’s spent her entire life in front of the cameras. when he’s hired (against his will) for a photoshoot, he’s not quite expecting you: all smiles and charm and mystery. (alt: you laugh, and yoongi hears the night sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. he fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the picture doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice.) A/N: this is....so late because i am big dumb + life changes + writing is hard. i have extremely mixed feelings on this one, but if you do read it, i hope it makes you feel something. if you listen to epik high, a lot of this was written while listening to “sleepless in _________”.

[Triptych: Sleepless In The City.JPEG]

[alt.image: Black and white triptych of a view outside a bedroom window. The position of the shot is the same in all three: all of them are directly facing an open window depicting the Seoul skyline. Towards the bottom of the picture, the edge of a bed can be seen: a plaid blanket with a light coloured bed frame. Right below the window is a dark wood dresser with a glass of water on top. At the center of the frame is a square, side hung window with light coloured (white) curtains on the sides. The first frame depicts a light blue coloured sky. There’s a lens flare at the top right of the corner. The second frame depicts a gradient sky. There’s light from the buildings shining through. The third frame depicts a darker sky, but the building lights are still on. The glass of water lies in the same position through the pictures, with little to no change in water amount.]

There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt—there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he contemplates answering as his fingers make contact with his phone, before pressing the side button and turning it off.

He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name this time around. Someone else does, as the door swings open.

“Yoongi!”

Yoongi groans and pulls the covers over his head, letting the weighted blanket settle around his body, but Hoseok peels it off his body without a struggle.

“You could have called when you came back,” Hoseok opens the black out curtains, afternoon light flooding through the window and making Yoongi’s vision dance.

“You could have called before you barged in.”

“I did,” Hoseok settles on the edge of his bed, laughing when Yoongi kicks him off, “you didn’t answer.”

“I was busy.” He sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the afterglow of his dreams fading from his mind.

Hoseok looks at the suitcase still packed at the corner of his bed, at the instant noodle cups on the counter. “I see that.”

Yoongi shrugs and reaches for the camera bag on his nightstand, fiddling with the zippers and refusing to meet Hoseok’s eyes.

It’s quiet before there’s a sigh that paints the silence between them. Hoseok reaches his hand out, eyes a little soft, smile a little apologetic, and Yoongi gives him the camera.

“So how was Greenland?”

“Cold. Colder than here. Not green at all.” Hoseok laughs at that, and perhaps it’s the weather, the lack of people Yoongi has seen the past few months, or Hoseok’s sunny disposition dispelling the shadows, but there’s a small warmth that blooms through Yoongi. “It was nice though. Nice pictures.”

“I can see that. Did you have an exhibition in mind for these?”

“No. I just wanted a change of pace for a bit.” he clears his throat, trying to unstick the words clinging to his esophagus. “New environment. Clear my head. Look for new inspiration.”

Hoseok hands him back the camera. “I signed you up for RKIVE LAB’s Valentine’s Day exhibition.” Yoongi stops fiddling with the buttons and grips the camera a little tighter. “Portraits of love. Pictures of people required.”

“I don’t take pictures of people.”

“You used to. Before.” Hoseok doesn’t say it—knows to shut his mouth even before Yoongi glares at him—but the presence of the words stains the air like an unwanted lens flare smudged across the picture. The weight of it lingers, glaringly obvious in the silence, as heavy as the blanket curled up at Yoongi’s feet.

“Used to. Not anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t do it again.”

“And that doesn’t mean I want to. Besides, I’m not ready for another exhibition.”

“Yoongi,” Hoseok takes a seat on the bed and this time, Yoongi doesn’t chide him for it. “Your last exhibition was a year ago. You stopped photographing people for 8 months. 4 months ago, you decided—out of the blue, mind you—to pack up and visit Greenland, 2 weeks before your exhibition. Not only was PR an absolute nightmare, but you also scared me. I was worried about you.”

There’s a sense of guilt that trickles through him at Hoseok’s words. Yoongi hugs his knees to his chest and tucks his chin over them. He’d sink into the floor if he could, let it swallow him whole if it meant he could avoid the conversation, but knowing Hoseok, he’d continue, even when it closed back up.

“You need to let go,” Hoseok squeezes his shoulder.

“I need to sleep. I’m still jet lagged.”

“It’s been a week since you’ve come back!”

“Exactly,” he pouts, and tries to reach for his blanket, but Hoseok gently slaps his hands away. His voice softens when he opens his mouth, insecurity painting the edges.“I just don’t think I’m ready for an exhibit. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”

“I think you just need to try.”

The sigh that leaves his body doesn’t do much for the heaviness that he can’t seem to dispel. He’s tried. Tried to take pictures, tried to photograph people, but he doesn’t know how to capture them without the lens of heartbreak, without finding pieces of his ex hidden in filters. He’s tried to forget, tried to remember, tried to drown everything out to the bitter taste of alcohol, and nothing worked. He tries, and nothing works.

“I don’t know how to take pictures of people anymore,” Yoongi says weakly.

Hoseok’s smile is bright, too bright, the picture of false reassurance. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve already made a call.”

[Ready Or Not.JPEG]

[alt. Image: An out of focus, blurry, god shot, full body photograph of a girl. She wears a short red dress with thin straps and black platform boots. There’s a pink and green image/texture projected on top of her as she poses with her arms stretched over her head. The woman is not at the centre of frame, but more towards the right. The photograph appears to be taken hastily, as if the photographer was falling down when taking the shot.]

Yoongi’s forgotten how much light is involved with studio shoots: the moment he steps into the studio, there’s a flash of bright light, and there’s small spots of light dancing in the corner of his vision. He wants to go home, curl back into his cotton sheets, and hide under the covers.

It’s convenient, he’ll admit. Outdoor photography, especially nature photography, means hours and hours of planning ahead, of trekking into the wilderness and adjusting lenses and camera angles, and tripod placements to get the perfect shot, only to have something—be it the sun, or a bug, or an animal, or a tree that decides to fall at that moment—interfere and ruin the moment. But indoor photography means that everything gets to be controlled, adjustable to his whims.

Yoongi fiddles with his camera settings, finger nervously itching for something to do in the unfamiliar environment. He’s not sure if he likes these kinds of photographs, the ones scripted and tweaked until perfection is smudged against the frame of the picture. He likes spontaneity, likes the unpredictability of nature, but he also likes the idea that everything can be adjusted, picture perfect, to the way he wants it. (No one leaves, no one hurts. Just pictures. Just his ideas.)

“I didn’t know we were getting a new photographer.”

He spins around and almost stumbles backwards at the sight of you. He could easily have deemed you as one of the set pieces: clothes perfectly pressed, skin glossy, not a hair out of place. You're brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, pressurised to perfection, and Yoongi doesn’t know if he likes that. Doesn’t like the crisp edges of your pants, the sharp angles of your shoulders.

“My name is Y/N. It’s nice to work with you.”

He stares at the hand in front of him for a second before wiping his palm on his pants. Your smile doesn’t fade as Yoongi gingerly shakes your hand. “Yoongi. I’m just here to watch Vante on shoot. I haven’t photographed people in a while, and our agent thought it would help me to watch him in action.”

The way your eyes sparkle, light up brighter than the studio lights, feels uncanny: he knows he’s seen it before, but he’s not sure where. It stirs up a familiar feeling in his tummy, like the anticipation that builds just as he’s about to press the click of a shutter.

“I’m sure you’re a lot better than you think you are,” your smile is warm, but it sends a chill down his spine. It feels wrong, like he’s stuck in the wrong picture frame, the wrong background. The ground is blurry, his head is light, and when he blinks, everything feels cold.

“You’re a lot better than you think you are, Yoongi. I’ve seen the photos. I know you,” his voice is warm, and Yoongi can hear the smile in the way he grips his hands. “I want to see the exhibit you put up, and I know other people will too.”

“Hey,” there’s a jolt of electricity when you touch him. He blinks, and your face is in front of his, brows knitted. “You okay? I lost you for a moment.”

“Fine,” his voice is scratchy, so he coughs to clear it. “I’m fine. Just-uhm-it’s been a minute. Memories. I haven’t stepped foot in a studio for a while.”

“You must have loved it. Taking pictures of people,” when he tilts his head and tries to make sense of your words, you smile and let go of his shoulder. “You wouldn’t have had such a visceral reaction if you didn’t love it. I’m a firm believer that the things we love never leave us. So you’ll find that spark again. I believe in you.”

When the shoot starts, Yoongi moves around, trying to remember what it was like to work with other people other than him, what it’s like to capture the soul of a human being through a split second. But his mind is still standing where you left him, trying to digest your words to the tune of shutter sounds and someone else’s voice.

All throughout the shoot, he wants to puke, wants to unclog the memories that won’t drain and be forgotten. But they keep playing—over and over and over—and refuse to stop. He talks to Vante in a daze, but he’s unable to wake up from the voice that he hears over and over again—you’ll find that spark again, Yoongi. I believe in you—until your voice cuts through the fog.

“Wait!” he grabs your wrist, and quickly lets go when you turn back, eyes wide. “Wait. i-uhm-have an exhibition and I was wondering if you would be interested. In being the subject.”

“I’m flattered, but-” you pause and bit your lip, eyebrows furrowed, and there’s that feeling again, the click of a puzzle piece falling into place: everything feels all too familiar and foreign at once, like a dream he knew long ago, a photograph he’s taken and forgotten about. Jamais vu and deja vu all at once.

It’s stupid, he knows. But there’s something about you that he doesn’t know how to let go. He’s not sure he’s ready to let go.

“What’s your exhibit on?”

“Love.” He takes a sharp breath in. The word feels a sucker punch to the gut, like touching a wound that hasn’t healed. “What it means to fall in love.”

He knows his face gives away more than he wants to, but you don’t press him for answers. You continue to smile and ask him other questions about his photography instead, but something about the way you pretend like everything is fine reminds him of him, and everything hurts more. He answers the questions, tries to see you instead of his outline over yours, but still sees him in the way your eyes smile, in the sharp raise of your brows, and the quick way you navigate his defenses and gives him his space.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for an exhibit.”

“I don’t think we ever know if we’re ready for anything,” you smile, and he feels nauseous again, like something is trying to crawl out of him. He hears the voices in his head crash over him like a wave, drowning out the sounds of everything and everyone else.

How do you know you’re ready? He hears his voice wobble from the weight of his sorrow, quiver from the pressure of composure. He can’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t think we’re ever ready for anything, Yoongi. But we don’t know until we try.”

“But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?”

“Right,” he repeats soullessly. (He wasn’t ready then. He doesn’t know if he’s ready now. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to move on.)

“So I’ll do it.”

Yoongi snaps out of his reverie at your words, blinks away the fog. “Pardon?”

“I’ll do it. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this,” you purse your lips. “I do have a favour to ask though.”

“What is it?”

The smile that spreads over your face, slow and cheshire, makes him grip his camera tighter. “How do you feel about going to a party?”

[Are You In Love.JPEG]

[alt image. Nighttime. A girl in a white dress on a rooftop with skyscrapers behind her. Her hair is blown back by the wind. Although her face is mostly turned away from the camera, there’s a hint of a smile on her face. Her eyes are closed as she spins around, dress billowing around her. The ends of the dress are unseen because the photograph cuts off at what would be her knees to show the cityline behind her. The skyscrapers are out of focus, blurry, so the girl is highlighted. Despite the lights in the background and the moon in the corner, she is the brightest piece in the photograph.]

Yoongi has never been a fan of parties or crowds. He doesn’t like the rush of people, of bodies pressed against each other as they slide across the floor; he hates how the lights are too dim and too bright. It’s too loud, bass amplifying his insecurities and dampening his social skills.

Even at this gala, stuffed with people with important positions and famous titles, where the music is moderately loud and the tables are posh with red velvet tablecloths, Yoongi feels out of place. His glass flute feels awkward in his hand, tie a little too tight no matter how much he pulls it down. He knows he doesn’t belong here (or there or anywhere. It was always him who belonged and Yoongi who followed): security had stopped him before he entered telling him “paparazzi not allowed,” and gave him a once over when he fished out the invitation from his pocket, hesitantly letting him enter the venue and side-eyeing him the entire time. Minutes tick by, and there’s only so many hors d'oeuvres s he can devour, so he pulls out his phone to send you a text of rushed excuses (i have food poisoning. My pipes burst. My car broke down?) and hasty apologies. Just as he manages to get halfway to the exit, squeezing in between crowds, he sees you.

A smile dawns over your face, and all his insecurities melt into the background. “I’ve been looking all over for you”

He points towards the buffet at the back. “They have good crab puffs.”

You laugh at that, and he feels his cheeks stretch into a smile. The silence that hangs over the two of you now feels comfortable, like the world is dimming down to highlight you both, and Yoongi takes the moment to watch your eyes sparkle under the crystal chandeliers twinkling above you. You look at him, quirk an eyebrow and nod towards the exit. “Want to get out of here?”

“Yes please.”

You grab his hand, lace your fingers with his, and pull him up the stairs to the roof, letting go to run to the edge. He feels where your palm was in his, the loss of your warmth, and wants to reach back out to you.

“How pretty.” The wind is cold, sinking teeth through skin and tearing through hair, but you cross your arms and fight back, planted firmly where you are to look at the view beneath you: small glimpses at people living their lives.

Yoongi can’t take his eyes off of you. “Yeah. Pretty.”

“I like coming to the rooftops at parties. Sometimes, when the world is too loud and too much, I go up to the rooftop and I just stand here. ” your teeth chatter, and Yoongi rushes to take off his coat and drape it over your shoulders. Your fingers brush against his and something about you, he realises, feels like a fever dream: hot, hazy, and electric, even in the bitter chill of the winter winds. “I come up to the rooftop and I just look at people living their lives and wonder what I would be doing if I wasn’t here.”

Something about the way you look, empty and hollow, carves a hole in Yoongi’s chest. His fingers itch to reach for the shutter, bring it back to his eye and catch you in his view, but he fiddles with the camera strap around his neck instead. “What does it feel like? Being at the top?”

What does it feel like? To be at the top? Yoongi writes and deletes over and over and over again.

Your laughter sounds as bitter as the wind, but your smile is still fixed in place when you turn your body to meet his. “Like a rollercoaster. Only it’s going backwards as it goes up, so I can see the floor, see the bottom. I am always aware of how far I have to fall. I see the damage before it’s done, so I am always anticipating the drop.”

Your shoulders sag, his jacket slipping down, and Yoongi, for a moment, thinks he sees stars glimmering in your eyes, catching the light of the city and threatening to fall. But when he blinks, all traces of it are gone and you’re back to the girl in the ballroom, smile shy and coy and knowing.

“So what about you, photographer? What does it feel like to be in love?”

His brows furrow and there’s a flush of heat blooming on his cheeks. His heart beats a little faster, staccato against his ribcage, like it’s trying to outrun the shame of being discovered. He’s not sure how you know, so all he can do is stutter. “I don’t-I mean-”

You raise your eyebrow, quirk your head to the side. “Isn’t that your exhibit theme? Explorations of love?”

“Oh,” before he can stop it, a film strip of memories starts playing through his head, snapshots of a relationship shelved in the back of his closet. It’s a slow slide show that sticks to his throat with every image, printed and smudged into the corners of his thoughts. He feels the corset of his ribcage tighten until he’s breathless, so he looks everywhere. Everywhere but you. “I don’t really know what love is supposed to feel like anymore.”

When your hand gently presses against his chest, Yoongi’s eyes widen, feet gently fumbling backwards from the chill of your fingers. “Does it hurt here?”

“What?”

“Are you heartbroken?”

The words fall off your lips casually, like you were asking him how he took his coffee (no sugar, no cream) or how he liked his steak, and not plunging into his insecurities the way the cold of your fingers sink into his skin. The two of you blink in silence as Yoongi struggles to find the words. Everything feels wrong, his tongue twisting and falling to form the correct sounds—

“Stop thinking about it. Feel it here.” you press a little harder against his chest, “Are you heartbroken?”

(Empty coffee cups, songs unfinished, laughter in the walls that he’s unable to scrub off. Yoongi remembers all of it.)

“Yeah.” it’s quiet, his voice stuck in his chest, but he sees the corners of your eyes soften and knows you hear his honesty over the howling wind. “I am.”

You retract your hand and hug his coat a little closer. “I don’t think there’s just one form of love, just as I don’t think there’s just one way to love someone. We love differently, and we love different people differently. Heartbrokenness is just another form of love. Just because they’re not there doesn’t change the way you love them or the fact that you love them. It just means all the love you have to give is still sitting here,” you bring your hand back to his chest, cover his heartbeat, “with no place to go. Isn’t that love?”

Isn’t that love? Seokjin asks him, sitting in the corner of Yoongi’s room. The sun casts a golden glow over his skin, kisses his dimples, and Yoongi swears Seokjin has always been more ethereal than mortal. “You take photos and bring me food when I forget to leave my desk because that’s what you know how to do. I write you songs and love letters because that’s what I know how to do. We say I love you in different ways, but does that make it any less love?

“I guess it doesn’t make it any less love.”

You look his way and laugh, brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, and nothing in the sky can compare: not the moon, nor the comets, nor the galaxies. You laugh, and Yoongi hears the sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. He fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the image through the lens doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice.

But he tries anyway. He presses down on the shutter and tries to stuff your laughter into a freeze frame, even though he knows it won’t compare.

It could never.

[____Struck.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A girl sits with her chin over her knees next to a floor length window as a rainstorm blurs the background into hazy lights. The lighting is dark, but there’s a flash of lightning outside as it lights up the girl’s face. She stares outside her window, at the sky, deep in contemplation.]

Yoongi finds that Seoul sparkles when you’re next to him. Even the bitter winter winds that blow through his parka can’t steal the warmth of your hand in his when the two of you walk through the streets. The two of you start to spend more time together, getting food and eating in your apartment and taking pictures of nature. You’ll have glasses and a cap and a mask on, and there’ll be more of you he can’t see than he can, and still he finds you to be the brightest star in the night sky. But he likes you best like this: dressed with a smile and his t-shirt, face free of the traces of your day, in bed with him. He’s not sure when he’s found himself to be at home in your place, but he finds himself there instead of his studio apartment. Outside the window of your penthouse apartment, he can see the Seoul skyline and skyscrapers: if he looks down, he can see smudges of people walking through the streets, living about their daily lives.

Sometimes, he’ll wake up in the middle of the night to find you sitting on the floor, against the floor length window, looking at the world below you.

“Come back to bed,” he’ll murmur, sleep still fogging his vision, and you’ll smile, set your tea on the nightstand, and wrap your arms around him as he pulls you closer to him until the andante of your heartbeats lull him to sleep.

Tonight, however, your head is leaned up against the glass, watching as the rain pours down, and there’s something about the moment that makes Yoongi reach for the camera to take a quick shot. He knows the lighting is off and the shadows are dark, but something about the way you’ve tucked your knees under your chin and folded in on yourself makes you seem so small, so different from the girl he sees on the billboards and magazine covers and television shows.

You turn around when the flash goes off. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

“The thunder,” he explains, just as another flash of light strikes through the sky. You hum, but don’t move towards him: this time, you look back out the window. He’s tempted to wait for the lightning to strike again so he could have the shot of your face illuminated in light, but the image through his viewfinder looks so different from what he’s used to, so he takes the camera with him and sits down across from you. He leans his face against the cool of the glass.

“Hey,” you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. He sees the shadows under your eyes, the build up from over night shoots, and it tugs his heart. There’s something beautiful about you like this, in the normalcy.

“Hey,” the two of you sit in the silence for a minute. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Another flash of lightning, then a roll of thunder. “Just thinking about how many people are out there, just living their lives. I wonder if they all know me, if they have an opinion of me, if they’ve seen me act. I wonder who I am to them, if I am anybody at all.”

“What do you mean?”

You pull your fingers away from the glass, but don’t look at him. “I feel as though I am always playing a character. So, I wonder what character they know me as. If they would be interested in knowing who I am.”

His hand reaches out to yours, and he moves his body closer to yours, until your knees are knocking against his and your legs are entwined. “I’m interested.”

Another flash. You smile, but it fades as quickly as the lightning does. “What about you? Anything on your mind? You seemed pretty distracted earlier.”

It’s Yoongi’s turn to not meet your eyes. There’s a slew of umbrellas below, a bunch of colourful blobs against the pavement. (Seokjin liked the rain. Do you like the rain? He’s not sure.)

“It’s nothing.” He can’t meet your eyes.

“Is it hard to let them go? The one who broke your heart?”

Yoongi hears the way your voice softens, the way it carries through the room gently, the same way you asked him if he was heartbroken up on the roof weeks ago. You’re always a little more perceptive then he gives you credit for, a little too good at reading in between the lines. He lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yeah he is. I still think about him sometimes. Sometimes, I still hear his voice in my head.”

He feels your gaze on him, but neither of you say anything for a while.

He knows you have a busy day tomorrow, jam packed with schedules and meetings and shoots and bits of sleep in between. (Not that your days are ever not busy. You’re always running from here to there, a blur of motion in the screenshots of his memories.) But the two of you just look out the window, at the storm that refuses to quell, and listen to the rain fall.

He wakes up next to the lingering warmth of your body heat, your shampoo still clinging to the pillows and sheets. There’s not much to do today, so he takes his time getting ready to go back to his apartment and edit. Just as he’s putting his toothbrush into your toothbrush holder, his phone starts to vibrate.

Before he’s even said hello, Hoseok’s voice cuts through the phone. “How’s your exhibit coming along?”

“Good morning, Hoseok. How was your sleep? Mine was lovely, thank you for asking.”

There’s a sigh that comes through the phone. “I slept great. So how’s your exhibit?”

“It’s coming along.”

“Word on the street is that you’re getting close to Y/N.”

He catches a look at himself from the entrance mirror and is glad Hoseok can’t see him right now. There’s a small constellation on the dip of his collarbone from a couple nights ago. “We’re working together on the exhibit, yeah.”

“Yoongi, I’m serious. I’m glad that you’re editing and taking photos; I really am. I just think—if you are more than just coworkers—you should take it slow. You remember what happened last time-”

“It’s not like that this time Hoseok.”

“I know. But it’s happened before. You always fall too hard, too fast and then you don’t know how to dig yourself out of the hole when it’s over. “

Yoongi gently shuts the door behind him, shoves his free hand into his coat pocket. “When do I need to send you the pictures?”

Another sigh. This one is heavier than the other. “Next Friday.”

“Alright. I’ll see you then.”

“Just take care of yourself, Yoongi.”

“I know,” there’s a hum from the other end before he presses end call. “Trust me, I know.”

[Love Looks Pretty On You.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A girl turning around to smile at the camera as she holds the hand of the photographer. There’s a lens flare at the upper left corner of the picture. She glows as she smiles, sunlight hitting her cheekbones. The picture is a bust shot, and though the girl is in the centre of frame, she is slightly out of focus: the photo is mainly focused on the interlocked hands due to the depth of field.]

It’s strange how in love you are with the mundane. You like coffeeshop dates, holding hands in public, and the ability to walk down the streets without covering up your face, things Yoongi has never thought twice about. He prefers time spent in doors, tucked away with food and natural lighting. But you prefer the outdoors, the sun on your face, even if it isn’t the great outdoors. No, you like pavement and parks and everything in between if it means you don’t have to cover up.

“I’ve never really had that,” you told him once, mouth stuffed with street food. “I’ve always been conscious of the way people look at me, how they’re going to view me, and the eyes. I’m always aware of people’s eyes on me. Growing up in the spotlight, working in this industry for so long meant I don’t get to have the normal things in life.”

So he tries to take you out more, though more often than not, it ends with the two of you running away from shadows and bright lights. More often than not, the two of you find your way to his or your apartment, tucked away from the eyes of everyone else with take out spread across the floor. He dreads the moment you pull your hands away from him, when the hands on the clock move too quickly for his taste. Tonight, however, he has you all to himself.

So, he takes his time: delicately arranges the bouquet of purple across your chest and up your thighs, gently plucks your moans from your lips, and plants kisses on the field of your shoulder blades when the bloom of pleasure becomes too much.

Your chest gently rises and falls under the white sheet, while his heart rapidly flutters inside his ribcage. Before he knows it, his fingers are on camera, trying to immortalise the moment before time takes it away from him too.

When the shutter goes off, you bring your hand to his, pull his body to yours, and nuzzle your face in his shoulder. “So.”

“So?”

“Exhibition soon. Have you figured it out?” You pull back and trace your finger along the constellation you drew on to his chest. “What it feels like to fall in love?”

He’s not sure. It feels fast: time seems to slip through his fingers when he’s with you. It feels slow: every moment is a picture frame, a freeze frame of a small infinity. It feels quiet: neither of you are loud, reveling in the silence and the quiet, sharing the same breath. It feels loud: you smile and he hears the sirens go off, ringing his mind until it’s drowned out by the pounding in his chest. I don’t know. It just feels different with you, he wants to say, but it sounds stupid in his head. It’s similar to how he felt like with Seokjin, but brighter, a saturation of colours and experiences.

“Feels like you,” he tugs you closer.

His brows furrow when you reach away from him, and he tries to pull you back: he reaches for your hand, but you slip away from him with a small smile. “Tea. I’ll be back.”

He hears the pitter patter of your footsteps as you walk into the hallway, and he waits for you to come back. He waits and waits, until his eyelids grow too heavy.

When he blinks again, the light is shining through your curtains. The blanket is tucked under his chin, but the bed is empty. He rolls over, but it’s cold.

The pillow doesn’t smell like you.

[Apparition.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A picture of someone’s eyes. The eyes are staring directly into the lens. One eye is lighter than the other, due to the angle of the sunlight. Although they are in the center of frame, the face is turned slightly to the side, as though they turned around for this picture.]

It gets harder and harder to meet you through the interstices of your schedule: you text him less and less, and he finds himself trying to find every possible reason to see you.

Did you eat?

Are you free anytime soon?

I miss you.

Every short text finds an even shorter response, crammed between short breaks. He spends more time fiddling with his phone, shooting up at the glow of his screen, than he does with his camera. His camera sits on his nightstand, untouched for the past few days: every time he tries to take a picture, all he can see is you. You laughing at dumb cat videos he sends you. You squealing in delight as the unpredictable Seoul weather brings rainfall. You leaning your head against the glass, lost in thought.

He sees you in unfinished pizza boxes and unfinished netflix shows and half empty mugs strewn around. He finds you in everything. So when you show up at his doorstep, pizza box in hand and hat over your head, he almost dismisses you as an apparition.

You stick your foot in his doorway to stop him from shutting the door. “You’re not kicking me out so soon? Not when I brought pizza?”

He takes the pizza box from you, still a little unsure if you’re real, but then you call his name.

“Hi Yoongi,” you smile, and it’s so much prettier than he remembers. He knows you’ve had a long day—eyes glazed, shoulders drooping, smile falling—and something about the way you’re trying to hold your smile makes a corner of his chest squeeze tighter, until it hurts to breathe. He’s not sure what to say, not sure how to move past the breathlessness, so the two of you wordlessly chew on your pizzas.

When the tension grows thick, the silence hard to breathe through, the clump of feelings in the pit of his stomach feels harder to hold on to, so he blurts out, “I love you.”

His confession rings through the room, echoes in the silence, and crashes against your chest. Though neither of you say anything, he continues to hear the ripples in his head, his voice repeating over and over again. You don’t look at him, and his leg won’t stop bouncing, his hands won’t stop fidgeting with the camera settings.

“I love you,” he says once more, just in case you didn’t hear it. He hopes your silence is because you didn’t hear it the first time. He knows better, from the way you bite your lip (your nervous habit) to the way you shrink into yourself (another tick he’s noticed).

“I should leave. I have an early shoot tomorrow.” you stand. The smile plastered on your face makes him want to hurl, too reminiscent of your first meeting when you held him at an arm’s distance. When Seokjin held him at an arm’s distance, right before he told Yoongi I don’t think I’m the person you’re in love with. I don’t think this is going to work out. When Seokjin smiled and told him I’m sorry but wasn’t sorry enough to answer the phone when Yoongi’s heart was bloody and broken and drenched in alcohol.

“But I love you,” it’s quiet and hoarse this time, and Yoongi doesn’t know if you can hear it over the sound of his heart breaking, but you turn around. The smile on your face—brilliant and dazzling and empty—burns something in him, the hollowness of his chest suddenly swelling with rage.“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“That,” Yoongi motions to you, brows furrowed and anger coating his tongue. “Stop looking at me like I'm a screenplay and a set, like you’re trying to read me and understand what I want. I don’t want anything from you.”

“That’s ridiculous. Everyone wants something.”

“Fine. I want you to be you. not what looks best on screen, not what you think I want you to be. But you. I want you to be you.”

“What’s that supposed to be like? Being me?” the anger lacing your voice, the way your smile drops quickly off your face, makes Yoongi’s anger fizzle out into a cold chill. “You don’t realise how biased the camera is, how you’re seeing the picture the way you want to, the way you want to frame things? Tell me you look at me and you don’t see what could be changed. that you don’t see how you would adjust the exposure, how to narrow or widen the depth of field.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, mouth glued shut and sticking together with shame. There’s a heat licking up his neck to his cheeks that burns through his skin and into his chest that only grows hotter when you continue.

“My job is to give people what they want, squeeze myself into a character and a script. Become a fantasy they can project on. I’ve spent my entire life being different people and fitting myself into the role they want me to play. I don't exist, Yoongi. I only exist between action and cut. I am constantly in some form of a take. I am constantly shooting different movies for different people, being the different characters they want me to be. You want something from me too, Yoongi. Don’t you get it?”

He forces himself to look up at you.

“Did you like me for me, Yoongi?” You tilt your head, eyes tired. “Or did you like me because something about me reminded you of your ex?”

Yoongi recoils, hurt spilling out of his veins. He opens and closes his mouth, but nothing falls out. Instead, it’s another roll of memories that plays through his head.

I think we should break up, Seokjin tells him and Yoongi drops his fork. When you look at me, it feels like you’re seeing someone else, a version of me that exists only in your head.

Who are you seeing when you take a picture, Yoongi?

Who am I to you?

What do you see through the lenses?

When you smile this time, it’s more of a grimace, like his silence gives you an answer. Your eyes fall to the floor, shoulders trembling as you laugh humorlessly, and you start to leave.

Yoongi tries to say something—anything, the correct thing—and frantically pulls at his brain. “But I love you.”

That makes you stop. You stay at the doorstep, hand gripping the doorknob, but don’t turn to face him. He waits for you to say something, anything, for you to turn around. But you don’t.

You open the door and close it behind you, never looking back.

He’s alone again.

[Blank.JPEG]

[alt.image: A black square. Darkness. The absence of light. The shade of broken heart. Is it nothing or everything? Is it too much or too little?]

Everything about you is intentional, from the tilt in your head (precise and exact, calculated) to the gleam in your eyes. The way your lips curl as you smile.

He wonders if his broken heart was also something written into the script, if he was playing the role of a character he never signed up for, if his broken heart was something you calculated from the very start, just like the angle of your head tilts and degrees of your smile.

His camera suddenly feels all too heavy, too fragile, and too much like his heart. If he wasn’t a photographer, would he have met you? In another world, would he have seen you through the view of his camera, just a subject and nothing else? No coffee dates and rooftop talks, no heartbreaks? He grips his camera tighter, and a flare of anger rushes through him, filtering every other thought and piercing through his vision. When he blinks and the lights settle, there’s a dull sense of pain near his foot and a dent in the wall.

There’s shards of broken lenses on the floor, but he shuffles back to bed, sob clawing at his throat.

Maybe you were like a film camera, brilliant and beautiful at first glance. Until the film is dipped into chemistry and developed and the errors are hung out to dry.

So why does it hurt so much?

There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt—there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he doesn’t contemplate answering when his fingers make contact with his phone, pressing the side button to shut it off.

He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name. Neither does Hoseok.

Instead Hoseok gently shuts the door after slipping off his shoes at the entrance. He makes his way over towards the bed, and Yoongi pulls the covers over his head. He waits for the tug, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a gentle dip to the side of him when Hoseok takes a seat, silent.

They sit like that for a while, Yoongi gently breathing—up and down, up and down—with a chest that feels broken and a heart that rattles inside his ribcage. He still feels the hum of alcohol in his system, sloshing in his lungs as they rise and fall.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi,” Hoseok’s voice vibrates through the silence. “I’m sorry you were hurt. But you can’t keep yourself holed up.”

Yoongi shifts under the blankets, but doesn’t say anything. He wonders if sleep would drag him under if he pretended long enough. His head is throbbing, and he wants another drink, but he knows Hoseok won’t let him while he’s still here. He knows because the last time he was heartbroken, he shut himself inside his apartment for two months until he was more alcohol than water. He stopped going out, stopped answering phone calls, stopped taking pictures because everything reminded him of Seokjin.

Now that his camera is broken, he can’t be reminded of you. He drinks up until he can forget, until the film of memories is damaged, so he can fall asleep. When he wakes up and he remembers you still, he drinks up again to forget, shot after shot after shot. He doesn’t want to remember.

“I called RKive. Told them you weren’t doing it.”

“Okay,” he whispers. Yoongi’s so tired and his head hurts, and he just wants to get this over with as quickly as he can so Hoseok can leave and Yoongi can pour out his sorrows into a shot glass that never seems to run dry.

I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this.

He wishes he could stop hearing your voice in his head, stop seeing you in every corner of his room, stop smelling your perfume on his sheets. He just wants to go to sleep, dream in black. Stop remembering you.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi.”

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Are you heartbroken?

“Yeah,” the tears fall and his shoulders shake when he sobs. “Yeah, I think I’m heartbroken.”

“Oh Yoongi,” Hoseok hugs him close, and Yoongi lets out the wail that’s been stuck in his chest the past week. For the first time, he wants to let go instead of take in, so he weeps into Hoseok’s chest, until his throat is dry from the sounds it’s making. His body trembles from the stuttering in his chest and the remnants of his sobs.

“I just want to stop hurting,” he hiccups into Hoseok’s shoulder as Hoseok gently pats him on the back.

“I know. I know.”

“How do I stop hurting?”

Hoseok gently peels himself away from Yoongi until he’s looking at him directly in the eyes. “You have to learn to find closure. Whether that’s talking to her, making art, or just going about your routines until it doesn’t hurt anymore. You have to try.”

“What if I’m not ready to move on?”

I don’t think we’re ever ready. But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?

“Moving on isn’t a step; it’s a goal, Yoongi,” Hoseok squeezes his hands. “You can work towards it. But it’s a conscious choice we make and conscious steps we take. And when you make those steps, it gets easier to breathe and visit places you used to. And one day, you’ll look around and realise that you’ve done it. Maybe not completely, but enough. But you can’t just hole yourself up in your apartment or flee the country. You have to try.”

Hoseok’s eyes are soft when Yoongi looks at him, and Yoongi understands that he’s never allowed himself to move on from Seokjin, just slapped a bandaid over his wound and pretended it didn’t exist. When he met you, he used you as a gauze to staunch the injury and called it healing. He didn’t notice that he bled all over you, didn’t see that you were bleeding over the red of his blood on your wounds. You were trying to tell him you were hurting, and he was too fixated on how similar you were to Seokjin, how he found love again, to hear.

“Hoseok,” Yoongi reaches out for his arm, squeezes his hand. “I want to do it.”

“Do what?”

“The exhibit,” his voice is muffled under his insecurities, but he wants this. “I want to do it.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he lies. “I think I need to do it. For me. To move on.” He’s not sure if he’s ready; he doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready. So he takes the step anyways.

Yoongi knows Hoseok is thrilled: he hasn’t stopped smiling since before the exhibition, when there was a crowd of people outside waiting to enter the exhibition, and even before that, when Yoongi was collecting the photos and taking more. Yoongi’s worked tirelessly through the nights to meet the Valentine’s Day exhibit deadline, but now that he’s here, he’s a little proud of himself.

He should find Hoseok, tell him thank you. He should also talk to Namjoon, the owner, and congratulate Jimin, Namjoon’s assistant, on a successful exhibition. He should talk to Jeongguk, the painter, about the rose installation piece that’s at the centre of the gallery. He should talk to Vante about the giant photograph of a bird’s eye view of Seoul. He should, but he’s looking for you.

You were the only guest he wanted to invite, even when Hoseok raised an eyebrow at him and asked him if he really wanted to do this. (He did. He texted you over the course of two weeks and deleted each message before it was sent. In the end, he sent you his heart the old fashioned way, with stamps and an envelope, and sealed it with the hope that you’ll receive it in time.) He doesn’t think you’ll come, so he tampers down the anticipation, tries to not look for your laughter or hear the way your eyes form crescents when you smile too hard. Despite the invitation, he doesn’t know if he’s ready to see you again, so he tries to keep himself busy and talk to the visitors about the pictures. He tries to not think about you.

But it’s hard when you’re all he has up for his exhibit, when your face is at every corner. When you’re all he’s been able to think about.

And as it slowly starts to get closer to the close, he tries to not be disappointed. He puts on a smile and asks Jeongguk about the sun and moon holding hands, discusses lighting techniques with Vante, and manages to make Jimin beam with pride when he compliments him about how nice the exhibit set up is.

When the clock strikes 5, Yoongi packs up his camera and tucks it into his bag with his disappointment and begins to head out.

“Take care, Jimin.”

“Bye, Yoongi!” Jimin chirps. “By the way! There’s a lady in front of your exhibit. I think she was captivated by it; she’s been standing there for the past half hour if you want to talk to her!”

A very familiar silhouette greets him.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

You don’t turn around to face him, just stand there looking up at the picture of you smiling at the camera with the covers pulled up to your chin. He hears the people in the background, the faint hum of murmurs and laughters, but you stand there, quiet and arms crossed. He takes a step towards you before shuffling back to his original spot, shifting his eyes to the portraits before him.

At first glance, you are the same girl in the portraits, but the longer he looks at the portraits, at you from the peripherals in his vision, the less the two of you look alike. The girl in the photographs is soft and bright and sunny, draped in warm light and colour corrections, saturated in happiness. The girl in front of him is worn down and exhausted, cloaked in disguises and fronts that she doesn’t have the strength to put on properly. “I remember this day, but I don’t remember it like that.” You nod towards the picture in front of you.

“What’s it like? In your memories?” he asks, and wants to take it back. There’s too many questions bubbling inside of him—Did you love me? Do you remember how I smiled when you did? What do your frames of memory look like? Do they look like mine, painted in a golden filter?—but he doesn’t know how to develop them into words. He’s not sure he wants to compare the photographs of your memories in the fear it’ll corrupt his.

You’re radio silent, so he stands there, shuffling his feet back and forth as his heart drops with each second. He understands what you meant, back at the rooftop, when you had said about riding a rollercoaster: he sees the answer to your question before you’ve spoken, sees the damage he’s caused through the lens of hindsight. Yet some part of him still wants to hear the words from you.

“I don’t remember a lot of it. I remember it was going well. And then I just remember the hurt. I remember realising you saw someone else when you looked at me, just like everyone else. How I wished I could take back everything from the beginning. I wished I could take back the first time I met you. What would it have been like if I had said no? Would it still hurt?”

“I’m sorry,” his hand reaches out for you automatically, too used to the warmth of your body and the lull of your heartbeat to alleviate the stiffness in his chest, but he pulls his hand back as he realises there is too much space between the two of you: he’s not sure if you want to shorten the distance, if you want him at all.

“Why did you say yes?” he asks instead of what he really wants to ask. “To this. To being the subject. You could have said no.”

“I could have.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because you seemed genuine.You looked like you were genuinely looking for a reason—for something, for anything, for purpose—and I liked that. I haven’t met a lot of people like that. Genuine. Earnest.” Your body turns to him, but your gaze is still brushing against the floor and clinging to your hands. “I think a part of me wanted, desperately, to be the source of your purpose. So I let myself believe that you genuinely wanted me for me.”

“I think I loved you.”

“I think the both of us were looking for someone to love,” the corners of your mouth wobble, a pale imitation of the blown up picture of your smile on the wall. “Maybe that’s why it didn’t work. Because we were blinded by our desperation.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. The way you look—so curled up in yourself and so vulnerable—slowly makes him realise there’s so much to you he wasn’t able to see. Were there more moments you tried to open up to him, only to have him turn a blind eye because he was still thinking about Seokjin?

“I wish I had met you later. Maybe in a different universe, you and I have a different story line, one where when you and I meet, I have learned to accept love and you have learned to accept heartbreak. Maybe we would have been ready for each other then.” Your smile wobbles, just as it did last time, and Yoongi’s heart wobbles too. When you start to walk away, he tastes the bitterness of his memories surfacing.

“Wait!” he reaches out and grabs your hand, squeezes it a little too tight. When you turn, eyes wide, it feels like a scene he’s seen somewhere before, a picture he used to know. “We could. We could start over. We could make that universe this one.”

“I don’t-I’m not following.”

He drops your hand and offers you his. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. My name is Yoongi.”

“Yoongi, I’m not-”

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you tentatively take his hand and shake it.

“It’s nice to meet you for the first time. This is my exhibit,” you smile, head tilted in confusion, but the light in your eyes is warm, so he keeps going,” and I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee?

You bite your lip, but don’t let his hand go. He tries to keep his smile on his face, but his heart is beating with the force of a supernova and he feels his nails cut through the skin of his anticipation. When you look down at his hand, he knows you can feel the tremors that run through it, the electricity of anxiety crackling through his veins, but he keeps his eyes on you and the way your eyes search his for clues, for cues and stage directions.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,” you smile, and it feels like the first time he’s seeing you.

He’s not sure, this time, of the damage: he’s not sure he can anticipate the fall, the wreckage caused. Doesn’t know if he wants to.

It’s a brand new film strip. A new camera. A new storyline.

He’s never been more ready.

#yoongi fic #bts fic #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst #yoongi imagine #yoongi scenarios #bts fluff #bts scenarios #bts imagine #bts x reader #thebtswritersclub #heartsforbts #bangtaninn #btswritingcafe #bangtanuniversity

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cloud-9ine · 3 years

Text

Through a Golden Lens (pt 1)

⤷ pairing - hawks x (fem) reader

⤷ fandom - bnha

⤷ warnings - some language, hawks flirting, reader’s cynicism

⤷ summary - reader is a bitter, overworked photographer at a hero press agency with little patience for her newly assigned muse- hawks

⤷ word count - 4.5k+

⤷ notes - i have lots of ideas so this is probably going to be a multi-part series. also new to tumblr so this might not be the best

⤷ pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6

“Mr. Hawks! Please look this way!” his heavy lidded eyes rolled to the side as another blinding flash burned through his vision.

“You look perfect, thank you!” it was hard to smile for their benefit, but he managed. Hawks had attended countless of these events for the press. It had been exhilarating at first, with the rush of adrenaline from the cameras and the lights and the endless stream of compliments solidifying his place in the public eye.

Nowadays, it was less thrilling. After a while, they all seemed the same- each one blurring into a senseless flare of cameras and hollow accolades.

He was bored, to say the least.

“Mr Hawks, would you like to come and see? I’d love to hear your opinion on this set!” with a practiced, easy smirk he nodded. It was easier to pander to the artist than to criticise their work.

He looked good, but when did he not? The shoots were easy to glide through. All he had to do was pull a boyish grin, ‘make love to the camera’ as the photographers always liked to spout. It didn’t really matter what he did: the public would eat up anything with his face slapped on to the front. They all looked the same to him, anyway.

“Looks good,” he wondered why people were so easily satiated by shallow praises, but as he stared at the younger lady’s blush, he couldn’t help but realise that maybe it was him who had something to do with it.

Hawks couldn’t help his gaze from drifting to the door. His skin prickled in the humidity of all the moving bodies in one enclosed space and he longed to take a step outside and stretch his wings in a way that wasn’t to pose for a magazine.

For a moment, he felt like his prayers had been answered when the door opened, letting in a stream of natural light to breach the artificiality of the modelling room.

”(L/N)! You were supposed to be here over three hours ago!” the woman in front of him exclaimed, ripping the camera away from his view and marching to the figure that appeared in the light. He blinked in surprise: this entire shoot he hadn’t heard her raise her voice above anything but a low mumble when conversing with him, and now she was positively fuming.

You stared down at your co-worker through honey-tinted shades, expression unamused.

“Yeah, and I was also supposed to be out of this job three years ago. We don’t all do what we’re supposed to, cupcake.”

For a moment, Hawks thought you were a model. Tasteful cream turtleneck tucked into heavily creased mocha skirt, caramel beret perched on your head. There were a few metal, classy looking rings wrapped around your fingers, but as far as he could see, no wedding ring. It was pretty standard style for those who worked in the arts, but somehow you wore it so well.

Your hair was a little dishevelled, and the dark circles under your eyes combined with the coffee cup in your hand were obvious signs of a rough night. His eyes locked on to the loopy black handwriting on the brown band around the cup.

(L/N) (Y/N)

You were no model, but Hawks couldn’t see the difference.

His wings beat lightly behind his back as he glided over, weaving through the other photographers and models scattered around the area.

“Hey there, I’m Hawks,” he said smoothly, voice saccharine as he spoke to you. Your attention turned to him as you glanced at him from above the frames of your sunglasses, seemingly unimpressed.

“This the new boytoy, Mizuki?” you asked, eyes raking up and down his figure. Hawks was never one to shy away from the gaze of others, but the way you were inspecting him made him feel so exposed.

“Show some respect,” Mizuki muttered, voice lowered at Hawks’ presence but glare still piercing. You sighed, sparing one last glance at Hawks before snatching the camera out of Mizuki’s hands, leaving her scrambling for the device as you walked away.

“Lemme see what you’ve got already,” Mizuki’s face grew red, half from anger towards you, and half because of the embarrassment of being diminished in front of Hawks.

“(L/N) y-you can’t just come in three hours late and take over! I’ve already done the shoot and Hawks has already expressed that he is pleased with the outcome,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes and shooting the shorter woman a glare over your shoulder.

“There’s no way you’re gonna force me to come into work and make me sit here doing nothing,” you sneered, waving the camera around almost teasingly, “you wanted someone actually skilled to do this shoot, and here I am. Let me do my thing,” without waiting for a response, you left, thumb fumbling with the dial that allowed you to scroll through the photos.

Hawks was impressed. You hadn’t bat an eye when you saw him, and while you were very clearly very late, you were confident in your skills and obviously took your job seriously.

“Who was that?” he questioned, wings spreading slightly as his eyes chased after you. Mizuki bowed her head, remorse filling her expression.

“I apologise for her impertinence. That’s (L/N), she was who your original photographer was supposed to be today, but when she didn’t show up I had to take over,” she huffed, “she’s been like this for about a year now, and the boss is prepared to fire her if she keeps it up. So you’d think she’d be able to pull her at together for you, Mr. Hawks...”

After a while, Hawks tuned out her whining, eyes curiously trained on you, surveying your furrowed brows and expression pinched with annoyance as you studied the photos. Although they looked good enough to him, it appeared that you didn’t share the same sentiment.

Hawks didn’t have time to avert his eyes when you turned your head, gaze locking on to his. You raised a slightly suspicious brow, but otherwise didn’t entertain his actions.

“Mizuki, why would you use cool lighting?” you called over your shoulder, not even sparing the decency to turn around and face the person you were addressing. Mizuki frowned, moving to your side. Like a magnet, Hawks did the same, peering over your other shoulder. You eyed him from the corner of your vision for a second before tapping the screen.

“What do you mean?” you sighed at your co-workers words, evidently frustrated.

“Considering you have bird boy over here in dark academia, accented in warmer yellows, using cool lights will bring out too much of a contrast. We need to match the accent colours with warmer lighting, or use a overlay,” you muttered, seemingly addressing yourself more than the two of them. Mizuki just shook her head.

“That would just oversaturate the image,” you snorted, giving her the same patronising look an adult would give a child if they tried to outsmart them.

“Not necessarily. I could spot-reduce saturation in highlight areas during editing. Or, if you really want your contrast, I could neutralise the warmer shades by using a blue, or compliment them using a red,” Hawks didn’t miss the way you said ‘I’ instead of ‘we’. Mizuki looked agitated, her frown growing deeper.

“Even so, we only have white backdrops. That would be a jarring contrast. You’d need something darker or more clustered to make it work. If you wanted a backdrop change you probably should’ve come earlier,” she spoke with a formality that obviously stemmed from Hawks next to her, but you paid no mind. You were silent for a moment, and Hawks could see your eyes narrowing as you were thinking.

“I need a natural background, huh?” you mumbled, thumbing the buttons on the camera. With a shrug, “alright, bird boy, come on, we’re leaving,” Hawks blinked in surprise as you spun on your heel, a grin breaking onto his face. Finally, he got to leave.

“Whatever you say, boss,” you shot him an irritated look.

“Don’t call me that. I’m 22, not 40,” his feathers ruffled up. “Hey, I’m also 22! What a coincidence, right?” he grinned, winking at you. You just responded by rolling your eyes.

Mizuki spluttered, trying in vain to get either one of you to stop as Hawks trailed after you.

“L-Look, you can’t just leave-” you turned, shoving the camera back into her hands, a mirthless smile on your face.

“Watch me,” your voice was cold, goading her to try and stop you, “bird boy, out, now.” Hawks didn’t have to be told twice. Some of the others whispered and muttered as they realised what was going on, but they all fell quiet when you shot them a sharp glare.

He breathed in the fresh air with a content sigh, his chest feeling lighter now he was out the cramped room. The amber glow from the late afternoon sun kissed his tanned skin as he stretched his arms above his head, his forearms flexing slightly under his dark blazer. His eyes shut in bliss and head tilted back, exposing his sharp jawline.

You eyed him slightly, eyes trailing across his features. Now that you had actually left, you were a little lost on what your plan was. You didn’t regret storming out of there, though, nor did you even consider turning back to apologise.

You took your own camera out of the dark camera bag slung across your body, careful not to scratch it on the tripod, and focused the lens on Hawks. It was smaller, a little more compact than the ones Mizuki and the others were using, but you found that it was much better suited for portrait work.

The click of the camera shutter brought Hawks out of his stupor, eyes snapping open and immediately landing on you. Your attention had already been diverted to the screen, studying your work.

“The modelling room is stuffy, I’ll give you that,” you mumbled, zooming in on his face, “but you can stretch while we walk,” Hawks leaned over you, eyes sparkling at the shot.

“Aw, you make me look so good, I’m flattered!” you rolled your eyes.

“Don’t be,” you took a large sip of your coffee, moving down the pathway as you thought. Hawks scrambled after you, his wings puffing out when he reached your side. You couldn’t help but gaze at the bright red feathers as he unfurled his wings, a small, happy chirping noise rumbling at the back of his throat once they were fully spread behind your back. They were warm, you noticed, feeling the heat through your turtleneck.

Your vision was filled with a cheeky smirk painted on full lips, Hawks’ face appearing in front of your eyes. Your eyes narrowed as you sized him up.

“See something you like?” you rolled your eyes as he purred.

“Not in the slightest, bird brain,” his wings beat behind his back, hand clutching the fabric on his chest.

“Oh, how you wound me!” Hawks cried, and you couldn’t help but smile slightly, which you quickly covered with your coffee cup.

“I’m sure you’ll face a villain that will do greater damage than I could,” he hummed, angling his face towards the sun.

“So, where are we headed?” you chewed on your bottom lip, slinging your camera over your shoulder.

“It can’t be anywhere with lots of traffic, you attract a lot of attention, you know?” it was a rhetorical question, but Hawks’ chest still puffed out in pride at your words.

“Thanks, it’s because of my raging-”

“Shut up,” you cut him off, “either way, I have a pounding headache and I do not have enough shits to give to put up with your fan girls today,” with a sigh, you rubbed your temples. Hawks stared at your clenched teeth.

“Hey, why do you-” “I think I know where we can go,” he frowned.

“You know it’s not polite to interrupt people like that-”

“Sunflowers.” your tone dripped finality as you faced Hawks, a brazen determination in your eyes he hadn’t seen until now. It made his breath hitch in his throat.

Breathy chuckle escaping his lips, and eyebrows furrowed when you sped your pace, gulping down more of your coffee.

“Uh, what?” you waved a hand dismissively.

“There’s a sunflower field in Fukuroi City, I think it’s west from here,” the tiniest of grins etched onto your features, “it’s gonna be a lot more interesting than the rest of those blank background. Plus, the yellow will compliment your clothes, and with the sun low in the sky I’ll get my perfect warm lighting,” you explained. Hawks wasn’t sure exactly how much of a difference it would make, but the idea seemed charming, and it was more exciting than being perpetually flanked by a white screen.

“Sounds good,” he chirped, “although, to be honest, you could take me out anywhere and I wouldn’t mind,” you rolled your eyes.

“That’s a shame, because I don’t intend to hang around any more than I have to,” Hawks pouted, crossing his arms.

“Come on, I wanna know more about you!” you bristled.

“Good for you.” the two of you fell into a beat of silence before Hawks smiled, undaunted.

“I’m sure I can win you over somehow,” shaking your head in disbelief, you lifted the cup to your lips, before looking down disappointedly when you realised it was empty.

“I don’t have enough coffee for this,” you muttered. Hawks’ expression brightened.

“That’s an easy fix: your agency is around here so you must know there area pretty well,” he spoke nonchalantly, as if he was on a casual lunch date and not in the most expensive outfit you’d seen in your entire life, “what’s the best place to grab a coffee?” for a moment, you looked taken aback, before shaking your head.

“Best café in these parts is the Sunset Hour,” you said, rubbing the back of your neck, “but as much as I have no inhibitions regarding bunking off work, that’s a little too far away. I need to take this pictures before the end of the day or Mizuki’ll submit those crappy ones she took in the studio,” Hawks nodded in understanding, smile never faltering for a second.

“Well I gotta get you your caffeine fix somewhere, so what’s the second best?” your expression scrunched in thought for a moment, before you jutted a thumb over your shoulder.

“There’s a Starbucks across the road,” he snickered seeing your blank expression.

“Not exactly where I would want our first date, but I suppose it’ll do,” rolling your eyes, you shoved the empty cup to his chest, which he gripped almost instinctively.

“Good thing this isn’t a date, then,” Hawks grinned, sending your empty cup on a feather to the nearest bin before chasing after you as you crossed the road. You didn’t spare him a single glance when he appeared at your shoulder, nor when he reached over above your head to open the Starbucks door from behind you.

“So you’re saying we can have our first date somewhere else?” with a shallow sigh, you shook your head.

“What I’m saying is that there’s not gonna be a first date. Not between us,” his chest tightened. God, you were so mean. He’d be into that.

The inside of the Starbucks was a mix between modern, western architecture and traditional Japanese woodwork. The equipment was all cutting edge, and the tables and chairs were made with a sleek mahogany, but the windows were framed with bamboo shutters, and the backroom was separated with shoji sliding doors. It was an curious blend, one that you studied with an interest. The deep, earthy scent of roasted coffee beans heavily imbued the air, filling your nose with the aroma of something far more familiar.

Given it was the late afternoon, and most people tended not to drink caffeine after 2pm, the patrons were few and far in between. Good for you, at least. It meant you wouldn’t get- “Hawks? Sorry to bother you but can we get a picture?” your head turned at the voice that rung out.

Two high school girls stood to your left, hands clutched together in front of their chests and a dark pink coating their cheeks. With a small sigh, you took a step forward in the small queue. Hawks smiled with all the faux charm in the world, an obvious change in his demeanour as his pride spiked.

“Of course! And just as it happens, I have my personal photographer here who can make sure your photos look amazing as you two do!” it took you a moment to register what he had said through the excited squeals of the girls before he clutched your shoulders and pulled you forward, causing you to stumble slightly.

“Your what?” he sent you an audacious smirk, willing you to play along as one of the girls handed you her phone. Your first instinct was to decline, but as you met the eyes of the girls, so eager and bright, you couldn’t find it in you to disappoint them.

Taking a couple steps back, you lifted the phone, slightly angling it so the picture looked more natural, and not that of a celebrity and their fans (even if it was). You squinted angrily at the poor lighting, but tried to rectify it the best you could. The girls looked a little tense, but Hawks was a natural. A liberal smirk played on his lips and shoulders rolled back, relaxed. Even with the low lighting, the highlights on his cheekbone and jawline were indescribably perfect, and you weren’t sure if the credit should go to you or his god-like genes.

“Wow, that’s perfect!” one of the girls cried, her body appearing by your side. You hadn’t even noticed her moving, “thank you so much!” you just nodded, handing her back her phone and crossing your arms, eyes narrowing at Hawks.

“If that’s all, ladies, we best be ordering,” they nodded frantically at Hawks’ words, sharply bowing and spouting their thanks to the two of you countless times. They left the Starbucks, but even outside you could still hear them fawning over the picture. He faced you with a grin, but you couldn’t muster up a smile.

“Don’t go around telling people I’m your personal photographer,” you sneered. He pouted, looking genuinely disappointed for a second. “What, you don’t wanna be mine?” “Not in the slightest.”

“What will be your order, Miss?” the barista had directed the question at you, but it was clear his attention was elsewhere. You weren’t surprised, but a small swell of annoyance grew in your mind.

“Can I have a mocha with a double shot of expresso?” Hawks chuckled.

“Might as well have an expresso, you know. You’re basically just taking a shot of caffeine,” you shrugged.

“It’s my favourite drink. I like the chocolate taste,” he looked at you with round eyes, a small squeeze in his chest.

“And you, sir?”

“Oh, I’ll have the same, then,” he didn’t miss the way your eyes darted to him. The barista nodded, tapping for a couple seconds before turning back.

“That’ll be 660 yen,” “I’m paying,” Hawks blurted, even before you could offer. You were silent, a small nod in the affirmative rocking your head. As he handed over the bills, he chuckled. “You know, not that I mind, but usually couples would argue over who’s paying,” you rolled your eyes.

“We’re not a couple,” you watched the barista prepare your drinks, more of a way to occupy yourself rather than a genuine interest, “besides, you’re a lot richer than I am. I don’t mean to be impolite, but I’m sure you can lose 600 yen and still be good,” he hummed happily.

“No disagreements there.” “Are you two eating in or taking out?” the barista asked, in the midst of securing the plastic lids to the top of the cups. Hawks’ eyes sparkled as he turned to you with an excitement you assumed only appeared in children.

“Hey, we can-” “Take out,” you responded, giving a now deflated Hawks a challenging look, “I will leave you here if I have to.” the blonde grinned. “You wouldn’t. You need me for the pictures,” he sang, voice jovial.

“I don’t care about you that much. The sunflowers are probably less annoying subjects anyway,” oh. With no warning, his heart beat sped up, his wings puffing out slightly. Sure, he wouldn’t mind if you were a little nicer to him, but your insults were like a breath of fresh air. There was no doubt that Hawks loved the limelight, loved the popularity he got, but the relentless ass-kissing got old after a while. You kept him on his toes. Even if he was just constantly chasing after you every time you brushed him off, he didn’t care.

“Put those away, bird brain,” it was then he realised his wings had spread further than he intended, stretched out on either side of him. One was curled right around his face, and he almost felt himself blushing as he pulled them in. It was just animal instincts, he assured himself.

The rest of the journey was filled with a one-sided conversation of him talking and commenting on what was around you, with no response from you except the occasional witty retort or light-hearted jab at his expense, each one making his heart flutter. It wasn’t too long before you had arrived, the chain link fence around the plot stretching high above your head and corroded with orange rust.

Rows and rows of bright yellow sunflowers stretched to the horizon, an immense display of summer vitality. The fragrance was potent, a sort of cloying sweetness that you didn’t hate. And just as you were about to enter, you knew you had made a mistake.

“Oh.” Hawks stared at you incredulously, attention switching from your taken aback expression to the sign posted on the gate.

“You didn’t check to see it was open?” you looked up at him, allowing him to survey a tinge of remorse he hadn’t recognised until this point.

“Look, how was I supposed to know? This place has always been open at this time since I was a little kid,” you rubbed your arm, brows furrowed. Hawks sighed, rolling his shoulders back.

“Well, the sun’s too low to go anywhere else outside,” he shrugged, “it’s no biggie, I guess. Those other photos weren’t too bad. Hey, now that we’re free, do you want to- what are you doing?” your foot was halfway in the gaps in the gate, the wedges on your heels making it hard to climb.

“I’m not wasting my day for nothing,” you growled, fingers curling around the metal, “get climbing, bird boy,” with a soft sigh, smile gracing his lips and a warm feeling in his chest, Hawks spread his wings.

“I think you’re forgetting something that’ll make this a lot easier,” you felt a cool draft on your back as Hawks flapped his wings, the feeling being quickly replaced by the warmth of his chest as he pulled you in. A foreign emotion coiled in your stomach, but you convinced yourself that it was just the flight.

One arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other supporting your knees, and all Hawks was thinking that such a gentle flight never felt so calming.

Your feet tapped against the soft soil, sinking in to it slightly when the hero placed you down. You nodded your thanks.

“Let’s go over there, I want the sun coming in from the right,” Hawks nodded, content to just follow your orders. You pulled the tripod from your bag and set it up, adjusting it to your liking as Hawks looked around, trying to think of a pose.

Once everything was ready, you turned your attention to Hawks.

“I want to humanise you,” he grinned curiously as you walked over.

“What do you mean by that?” he nearly gasped when you grabbed his chin, angling his face to the side and slightly up, towards the sun. You took a step closer, reaching up and running a hand through his hair. He bit his lip, hands trembling as you tugged slightly, trying to mess it up a little.

“All the photos I’ve seen on you always put a huge emphasis on either your wings or your hero status, and I don’t really see why,” you mumbled, placing one hand on his jawline while the other fixed his hair to your liking, letting a few strands fall in front of his eyes, “I think that just creates a divide. If they wanted you to seem angelic they should play that up, not just have it the norm,” you huffed, “anyway, I wanna put the emphasis on you and not your wings. So ideally if you could tuck them behind your back that would be wonderful,”

Hawks nodded, disappointment filling him as you stepped away. He made sure not to move as he awkwardly folded his wings over each other and pulled them in, glancing at you with a look of apprehension. You just nodded in approval, leaning down to your camera.

You took plenty of shots, allowing him plenty more opportunities to feel your hands on him (and he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it).

“Hey, why were you so late today?” Hawks dared to question while you were analysing your photos. You were perched on a bench, appreciating your work. The late sun cast a golden sheen on his skin, the spattering of glimmering rays highlighting his face in all the right places.

“I was sleeping,” you responded, deleting an out of focus shot. His eyes narrowed.

“What?” “Just as it sounds. Figured if they were gonna make me work so I could only have three hours of sleep a night it was gonna be on their time, not mine,” he frowned, taking a seat next to you.

“They shouldn’t work you that hard,” you shrugged with a hollow laugh, blank gaze in your eyes.

“What am I gonna do? Have them fire me? As much as I hate this job it’s the only thing that pays for my coffee in the morning,” he was silent as you stood up, stretching your arms behind your bag before tucking everything back in your bag.

“Did you want to be a photographer?” he questioned, only to be met with a forlorn smile.

“Maybe at one point.” the two of you lapsed into silence before you sighed.

“Well, I’ve gotta submit these to Mizuki, and I’m sure you need-” Hawks caught your wrist, spinning you back around.

In the glow of the sunset, you looked almost ethereal. Your eyes gleamed, and cheeks warmed in the orange flare. Sunflowers framed your form, and the words caught in his throat, nearly stopping him from saying anything at all.

“Come work for me.” he blurted. You snorted.

“No.” all he could do was smile as you hopped back over the fence, not waiting up for him.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought you’d say.”

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sirthisisa-wendys · 3 years

Text

The Enforcers: Part 10 (Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader)

synopsis: reveal, don't conceal.

wc: 1.4k

tw: none

masterlist

"Come out one at a time with your hands up."

You stand idly by as the militia pulls people out of the SUVs; lingering behind Suguru as he watches the former members of the CSB kneel on the ground and be restrained with zip ties. When you see the familiar pink hair of Yuji Itadori, you start a little, eyes widening as he lays on the ground and is zip tied before being brought to his feet and made to kneel beside another comrade of his.

Of yours.

You can't see all of the faces, but the fact that Yuji made it out alive meant that he would try his best to get the others out alive. And that's enough for you.

A sea of about eighty people are kneeling on the cold floor of the aircraft hangar beside the main building, and every single one of them is restrained.

"Your entire organization has been burnt to the ground," Suguru begins. "And you come to me to get answers?" No one speaks. The implications of his words are enough to make everyone in the area gulp hard. "Why not ask your Grand Council?" Suguru wonders and chuckles from the guards echo around the room.

"We did," a voice - Nobara Kugisaki - calls out, and you raise onto the tips of your toes to try and see her. "but they sent us away without an answer."

"What about your leaders?"

Another silence.

"One of you tell me what truly happened. And be quick about it, my patience does not extend far."

"They sent..." Choso. "They sent in people we did not know to gun us down. We were all gathered in the Grand Hall, where we originally thought we would be informed about the next steps to take since we filed our grievances."

"And?"

"They told us to go to our barracks and wait for further instruction. The massacre started as soon as lights went out."

"It was so dark," someone cries out, sniffling. "They shot my partner before... before--" Various people begin to sob, and you grab Suguru's arm, looking over at the group sadly. Every single one of them had escaped from hell, and now they're here, looking to the both of you for help. Suguru peers over his shoulder at you, face set in a grim expression.

"Maybe we should give them some time before we ask them about everything," you whisper.

"The sooner we know as much as we can, the safer we'll be," he replies, turning back to the crowd in front of him. "All of those who work for us will be brought to the conference room. The rest of you will be given a good meal and put in temporary residences. You will be heavily guarded and watched. You will not be permitted to leave the Fallen Sun District until we have determined that everything is safe. Communication with your families that reside outside of the district will be cut off, and communication with the media will be punished. Guard set A, take those who are our agents. Guard set B, take the others away."

_____________________________________________________________

You sit beside Suguru in the conference room, arms crossed. You all look at the agents filing in, and Choso comes in as the last one - which isn't really a surprise - capping off the small crowd of ten double agents.

"I need details," Suguru states, and looks back at the person at the door, who nods and switches off the lights. A projector switches on, and an aerial map of the CSB headquarters comes on the whiteboard wall. "Where did the chaos begin? Where was Toji? Yuki? Gojo? And where are they now?"

"From the South Wing down to the Cafeteria, then the killers split up and took the East, North, and West Wing," someone mentions, and Suguru draws lines in accordance with the account.

"And the leaders of each faction?"

"Gojo disappeared long before the massacre began, but I know Toji orchestrated the attack," Choso answers.

"How?" you wonder, squinting your eyes. "And don't tell me you caught him talking about it in the open and said nothing."

"That's how it happened," Choso states grimly. "I'm the one who sent the email. I thought you would come and help us, Suguru." Suguru doesn't reply, staring at the aerial map and biting the inside of his cheek. "Those people died because you didn't come to help us. Do you know how many bodies I had to crawl over just to get to freedom? How many people had been shot down in their beds?"

"You know I know what that's like," Suguru replies tersely. "You know I know what it's like to have no fucking help."

"Then why? Why did you let us be slaughtered like animals, Suguru? Why couldn't you just do the right thing and come and help us? You put us in that mess! And you left us to die!" Choso stands up suddenly and produces a revolver from the inside of his coat, and points it at you. Guards instantly unholster their weapons and aim them at Choso, red lights pointed at his entire body.

"Don't shoot!" you cry out, hands up. "Don't shoot him!"

"Is it because of her?" Choso wonders, eyes empty and devoid of compassion. "Did she tell you to stay put?"

"Don't shoot!" you repeat, bullets of sweat running down your body inside of the vest. "Don't shoot."

"She told me to go and get you." Suguru finally answers, his own weapon pointed at Choso. "She wanted to save everyone's life."

"And why didn't you?" Choso whispers, gun still aimed at you.

"Because I didn't have time. And I didn't have the resources. You, out of everyone here, should know I would put my life on the line for my people when I can." Choso chokes out a sob, dropping the gun and collapsing onto the floor in a fit of tears. His piercing cries echo in the small room, and you rush to his side, holding him close to you. He sobs into your shoulder, whispering apologies and shaking furiously.

"Don't apologize," you whisper, rubbing his back slowly and methodically. "It's okay. You've been through a lot, and just need to rest."

_____________________________________________________________

"I'm going to the media to break the story," you mention, facing Suguru as he brushes his teeth.

"What?" he cries out, mouth full of white foam. "No. You're not going anywhere. Too risky."

"Send a guard with me, then."

"No." He spits into the sink, and you cross your arms, frowning. "I'm not giving you permission to do that. If Toji pops up, you're fucked. I'm not taking that chance."

"So you can't leak an interview with me? Like the ones we recovered from the Archives?" Suguru braces himself on the sink, hair falling down his face and shielding his expression from view.

"Babe," Suguru breathes, sighing and shaking his head. "It's possible."

"I'll tell my story. I'll leave you out of it."

"You can't tell your story without me," Suguru whispers, tying his hair back with the rubber band around his wrist. "Do you think we should get other stories corroborating ours?"

"Yes," you answer immediately. "A thousand times, yes." Suguru's onyx eyes drop to the sink, and you come up behind him, wrapping your arms around his large frame. "Do you trust me?"

He places his hands on yours and nods slowly.

"I trust you," he murmurs. "And I love you."

"I love you, too."

Four hours later, you're sitting in front of a camera, eyes staring into the lens with the intensity of your mother and father's expressions in their own videos.

"Ready?" Suguru wonders, leaning over and touching your hand from behind the camera.

"Ready." He clicks the record button, and a red light begins to flash.

"My name is Y/n, and I am a former Kitsune. Over seven months ago, I began my career with the CSB, and since my time there, I have learned so much about their inner workings, their scandal coverups, and how they tried to end my life not too long ago." You swallow hard, tears coming to your eyes. But you inhale deeply, pushing the emotion down as far as it will go. "You may have heard that I was kidnapped by those who run the Fallen Sun district. But that is simply not true," you assert, shaking your head once. "Everything you know about the CSB is a lie."

_____________________________________________________________

TAGLIST: @missbonekitty @wack0-genius @thankuary @jsqeeut @r-i-m-f-009 @sunfloweroranges @leanne-tamashi @girlruby23 @rein-icu @brownskinnedgirll @chanelmalandro @savantsoulfinder @jibe-gajima @chilledlucifer @amnxsia @kontentious @fuyuko26 @everybodylovescayrayray @flare-on @sammytamaki @meena-in-a-nutshell @falling-through-pages @naoyasdarling @vabybizzle

#geto suguru x reader #getou suguru x reader #geto suguru #jjk geto #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #getou suguru

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oh-so-scenarios · 3 years

Text

one | "Familiar”

The King’s Consult - Chapter One: ‘Familiar’ [word count: 4.9k]

Next ◀ ▶ Series Index | Masterlist

⤑ Kɪᴍ Tᴀᴇʜʏᴜɴɢ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇs ᴀʟʟ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴsʜɪᴘs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛʟᴇss ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʙᴇɴᴇғɪᴛ ʜɪᴍ. Bᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏsᴇɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ. Hᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅs ᴀ ᴡɪғᴇ ʙʏ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ. Aɴᴅ ɪᴛ's Y/ɴ's ᴊᴏʙ ғɪɴᴅ ʜɪᴍ ᴏɴᴇ, ᴡʜᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇs ɪᴛ ᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛ.

⤑ Arrogant King! Kim Taehyung x Consult! female reader; icequeen!au

~!~

Crown Prince Kim Taehyung - Records Journal entry of November 13th, 2020.

“Winter brings many things. Christmas, cold weather, presents and lastly; my birthday. Some would dread having a birthday so close to Christmas but I didn’t mind. There were more gifts and more to celebrate. However year after year, no one could seem to give me the ultimate Christmas gift. The one I’d been patiently waiting for, for years. Where, oh where...when, oh when will this dear thing I’ve lost, return to me?”

Y/N:

It’s going to be a tough one. Of course, they warned me of such things. Everyone did, even my own father. The half-assed grin he showed me this morning was enough to down my spirits, not that I’d ever let him know that.

With my block heels clicking as I walked up the stone stairs, my nerves were starting to get the best of me. I felt hot flashes hitting different parts of my body, and I regretted the thick black and white blazer I wore. Under the blazer, I wore a long-sleeve black blouse and some crimson red dress pants with flare bottoms.

My slim leather briefcase was slung over my shoulder by its longer strap and my cell phone was tucked snug in my pants pocket.

As if a higher power heard my cry, a gust of cold wind hit me, pushing my blazer open a bit. A small smile pulled at the corner of my lips, and I thanked the cold November air that was washing away the nervous sweats that were accumulating on my forehead.

The stairs weren’t that long, but it still felt like it was teetering on being too much. There were three sets of square double doors, the middle one being the larger one.

There were 4 guards, all standing guard with frowns on their lips. One of them spotted me, raising an eyebrow at me before his lips pulled up into a smile.

“Open the doors!” He shouts to the other guards, “It’s just Y/n.” He holds eye contact with me the whole time he’s announcing my presence to the other guards.

His eyes rank down my body, the lust in his eyes making no attempts at being subtle. I’m not in a mood to muster up a forced but polite smile. I only nod, watching as two other guards open the doors.

“Everyone said you were starting today.” The first guard said, taking a small step closer to me.

“Are they?” I spoke with no interest, “I didn’t think I’d be the talk of the palace.”

“Of course you are!” He chimes flashing a toothy grin, “Everyone is excited to see you go toe-to-toe with His Highness, Prince Taehyung.”

I rolled my eyes at his words, “I’m not here to go toe-to-toe with His Highness, I’m here to do a job.” I stated, taking a small step back to put more space between us. He smelt of cheap cologne, old spice deodorant, and breath mints.

My face cringed in a reaction as he opened his mouth to speak again, but I cut him off.

“You really shouldn’t be gossiping about the royal family, they can fire you for breathing too hard so tread lightly and know your place.” I scolded, noticing the stain on his white dress shirt, and the way his in-ear radio was carelessly clipped to his shirt.

Ugh, he’s a complete mess.

“Serious about your work, just like your father, I expected just as much. See you around Y/n.” He said winking at me before grinning again.

My face scrunched up in discomfort before I took swift steps towards the opened doors into the huge high ceiling entrance way of the palace. The white walls accompanied by some white pillars are a sight to marvel at. The hard marble floor has beautiful gold designs while a long strip of a thick and fiery red carpet was laid out.

Anyone would stop to stare at the marvelous architecture and atmosphere but I strolled right through, having seen the inside of the palace many times.

My middle school and early high school days were filled with after school days in the palace, trailing behind my father silently, observing and taking mental notes of everything he did.

My father has been The current King, Kim Taejoon’s advisor since before I was born. He was originally his Majesty’s consult, a temporary advisor for Prince’s during the process of coronation and marriage pursuing.

He assisted His majesty in preparing for his coronation to King. He was also there in assisting with the finding of a bride, who is now Her Majesty Queen Kim Minji, previously Park Minji of the Busan kingdom.

Through that marriage, The Kingdom of Seoul, which was previously the Daegu kingdom before expansion, controlled the most kingdoms of all the rulers. This made it so Gangwon-do was the only province not under The Kim’s Royal family and their monarchy. Gangwon-do neighbors the Seoul province which is home to the Royal palace.

The Gangwon-do province is under the Min Royal family, who were the rulers of the Daegu Kingdom before The Kim family came into power. The history is messy and a bit ugly, so it’s understandable that the Min Royal family sees no possibility of the two families merging.

King Taejoon and Queen Minji had 2 children, a son, and a daughter, though not much is known about their children. Unlike other royal families, ever since the rule of King Taesung(The current King’s father), the children of the royal family are kept out of the spotlight till a certain age.

His Highness Prince Taehyung’s face wasn’t known to the public till he was 19 years old. He’s turning 25 next month and I can’t say the country knows much about him. I’d only seen him in passing when I was tailing my father in the palace. He didn’t speak much, often showing scoffs or sadistic smirks in reply to things. But it doesn’t matter what I think of him, it matters what the Kingdom thinks of him.

I was assigned to Prince Taehyung’s consultation, and if I do well, I could be assigned his advisor. I’d be set with a wonderful job and wonderful pay for life.

A lot of friends ask me why I settled on such a career, seeing as Royal advisors have no social life and basically have their whole lives revolve around their royal client. I’ve seen that first hand, watching my dad miss family events, birthdays, and important milestones in my life.

Though the lack of his presence has caused us to grow distant, I can’t say I’m mad at him. I sort of wish I resented him but from the moment I was born, my father was always all about the royal family. I never had any other expectations.

My father has nothing to do with my decision to take this career path, and I can’t pinpoint what the turning point was, but the royal family interested me.

“I know it’s easy to say everyone is human and though that is true, never put yourself on the same playing field as royals.” My father says sternly, “They are not your equals, and will never be. They look at common people like us through a lens of constant pity and obligation.”

I stare up at him, my 15-year-old mind not fully understanding the heaviness of his words.

“Never mistake their kindness for fondness, I have seen first hand the royals believe they owe loyalty to no one, not even their own people.”

Those are words my father has drilled into me since I told him I wanted to pursue this field of work. A consultant's job is to not be seen and to barely be heard. I understand, and that may have worked with His Majesty Taejoon, but Prince Taehyung is another case.

I know my place. I am a commoner, an obligation to the royal family but I am going to my job well. I will not spare Prince Taehyung’s feelings. If in the presence of those who look down on me as having nothing...I’ll make sure to retain my honesty.

At the end of the entryway stands a familiar figure. Her hair slicked back just like mine, but flowing down her back into a nice ponytail.

She wore all black; her blazer, her blouse and the pencil skirt were all black. Her heels were even black, with red bottoms making an appearance with the slightest foot movements. Her pink painted lips stretched into a friendly smile and I smiled back.

“Michelle, it’s so good to see you!” I say as I get closer to her. She opens her arms and pulls me into a hug. I wasn’t really prepared for it, but I returned anyway.

She smelt of a heavy fragrance that was also pulling my senses into a tight hug. As we pulled back from the hug, I readjusted the briefcase hanging from my shoulder.

“I knew with your father’s recommendation, you would be His Majesty’s choice for Prince Taehyung’s consultation. He said something about, a young person such as yourself would understand the Prince well.” She chuckles at the statement, her eyes scrunching closed to show some crows feet.

Michelle is youthful for her age, though I don’t know exactly how old she is, she has been the Queen’s advisor since I could remember. She says her youthful appearance is due to her constant smiling. She was so different from my father in her methods.

Unlike my father who was stiff and often aloof to His Majesty’s attempts in establishing a friendship, Michelle was more like girl pals with Her Majesty. Michelle was always smiling and radiating a kind aura, just like the Queen.

Though it could be that a Queen’s duties differ from a King’s duties. That doesn’t mean Michelle’s job isn’t tough. She studied the history of South Korea, along with extensive political studies. She needs to know everyone and everything, since she would be advising her Majesty.

It must have been harder for her, since she isn’t native to South Korea; maybe that’s why we relate to each other so well.

But the studying for such a job never stops. We must always keep up with things changing around the world, and how they could affect South Korea. It’s a job that requires you to change along with the times, leaving barely any time for something else.

“I can’t be certain if I could understand him, but I’ll do my best to assist him.” I answered, straightening out my blazer.

“I’m sure you will, the coronation process is always so hectic, so I wish you the best of luck. His highness is gonna be tough to mold.” She whispers, before waving her hand for me to follow her. I stroll right next to her, knowing exactly where we were headed.

This whole wing of the palace is strictly political. As we exited the entryway, the hallway we were walking through almost acted as a balcony, giving a preview of the large ballroom that was the center of this wing.

We took a turn to a completely walled hallway. We were headed to the executive conference room. That’s how it always happens. It’s nearing December and the royal family meets to sort through the plans for the coming year.

“How is it going?” I asked as we turned another corner, the walls now a rich creme color with gold details and gold light fixtures.

She kisses her teeth, “Not so well, Prince Taehyung is less than enthusiastic about this stage of his life. His Majesty is usually pretty lenient with the Prince since he shows potential in his political plans for the kingdom, but the two are butting heads.”

“Why is that?”

Michelle sighs, “His Highness feels like his father is rushing the process, and if it feels rushed and forced the general public will be more reluctant to accept him.”

Well...that makes sense. I don’t have to say anything for Michelle to look at me with a pressed smirk.

“Exactly.” She said when she held my gaze, “Prince Taehyung isn’t stupid he’s just difficult.”

“It would have made things easier if he was an airhead.” I said under my breath. Michelle giggles as she catches wind of my words.

“It’s easier to mold stupid.” She muttered in agreeance as we came to a heavy looking door, guarded by too many men in white dress shirts and black slacks.

They gave both of us a nod of acknowledgement then Michelle stepped forward and opened the door. I followed in behind her, a wave of goosebumps hitting my skin at the difference in temperature. The room was a bit colder than the hallway, leaving my body to react.

Why would they have the AC so high? It’s November for goodness sake.

She gently closes the door behind her and comes to stand beside me. We stood near the door, waiting for a time to introduce our presence.

“That’s such a shallow approach.” A deep voice said. The room was wide, and long but the ceilings weren’t too high. There were no windows and the walls were alder wood panels. In the middle of the room was a large rectangular table that stretched out. There were many seats at the table but right now there were only a few people.

His Majesty King Taejoon sat at the head of the table. Sitting to his right was the Queen. Beside the Queen was a lovely young lady. Princess Cho-hee sat there in sweats. She looks like she was dragged out of bed. Seeing as It’s 9am on a Saturday, I can understand her carelessness.

Her eyes were glued to her phone and she wasn’t tuning in to the conversation at all.

Sitting to the left of King Taejoon was who I presumed to be Prince Taehyung. From where we were standing, the King was directly facing us, so I could see Prince Taehyung’s profile.

He leaned back in the chair, his arms crossed over his chest in a bored manner. He stared up at the ceiling and wasn’t looking at the King as he spoke.

His hair was black and a bit long. His bangs were almost in his eyes, but not enough to obscure his sight. His hair had curls in it, so I’d say it was permed. He had strong features, looking a lot more like his father than his mother.

He wore a white shirt with a grey cardigan. His fingers were graced with some rings and his hands were also so pretty. He oozes high class and wealth.

“Excuse me?” King Taejoon responds.

The Prince looked at his father, a dull and bored expression in his eyes.

“You claim that you want to mend things with the Min family, by forming an allyship with them. I agree with that. But through marriage?”

“You just don’t want to get married.” His Majesty argued.

Taehyung smiled, nodding his head, “That’s partially correct, but I’m looking at the bigger picture. Mending things with the Min family through marriage is lazy.”

The room grew heavy as the Prince’s sharp tone didn’t match the smirk on his lips.

“Marrying the Min Family’s princess doesn’t actually resolve anything. Why are we all dancing around the issues with the Min family and their kingdom? It’ll be a slap in the face to them to try to fix things through marriage.”

“What do you suggest, son?” The King raised an eyebrow at Taehyung. His tone revealed true curiosity, but his face showed doubt. He wasn’t sure what the Prince was going to suggest, seeing as the history with the Min Kingdom is a rough one.

“We need to find a place and time to discuss things. We’ll probably have to involve the United Nations. A formal apology needs to be issued to them, followed by a plan that will show growth for both Kingdoms. It’ll be a long road but it’s better than an allyship formed by marriage.” Taehyung says, followed by a yawn.

“Can you guarantee success?” The Queen suddenly speaks up, looking at both her husband and son. Her fiery eyes didn’t give anything away. That’s one thing the Queen was always good at. Her eyes were always kind and sweet no matter the situation, but I’m certain her thoughts were racing.

“No, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they spit in our faces,” Prince Taehyung says confidently. He fiddles with the rings on his fingers while pondering.

“It’s most likely they’d spit in our faces either way. We can’t be surprised. We’re cleaning up grandpa’s mess.” Prince Taehyung says it casually but an audible gasp sounds through the room. It almost felt like the room got colder and a miserable stillness fell over the room.

I was almost scared to breathe too loudly. Everyone except for Prince Taehyung had gotten visibly stiff. Princess Cho-hee even stopped to look up from her phone. Her eyes started around the faces at the table.

His Majesty, the King, was staring at his son with harsh and surprised eyes. Prince was unaware, still focusing on his rings.

Prince Taehyung’s grandfather….King Taesung. A true tyrant. I shivered at the thought of the man, hoping Michelle didn’t notice.

Prince Taehyung’s Grandfather King Taesung started off as commander and chief for the Daegu Kingdom when it was under the Min family’s rule.

The path taken to bring the Kim family to the power they have now was an awful one. Overtaking the Min family and gaining rule of Daegu. The Min family fled Gangwon-do, a province that was also under their rule. Over the years King Taesung conquered more and more provinces. After conquering the Seoul province they moved the capital from Daegu to Seoul and called it the Seoul Republic of South Korea.

King Taesung made no attempt to conquer Gangwon-do, leaving the Min family in power of the province to this day. King Taesung was an awful ruler. Harsh, demanding and cold hearted. He struck fear into the people, and only craved power.

I never met him before he died, only heard of him through history books and from my father. My father became King Taejoon’s consult while the kingdom was still under Kim Taesung’s rule. My father often spoke of how no warmth could be felt from that man.

His presence commanded respect and he carried his authority on his shoulders. Under his rule, the economy did...okay. There was no growth and most of the population lived middle class lives. King Taesung did not care about the options of his people. The people had no trust in the Kim royal family.

Those who spoke ill of King Taesung would be jailed or worse. He severed alliances with other countries, removing all of the Seoul Republic of South Korea. The Gangwon-do Republic of South Korea stayed a part of the United Nations, having them gain support from America, France and more.

King Taesung’s thirst for power weakened the country in the long run.

They try to speak as little of him as possible. Not only for the sake of the politicians, but for King Taejoon. Though it’s never been confirmed, it’s said that King Taesung was very abusive to his children.

I whole-heartedly believe the only reason my father let me shadow him starting in high school was because King Taesung died a few months before that.

King Taejoon has been doing his best to regain the people’s trust in the Kim family and undo the damage his father created. The Seoul Republic of Korea has mended their ties with many other countries and are now part of the United Nations again.

Under King Taejoon’s rule, the economy soared and the people were doing better. Things are going well, but there is an underlying panic among the general public.

The public barely knows Prince Taehyung and are worried if they’ll land themselves another tyrant King.

“What?” Prince Taehyung said after looking up from his hands. He looked at his mother and father, his perplexed facial expression proving that he truly didn’t feel the shift in the air.

“You’re such an idiot!” His sister hisses at him.

The Prince shows a playful smile to his sister before turning his attention back to his father.

“I am not going to be married off as a deal to keep peace but grandpa was an autocrat.” Taehyung adds before turning his attention back to his rings. He fiddles with them, randomly adjusting them while everyone else is left with the tense atmosphere caused by his words.

I took in a deep breath through my nose, knowing that his plainspoken attitude would be left for me to deal with.

As if he hadn’t noticed us before, the King holds eye contact with me. His eyes grow wide with excitement, and he glances at his son. Taehyung was still occupied by his rings, now moving onto the watch on his wrist.

“What do you think Ms. L/n?” He asks me as a small smile appears on his lips. I wasn’t expecting him to ask my opinion. I should be honest right?

My eyes flicker to Prince Taehyung who was no longer looking at his watch. His eyes were on me. He still looked bored but his body language changed. He leaned back on arm rest on the chair so his body was facing my way.

I held eye contact with him for a moment, moving my attention back to the King. But not quickly enough to miss the way Prince Taehyung’s eyes moved down my body.

“Your Majesty, you’d like my opinion on the Min family matter?” I clarify.

The King nods, “Yes! And just call me Mr. Kim. I’ve known your father for too long for all these formalities.”

“I believe…” I trail off, moving my eyes back to Prince Taehyung who was now staring at me with narrow eyes. He no longer looked bored. He looked like he was waiting to meet my eyes again. When our eyes met he raised his brows swiftly as if to tease me.

Ugh. There he goes. I heard he likes to act like that. When I was briefed on the Prince’s general behavior, I was warned he likes to flirt to distract from his work. He flirts as if to show that he takes nothing seriously. He’s a jokester in some ways and oddly overserious in others. That’ll be no problem for me to deal with.

I can’t lie, he’s a very beautiful man, but none of that matters. I’m only here for a job. Pointless flirting and teasing from Prince Taehyung is just something that comes with the job. I hope he doesn’t take me for a woman that can be swayed by looks. My father raised me stronger than that.

“I believe that Prince Taehyung is right,” I look back to the King, “The method of mending ties with the Min Royal family is going to need more than a marital union. It would be seen as a shallow and lazy approach by the Min family.” I answered honestly, ignoring the small grin that appeared on Prince Taehyung’s face.

He turns to the King, “Do you believe it now that a consultant said it?” The grin now held a sinister undertone.

The King ignores the question and waves me forward. Michelle leaves her spot beside me and makes her way to stand by the Queen. I walk the other way and walk till I am standing beside his Majesty, putting me between him and Prince Taehyung.

I left some space so I wasn’t too close to them, adjusting my briefcase strap on my shoulder. The King shows me a wide smile.

“I’m so glad to see you Y/n! I would always see you following behind your father and here you are! You’re going to by consulting my son! Oh how time flies.” He said. Prince Taehyung, who couldn’t keep his eyes off me, was now reaching into his pocket to grab his phone. He started scrolling through text messages.

Ugh, rude.

“Taehyung, this is Y/n! I told you she would be your consultant! She knows her stuff and I believe she’ll help you over the next year.”

He was fiercely typing something, and I heard the phone as he pressed ended and sent a text message. Before his father could yell at him to pay attention, he was looking up at me.

“Yeah, I remember you telling me.” He answers his father while holding eye contact with me. He had a playful glint in his eyes.

“Does she know the schedule?” He turns back to his father.

“I’m certain she does. Y/n is always on top of things.” The King looks at me expectantly. I notice the Queen also watching me with a small smile.

I didn’t expect the King and Queen to act so familiar with me. I’d only see them in passing when I was shadowing my father. Though I remember my father speaking often of how close King Taejoon always attempted to get.

He called my father his friend, very often.

“Yes,” I answer, noticing now that everyone’s attention was on me.

“His Highness Prince Taehyung turns 25 next month, he will be having a celebration and his Majesty will announce the succession. The coronation is next year in September. Prince Taehyung should have the proper studies and traditions complete by then. He is also expected to be engaged by December next year.” I explained, looking at both Prince Taehyung, the Queen and the King.

The only one smiling was the King. He nodded his head confirming that I was right.

“Y/n?” The Queen’s smooth voice called out. I looked at her, waiting for her comment.

She leaned forward a bit, “Do you believe you will be able to meet those deadlines?” She wasn’t doubting me, but the look in her eyes asked a different question.

My son is difficult, are you sure you can handle him?

“Certainly.” I answered confidently.

“All this talk of engagement is pointless! I already have a person in mind!” Taehyung exclaimed, causing his mother and his sister to roll their eyes.

“You’ve been saying that forever!” His sister contends, “We know you’re lying! Stop trying to stall on things.” His sister looks at me.

“Don’t entertain him on that notion. He doesn’t have anyone in mind. He’s been pulling my parents legs for a few months, hoping to stall the process.” She explains glaring at her older brother.

Prince Taehyung abruptly turns to me, surprising me as he took one of my hands in both of his.

“Marry me?” He said breathlessly, his eyes wide and twinkling.

I stare down at him, not amused or moved.

I gaze down at him for a moment, sure that the annoyance I’m feeling is visible on my face.

A scoff sounds from Cho-hee. The princess grins, “She didn’t even blink. She’s not moved at all.”

Prince Taehyung drops my hand, the dreamy look in his eyes fading.

“Your heart wasn’t stirred?” He asked.

“No.” I answer.

“Not even a bit? Your heart didn’t skip a beat?”

“No, your highness..” I answer.

Cho-hee snickers, “Yeah Tae, not every woman wants a prince to sweep them off their feet.” Cho-hee looks at me again, eager to share something.

“He also asked the 52 year old pastry chef to marry him.” She informs me.

I’m sure he did.

“And that random female bodyguard.” The Queen added.

Cho-hee leans over to her mother, “He sees no significance in marriage or love. You gave birth to a robot mom.” I noticed Michelle, who was silent behind the Queen, stifled a giggle.

Cho-hee whispered loud enough for everyone to hear causing Prince Taehyung to snap back.

“And you’re a gremlin so I guess mom was giving birth to all types of weird things!”

Cho-hee gasps, “Take that back!”

Their banter becomes background noise as the King asks for my attention again.

“Y/n, please take good care of my son.” He says in a low voice.

“Of course.” I bowed slightly, glancing at The Prince Taehyung who was back to scrolling on his phone.

I don’t have much more to say to him, but rather turn to Michelle.

“I’ll show you where your office is.” Michelle says kindly. I nod, make my move to follow her. I stop short and look at Prince Taehyung again.

“I look forward to working for you, your highness.” I bow slightly. Prince Taehyung looks my way. I watch his eyes move from my face and down to my...chest? No...my neck. He glances at my neck and back up to my eyes.

“Flattery doesn’t work on me.” He mutters, and stares at his phone screen.

“Thankfully, I am here to do a job, not win you over.” I say sternly.

Fuck! I shouldn’t have said that! He gawks at me with wide eyes, surprised by my comment, while Princess Cho-hee covers her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing.

The King simply watches our interaction silently with the Queen smirks.

I bow once more before walking around the table to get to Michelle waiting patiently at the door.

“That was a bit too far.” She said as we exited the room, “Your father--”

“My father’s methods are not my methods.” I cut her off, “I won’t let him walk all over me. My father was too passive. I am not.”

❄...❄...❄...❄...❄

So, how are y’all feeling about this? So, idk how long i want this series to be. according to my outline its gonna be 12 parts but i never stick to my outline. Please let me know what you think! :DD

This story is gonna have a lot of world building and a lot of information (Kingdoms, history, politics), so please PLEASE if you are confused about anything, ask me in the inbox!

#bts #bts scenarios #bts ff #bts fanfic #bts angst #bts fluff #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #Jung HoSeok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #bangtan #kim taehyung x reader #taehyung x reader #bts royal au

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sherrybaby14 · 4 years

Text

Blue Spiders

A/N: This is chapter one in a series! I think it is going to be 3 parts, but if more is requested I do have an outline where I could take it to 10. (Updates on Thursdays)

Pairing: AU Psychiatrist Steve Rogers x Female Reader

Words: 3700

Summary: An interview with a charming doctor leads to more

Warnings: This chapter, mentions of violence and murder, alcohol. I HAVE NOT WARNED FOR EVERYTHING POSSIBLE. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Smoothing out your blazer and squaring your shoulders you rose your fist and knocked on the door.

It swung open, taking your breath away at the swiftness of the response. Your jaw dropped for a moment, but you shook the nerves away, always the professional. He was more gorgeous in person with blond hair and blue eyes. The All-American man.

“Dr. Rogers?” You asked.

“So I’ve been called.” He stepped to the side. “Please come in.”

Your eyes went up at the expanse of his office. It had a balcony going around the entire space, floor to ceiling in books. The main floor was open with a huge mahogany desk behind bright windows. There was a sitting area with two chairs, a couch, and a coffee table. On the wall hung a giant painting.

“Is that a Jackson Pollock?” You were surprised to see such a chaotic artist hung in a therapist’s office.

“I know it’s not the traditional calming image you would expect a doctor to hang, but I find it opens people up on the subconscious and allows my patients to see the beauty in madness.” His voice made the hairs on your body rise, so calm and collected.

“Are most of your patients mad?” You looked over your shoulder to see icy blue eyes taking in your face.

“We’re not here to discuss my patients Miss, that is private information.” He wagged a finger in your face before moving toward the sitting area. “I was very clear when I agreed to the interview.”

“Of course, Dr. Rogers.” You followed and sat down opposite him. “I am sure my editor went over the basics with you, but this is for a feature we do monthly on interesting people in the area. There is nothing to worry about, it is not investigative journalism, only a puff piece for our readers looking for human interest stories.”

“Yes, I am still uncertain why I was selected.” The man adjusted his tie that was tucked into a vest. He wore those clothes well. “I fear I am not that interesting.”

“You were instrumental in the capture of the Canary Killer.” You were shocked by his modesty. “The FBI has praised your work and referred to you as an essential asset even though you are not an agent. That alone makes you very fascinating.”

“The Canary Killer.” Dr. Rogers rolled his eyes. “I am not a fan of those nicknames. They devalue the lives of the victims, and criminals are not my expertise.”

“Do you mind?” You reached into your bag and pulled out a tape recorder. “I did not expect to start this soon.”

“Please.” He crossed his legs and his lips turned into a small smirk. “And tell me, why would your readers care about a murderer in Iowa? I am sure they are locally based.”

“Yes. We are out of Washington D.C., readership largely in Maryland and Virginia. The surrounding areas, but a killer like this facinates anyone regardless of region.” As his smile dropped you worried you were coming off too forward. “And, the focus of the piece is on you, not the killings. We want to know your background, your story. I am sure it is more exciting than you give yourself credit for.”

“Your dialect is strange.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I can’t quite place where you are from.”

“I moved around a lot as a child.” You looked away from his deep stare. “Is linguistics one of your hobbies? Would you like to expand on that?”

“It is fascinating. Almost as if you have no accent at all. Very unheard of. Tell me, are you trying to disguise your voice?” His teeth ran over his lip, sending a tremble down your spine.

“Doctor, I appreciate the question, but I don’t think I could afford your hourly rate.” You weren’t used to your subjects asking you many questions. “How about you? Where were you born? What drew you to therapy?”

“Right.” His smirk returned. “I was born abroad. My parents passed when I was twelve, I became responsible for my younger sister and believe it or not we snuck in illegally.”

The doctor’s comment on your accent threw you off, especially when he himself was born abroad but had no trace of one. He continued on with his life story and you barely had to ask a question. Everything about the man was fascinating.

“After my years in general surgery I discovered that most of my patients were more concerned with the mental effects and less with the recovery. I enjoyed helping them with any resulting depression or anxiety and realized my love for the blade was second to my love of the mind.” Dr. Rogers glanced toward the window. “People are fascinating and I want to help in any way I can.”

“That is very noble of you.” The jitters you had about his attractiveness were now dwarfed compared to the intensity of his wisdom and compassion. “I know we are running low on time. Is there any personal anecdote you want to include? Wife or kids? Dog?”

His smile brightened the room as he let out a laugh.

“Unfortunately my dedication to my work has left no time for any personal life.” He rose from his seat. “Though since this is a human interest piece, I would say my main hobbies are music and cooking.”

“Wow. Even your hobbies are impressive.” You followed his lead, grabbing your recorder and hitting stop. “You don’t have any unproductive time. Never lose yourself in a television show? Read a pulp novel?”

“I do not enjoy fiction much.” He shrugged. “What is the point when the real world is so interesting?”

“I never thought about it that way.” You smiled. “Thank you for your time. As a courtesy I will send over the article before it is published, not for your approval of course, but your awareness.”

“I am sure it will be as dull as me talking about myself has been.” He held a hand toward the door.

“That is a way to put it, especially since hearing you talk about yourself was the opposite of dull.” You couldn’t find the right words to say, but that did not stop you from speaking. “You see the world through a unique lens and have had very unique experiences. Almost as if, as a species, we are lucky to have you.”

You felt like you should cringe or apologize, but something about the man made you speak your mind.

“And you must be very good at your job, because I felt comfortable saying that to you and I am not even a patient.” You stopped at the door to his office.

The two of you faced each other, his hand went for the knob, but he paused.

“You are not my patient.” Dr. Roger’s eyes glanced over your face, then stopped at your own. The two of you stared at each other and you did not look away as a chill went down your spine, the intensity of the man.

He was about to speak again when a boom landed on the door. You jumped and put your hand to your heart, your adrenaline flaring.

“I’m sorry Dr. Rogers.” The door swung open and a familiar face walked in. “But I need to see you right away.”

The new guest’s voice trailed off as he spotted you. His face scrunched and a look of disgust came over.

“What are you doing here?” Blue eyes glared into your soul.

A smirk crossed your face as you folded your arms.

“Hello Agent Barnes, always a pleasure.” You should have figured he was a patient. “I am writing a human interest piece on Dr. Rogers.”

“You talked to her?” James looked to the doctor. “About me?”

“I didn’t mean to create more problems for you to discuss.” You bit back the urge to fire a crack about his narcissism. “Thank you again Doctor. I will send you the piece in the next week or so.”

You held out your hand and watched as the blonde man shook it with hesitation.

That deep intense stare was gone. Your heart deflated as you left the office, trying to hold your head high and shoulders square. It felt like he was going to ask you out on a date for a moment, one you would have gladly expected.

The cringe you were fighting came forward as you left the swanky office building. Agent Barnes interference or not it was a stupid fantasy. This man was too good for you.

Steve considered his ability to read people top notch. Even though he was the one speaking he spent the past hour studying the journalist and to say she was intriguing was an understatement.

In fact, he was interested enough he was on the verge of asking the woman to dinner.

Bucky’s apparent hatred toward the woman was not expected and Steve found himself mentally recapping the interview to see if he missed something.

Before he could assess the situation she stormed off. Her quip about Bucky being a patient was ruder than he found acceptable.

“You gave an interview to Miranda Balfour?” Bucky gripped his long dark hair as he walked into the office. “What were you thinking?”

“What?” Steve shut the door. “That was not her name.”

“Of course she gave you a fake name.” Bucky scoffed. “I hope you are prepared to have your reputation trashed. Did you think to, google whatever name she gave you?”

“I did and she checked out.” Steve's intrigue for the woman was turning to anger. “Now who are you claiming she is?”

“She is Miranda Balfour. She runs a murder blog, always posting sensational stories. She gave extensive coverage to the Canary Killer.” Bucky ran his hands over his face. “Nothing better than a gossip rag. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed her. She’s always lurking around any local crime scene. Trying to get pictures and interviews like she is a legitimate source. It is disgraceful.”

Steve could feel his body temperature start to rise. He thought about walking over to his desk and sweeping everything off, then taking an axe to the thing. He imagined the wood slowly turning into the face of Miranda Balfour as she took a whack to the head, splintering as easy as a tree stump.

“Well if I have been duped, it is nobody’s fault but my own.” Steve shut the door to his office. “What brings you by so urgently Buck?”

“The New England Butcher.” Bucky shook his head. “I stayed up late last night, going over every murder in the area that even remotely fit his MO.”

“There is one issue off the bat.” Steve took a seat in the chair, knowing Bucky preferred to pace while he spoke. “Lack of sleep.”

“Six murders in three years. Each gruesome in their own way. The randomness of the kills, the victims. It is like we were only able to string them together because he wanted us to.” Bucky stopped. “And that is what caught my attention. What about the ones he doesn’t want us to?”

Bucky sat down and dropped a file on the table. Steve was annoyed at the waste of paper when an email would have sufficed, but he indulged Bucky and picked up the file.

The first photo was of a dismembered man found in a ditch. Steve knew the date off the top of his head, July 2nd 2013. Blake Corenzo. He was a pig of a man.

“That is a murder from 2013. Blake Corenzo. He was stabbed and chopped post mortem.” James glared as Steve looked up, waiting for his punchline. “I think he was the Butcher’s first victim.”

Steve bit back a laugh with expertise.

“The brutality matches. But what was missing?” Steve was curious if the Agent was going to connect the dots.

“Nothing.” He sighed and pressed his hand to his forehead. “Or something we missed. But I have seven more bodies I believe are connected. We know that as killers go on they get lazier, think they are unwatchable, but the Butcher, he is different. We are not going to catch him on a technicality or sloppiness. He is too good.”

Steve did enjoy the flattery.

“We have to find his first kill. It always starts with someone they know. Always.” Bucky had a desperation to his voice.

“So you believe that this Blake Corenzo knew the Butcher?” Steve watched Bucky struggle to connect the dots, not realizing he was the fish on the hook in this game he was not even aware he was playing. “Have you told Anthony Stark?”

“Yes.” The air deflated out of Bucky as he fell back into the couch. “He told me mandatory session with you before I am cleared to return to work.”

“If I check my e-mail will there be one from him? Is that what it will say?” Steve appreciated the protectiveness Tony had for Bucky. In a way it was as if Stark saw Barnes’ brain as a fragile asset. One he was constantly concerned was about to break.

“It will say I can’t go back until you clear me.” Bucky tried to hide the humiliation.

A man in his 30s being controlled by his boss and therapist as if he were a child. Steve recognized something in Bucky, an equality almost. Because Tony Stark’s concern were not without merit. James Buchanan Barnes did have a brain that could operate like no other and if anyone were to catch the Butcher Steve was certain it was the Agent in front of him.

“You are obsessing again.” Steve crossed his legs. “It is not healthy. You are getting too involved. The Butcher hasn’t struck in three months and twice already this year. It’s likely he will not attack for some time. You are trying to create leads.”

“You sound like Tony.” Bucky scoffed and looked away. “When I sleep, I see their faces.”

“Whose faces?” Steve leaned in, unsure what Bucky was going to say next.

“The ones, the ones I didn’t save.” Tears glossed over Bucky’s eyes. “Not the ones who have already died. The ones who will if I don’t stop him. Their faces are blurry but they’re pleading with me.”

“People die every day. You cannot carry that guilt. It will destroy you.” Steve reached for his rx pad.

“I can’t help the people who die every day, but I can help these people. If I can stop the Butcher.” Bucky’s jaw tightened.

“You keep saying ‘I’ when it is a team effort. You are not a superhero. You cannot do this alone.” Steve wrote out a medication.

“I have to since none of you will listen to me. Not Tony, not you.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Even Natasha told me to give it a rest.”

“Maybe that says something.” Steve handed Bucky the prescription. “That will stop the dreams. Take one before bed and get some sleep.”

“And then what?” Bucky looked up, lips parted.

“And then come and see me in the morning. Once you are rested we will have a conversation about Blake Corenzo and I will talk to Mr. Stark.” Steve watched as relief flooded Bucky’s face.

“Thanks.” He looked at the prescription before shoving it in his pocket and letting out a yawn. “And sorry, for what I said earlier about Miranda. She won’t be able to tarnish your reputation.”

“I am aware. The most salacious detail I gave her is already public knowledge.” Steve rose. “I only regret my own error in judgment. Now get some sleep.”

Bucky nodded as they walked to the door. Steve kept his calm as he let the FBI Agent out.

Then he walked back to the table and picked up the file. He set out the photos of the four crime scenes Bucky wanted to tie to the Butcher.

“Very clever Agent Barnes.” All of them were done by Steve. In a way seeing the photos was like revisiting an old friend.

Corenzo was far from Steve’s first kill though. He had watched the man use a racial slur and a racist imitation at a dry cleaner. Another rude person the world did not need.

Steve flashed back to Miranda’s comment about the human race being lucky to have him. She was right of course, on more levels than she realized. He was purging the world of the disgusting people who did not belong.

After Agent Barnes’ proclamation Miranda Balfour’s name had landed on that list.

Steve was a patient man. He sometimes marked his victims for years before they met their demise.

When he got home, to what his visitor’s refered to as architectural magic, he went straight for the kitchen. It was on the level of any executive chef’s dream.

He would cook tonight. Channel his anger over the reporter, but not before adding her name to his list.

He went to the recipe drawer. It looked more like a filing cabinet, filled with Rolodexes of index cards with carefully printed ingredients and instructions. He had order them online since the entire world had gone digital.

On the rare occasion he had a guest they poked at his old fashioned nature. He remembered the first time he had Bucky over for dinner.

“You live in such a modern house, and appear a very modern man, but that recipe system reminds me of my grandmother.” Bucky laughed as he sipped his wine.

“And I bet your grandmother’s cooking was far superior to your own.” Steve raised as eyebrow as Bucky frowned.

The memory vanished as Steve pulled out the Rolodex he wanted. This one did not have recipes, it was for its original purpose, filled with business card collected over the years.

He grabbed one at random. Donna Chung. He closed his eyes and remembered her behavior, the way she was screaming at her child in the grocery store. The child could have been no more than three and was crying over not being able to drop a quarter in a donation box.

“You get nothing from that. Here I’ll buy you a candy bar instead.”

Steve followed her home that night. Googled the address and the next day walked into her real estate office. He picked up a business card and dropped her in his Rolodex. That was almost eighteen months ago.

She was not a candidate for a butcher murder. Besides, the day left Steve uninspired. But still he set her card to the side.

He picked up an empty one and wrote the name Miranda Balfour, along with the phony one she had given him and the contact e-mail. Then he closed up the Rolodex and put it back in its place.

Steve poured a glass of wine and walked over to his computer. He fired up the laptop.

Grabbing a remote he turned on the fireplace and some music as he sat on his overly plush blue sofa. Calm colors was what his interior designer recommended. He was grateful for that advice. She was someone who brought beauty to the world.

As soon as Steve typed Miranda Balfour into the search her blog popped up first thing. The title was “Miranda’s Macabre Museum”.

Steve rolled his eyes as he went to the first post. It was from two days ago.

Murder

Victim: Lawrence Engle

Death: Stab wounds

Date: April 12th, 1985

Location: Mobile, Alabama

What followed was a summary of the facts. Steve was expecting more of a tattle-tale type scenario. But he did not see anything salacious. If anything it was very matter-of-fact with little insight.

At the end there were links to photos with appropriate warnings and links to sources.

Then there was a section titled editorial.

“Here we go.” Steve readied to read the sordid opinion.

The motive in this murder was money. While the law, for the most part, disregards the motive as important to the trial my long time readers know I disagree. Until we change as a society and value human life over finances we will be doomed to see unnecessary killings as this continue to happen. That does not mean the killer should be pardoned for his crime because society as a whole is at fault. On the contrary. He is part of the problem and should be punished.

Sentence: Death by lethal injection.

“Interesting.” Steve found his mind going back to his initial opinion of Miranda or whatever her name was.

He noticed a search option on her blog and typed in his name. Several posts on Canary victims came up, but he found he was only mentioned in the source articles or the summary.

He did the same for Agent Barnes and saw the results light up. He scrolled the posts for the highlighted name and came across a murder from three years ago.

Editorial: The lead Agent on this case has shown textbook narcissism. His attempt to relate to the killer to solve the crime failed here, because the murder was not about him, but he found a way to make it so. The last victim’s death would have been preventable if Agent Barnes listened to anyone but himself.

“That explains Bucky’s dislike.” Steve shut the laptop and pinched his eyes shut.

When he googled the first name, multiple stories came up that were as she said human interest pieces. Did she lie just to get the interview? Pose as the other woman?

Lie. What difference did it make? She was a liar and had earned a spot in his Rolodex.

This one felt personal though. In a way Steve did not enjoy. She made him feel...comfortable. Or made him feel something. The way her eyes were so inquisitive and she seemed to hang on every work with genuine interest. When in fact he was intentionally trying to bore her.

That would not stand. This woman would not sit in the Rolodex for years. Her time would be shorter. Steve stood up from the couch and went back to the kitchen. He picked up Donna Chung’s card and returned it with the other, instead setting the card he’d just drafted on the counter.

He would start tomorrow.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate every like/comment/reblog! I haven’t done a series in a long time so I am excited! And if you didn’t figure it out this is....

Hannibal AU :).

#Steve rogers x reader #au steve rogers #steve rogers x you #fanfic #fanfiction #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction

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pearl-pilots-in-chains · 3 years

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Come to My Window (All the Little Lights #2)

Fandom: Neon Genesis Evangelion

Ships: Asurei

Rating: T

Summary: Rei doesn't like summers much. She usually ends up spending most of her time alone. One afternoon, an open window changes things. Meanwhile, Asuka's unpacking is going great . . . just great. She's just about had enough when she's distracted by the sound of a familiar song.

Notes: It's time for Asurei to Asurock! This is the second part of my All the Little Lights Evangelion high school AU. A slight warning, there's some content in this fic that might be offensive/triggering. I tried to avoid getting too graphic or dark, but there are some clear depictions of depression and bullying, as well as allusions to familial issues. I just wanted to make sure I put a bit of a disclaimer. That being said, I think those parts are important to Rei's character, so I didn't want to leave them out.

The first song Asuka recognizes Rei playing in this fic is "Always With Me, Always With You," by Joe Satriani, and the band shirt Asuka is wearing in this fic is based on the art to the album "Karmacode" by Lacuna Coil.

This was originally posted to my AO3 on May 25, 2020. Hope you enjoy!

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Rei slumped down into the chair, letting her head fall back, her gaze tilting upward, until she was scrutinizing the ceiling. The faux-sky formed on it looked down on her, the painted stars flares of cream and flame that sliced out of the navy base. She thought it was a nice view. It had the power to draw her back, pulling away years to reach innocent memories. She could recall when the sky was first cast onto her ceiling. It had been her father’s idea, and it was his hand that brought it to life. She remembered watching him from her bed, sitting on top of the plastic wrap they had laid down, crinkling the glossy tarp between her fingers. It half-seemed to be a fragment of another world, a remnant of a different life. Now, the mural served as the sole reminder that her father’s presence had once filled her room.

She had thought about asking Shinji to help her paint over the false sky. She knew there was a can of paint in the garage that could match the ceiling’s original shade well enough. She could return it all to a blank canvas. Erase the constellations, fill the vacuum with blinding light. And yet, she never asked. She wasn’t sure Shinji would be willing to help if the request was made. There was a picture on top of his bookcase. It wasn’t in the front. Its frame stood behind one that displayed Shinji and Toji after a track meet, celebrating their respective performances. But it was still there, half in hiding, half revealed. She knew the day it had been taken. December 24, 2000. On the eve of their last Christmas as a quartet. Her memories of that day were nebulous, lost to the childhood haze that the painting day had managed to emerge from. The picture spoke enough to make up for the lack of recollections though.

Her mother was holding Rei in her lap. Rei was looking away from the camera, down at the floor. She looked far wiser, far sadder that a child should. She looked as though she knew too much. Yui was looking up towards the camera, a smile plastered on her face that failed to hide its fraudulent nature. It was took curved, too hooked, too forced. The eyes told the truth. Distant, worried, ashamed. Shinji was sitting by Gendo. He was trying to imitate his father, pressing his face into an amalgamation of the mask the adult wore. It was a shoddy disguise though, as his lips looked seconds away from tremble, and there was water in the corner of his eyes. Gendo wore the true mask. His gaze bored directly into the lens’s eye, staring it down, as though he was willing the time to work correctly through sheer willpower and determination alone. Or, perhaps he was merely compensating. The tinted glasses he normally sported were nowhere to be seen, which left his eyes naked, exposed, without a shield to fume behind. It was possible that the tight, angry smile which ripped through his lips and the needling glare in his iris were designed to make up for this. They had the opposite effect, however. Whereas his traditional spectacles contained and concealed some degree of his emotions, his posturing revealed the true extent of them. His spite, his wrath, his pride, all laid bare.

As a general rule, Rei didn’t keep photos in the same way her brother did. He had a greater appreciation for the physical mementos, the tangible preservation of a moment for posterity. Rei treasured the fleeting nature of seconds, minutes, days. The ephemeral essence of life. The truth that nothing was everlasting, nothing endured. Consequently, there were three pictures in her room. One of her standing by the front door, the day before her first day of elementary school. She looked brave in it. It wasn’t just a front, Rei realized. She had felt brave that day. Time had taught her, however, that there was a thin line between bravery and foolishness.

The second picture showed Shinji and Rei, mouths broken in laughter, dancing through the backyard, Shinji lunging out in an attempt to tap her shoulders. They had been playing hide-and-go-tag, as they referred to it, and he had found her secret spot behind the rose garden. Yui had snapped the shot the moment before Shinji discovered that his sister was faster than he had anticipated, and had ended up face down in the grass after his ill-fated leap.

The last picture was the newest of the three, though now passing the age of six years, another family photo. This one was dated August 16, 2005. The smiles were more genuine, even if they looked more worn. Gendo was over four years absent.

Shinji visited his father. He had since second grade. Sometimes once every other weekend, sometimes once a month, depending on how their schedules worked out. Rei never visited. She hadn’t seen Gendo in person in a decade. She was perfectly fine with her only memories of him being mostly vague, indefinite impressions of youth. They were painful enough as they were. She didn’t want to imagine having concrete memories.

Yui had never made either of them visit him. She never would. She understood while Rei chose not. If anything, she understood better than Rei herself. Rei was truthful unsure why Shinji chose to go. Perhaps out of guilt, perhaps out of regret, perhaps out of pity, perhaps some combination of the three. Whatever it was, Shinji chose to see his father, and Rei chose not to ask her brother to help remove the last physical trace of their father from her space.

Even beyond Shinji though, Rei felt a reluctance to erase the ceiling, to restore it to its first form. Her mind shied away from the choice, became anxious, and fell silent. Rei knew far, far too much about anxious silences.

She was the “Silent Ikari,” after all. That was one of the names which had been ascribed to her. One of the kinder ones, really. She was never called them to her face, of course. Not that people said much of anything to her face. She supposed that it might be out of respect for her brother, the Ikari most people liked. But they still spoke, in voices loud enough and near enough for her to make their ‘observations’ out. Maybe they thought she was as deaf as she seemed mute. Maybe they just didn’t care if she heard. After all, they could reason that she had no real ‘excuse’ for being withdrawn, closed-off, that ‘emo girl in the corner.’ She just thought she was ‘too good for them.’ The genius who was smart enough to have skipped a grade, who could probably skip another, but ‘just didn’t feel like it.’ The one who all the teachers thought was practically perfect, even if they worried she was ‘a little on the quiet side.’ The one who had a friendly, and moderately popular brother, but was herself too ‘stuck up’ to even bother talking with anyone. And if they didn’t play up that she was cold and arrogant, they played up that something was wrong with her. That she ‘wasn’t all there,’ or had never figured out ‘how to be a human.’ There were words that stung even more, especially when she was younger, when she learned what they meant, but she preferred not to reiterate them in her mind. She didn’t need to give the speakers that power, that lasting blow. All the same, a memory crept into her head unbidden.

It was one of the first times she had sat away from Shinji and his friends. She had felt like a burden to her brother, and she had been tired of always hanging on to him, even if he had never minded. Even if he had wanted nothing more than to make sure she was okay. He was smart enough to know her reputation, even if people avoided saying things in front of him. He had gotten into a fight, a real fight, with someone who he had called a friend before it, over a passing comment the friend had made about Rei when he thought Shinji wasn’t paying attention. After that, Rei had decided to give her brother space. She didn’t want to be the weight that he felt bound by. She didn’t want to be the shadow that he felt as though he had to protect. He hadn’t been happy about it, but he had understood and agreed when she had talked to him. If there was one undeniable fact about her brother, it was that he always did his best to empathize, even when it was clearly difficult for him.

She had picked out a table along the fringe of the room to sit at. Somewhere out of the way, to avoid unwanted attention. She hadn’t wanted to be alone. She never had. But by then, it had seemed too late to change the perception of the faces she saw. The disregard, the amusement, the disgust. They had seemed immutable. And so, she hadn’t tried. She had done her best to be invisible. Because it was easier than fighting against a tide than felt overwhelming. She was too afraid of drowning to do otherwise.

She had heard the boy’s conversation with his friends before he approached her. Her hearing had always been above average, and when you heard your name spoken in first cautious, and then careless, tones behind your back, you got used to honing in on it. There had been a dare. A bet as to whether or not he could get a date with the ‘broken girl.’ They had all been at the age where suddenly, exploring previous unknown urges and interests seemed of the upmost importance. Well, most of them had been. She hadn’t. She still wasn’t. Not in the same way, anyhow, or to the same degree. At least, she didn’t think so. They spoke of crushes, and flirting, and love, and sex, like objects on fire, that burned the skin when they were handled, but were worth the flame. She thought of them in muted terms, as though she was touching the same once-scorching objects, but after they had passed beneath a waterfall, the flames all-but vanquished, only the occasional ember remaining. They were safer to hold, to handle, but the appeal, the allure in the danger, was gone, their extinguished state irrevocable.

His stance had been casual as he walked over, but there was a cruel, cocksure glint in his eye. His tone betrayed just what he thought of her, and what he thought of himself. She was an object, a means to an end (the money involved in the bet), and that was all. He was the lad who was going to win the bet, and she should feel lucky to be used for that purpose.

“Hey.” His tone had dripped smooth self-importance, self-exaggeration. “I’m Maximilian.” He had used his full name, not the Max he went by, as though he could make her persuade by the sheer power of possessing what he no doubt thought was an ‘exotic’ name.

“Hello.” Her reply had been quiet, not really timid, though it could have been mistaken for such. Any who had been less caught up in himself would have recognized that it instead bespoke that she had no interest in talking to him, was aware of what he was doing, and want no part of it.

“I’m going to sit here.” It hadn’t been a question, hadn’t been a request, had been a statement, had almost been a command. A command to accept the fact that she was in his presence, and should treat him with the respect his conceited conscience told him he deserved.

She hadn’t said anything in response to that at first. He had taken that as the acceptance he desired, and taken the seat across from her. “So, you’re Rei, right?” The tone was aggressive, as though he was going to dismiss whatever she said, because he was certain he knew who she was. She had imagined that if she said, simply to deny him, he would have ignored it and preceded ahead as though she had said ‘yes.’ He had been the type of boy who could go either one of two ways. On one hand, he could cross too hard of a line earlier enough that he still had a chance to learn how to be something better. On the other hand, he could grow up to be a man who refused to acknowledge refusals, because he felt he has the right to what he wants. The worst kind of person, Rei thought. The kind who thought that others very selves were second to their own desires. Rei wasn’t sure which path he had ended up taking, but she was very glad that they had gone to different high schools, although she felt bad for whoever ended up being the target of his interests there.

Instead of saying ’no,’ or merely staying silent, Rei had cut to the chase. “I don’t want to go out with you. Please leave me alone.”

This had thrown him for a loop. That much had been clear. He had expected her to at least hear him out. His opinion of himself was high enough that he hadn’t even considered outright disregard, the very same treatment he had intended to give her. The result of course, had been that he had become angry. Furious, really, she imagined, though his sheer pride kept him from making a scene, considering he cared too much for his image as the ‘cool guy.’ Instead, he had leaned in, breaking into her bubble, to spit the words in her face. “You don’t know what you’re missing, stupid bitch. It’s not like anyone ever going to ask out a freak like you. The most attention you’ll ever get will be from some white coat in a psych ward.”

She hadn’t flinched. She had known that it would be her downfall if she did. That breaking was what he wanted, her visible suffering was what he was craving in that moment. He had realized she wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction after a few seconds, and strolled off, still cocky, but surely fuming internally over the fact that he hadn’t managed to get a reaction out of her. Not a twitch in her lips, a blink in her eyes, something to show that she was shattering beneath the calm exterior. Not that she wasn’t. She just knew how to delay the collapse. It had happened later that day, in the safety and solitude of her room, a silent sort of disintegration. No tears, no screams. Just a widening hollow feeling that consumed her from the pit of her stomach, reaching up into her chest cavity, groping at her lungs, sucking the air into, folding her in on herself until she felt small enough to simply stop existing altogether. It wasn’t an uncommon experience in those days. Before she learned how to grow numb to the words, numb to the spite. That came later though. You had to experience enough pain, enough cover crumbling, to learn how to ignore the barbs that brought it on.

She had never told her brother about that particular incident. She hadn’t wanted him to start another fight on her account. She wasn’t sure if he had ever found out. She guessed it was likely he had, although she wasn’t sure what he had done about it (though she thought it was probable he had done something).

The abuse had never been physical, never public, rarely direct. There had been no retaliation for that incident either. She supposed on all accounts that it was because people were afraid of what her brother might do. Or perhaps not her brother, but more accurately, her brother’s friends. She liked them for the most part. The track team members her brother was close to were an anomaly, in that they were some of few decent people she had ever met in the schools she had attended. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. Knowing that she didn’t have to worry about making her brother choose between his sister and his friends. At least not anymore. He had discarded the ones that had tried to sway him away from the familial choice. She supposed then, that he had already made his decision. She felt guilty for that. She felt guilty often, when it came to her brother, and what she perceived as the difficulties she brought into his life. She knew how much he worried for her. Worried that she was afraid, worried that she was hurting, worried that was lonely.

The most painful part of the guilt was knowing the her brother’s fears weren’t altogether unfounded. No, she supposed, they weren’t unfounded at all. She would characterize her feelings as more anxious than afraid, but the other two concerns she knew he held were accurate. The latter led to the former, in a way. She had discovered there was nothing quite like the feeling of isolation, of division from others, to exacerbate preexisting pain. To make it metastasize, grow into something greater than itself. Seclusion bred sorrowful things when it revealed what was latent.

She had never had her brother’s power with people. He had a natural sort of charisma about him, as awkward as he could be at times. He seemed to draw people to him. More important though, words came easy to him. He could carry a conversation when it dashed against rocks, and somehow bring it out to the far side relatively unscathed. Whether it was a matter of skill, or a matter of luck, social things seemed to turn out positive rather than negative for him more often than not.

Words had never come easy to her. Not when she was talking to someone other than her mother or her brother. She could read cues, interpret signs, and understand context well enough, but there was somehow a disconnect when it came to putting all of that into play when encoding something herself. Ironically, and perhaps appropriately, she couldn’t articulate why. She only knew that it made everything harder. That the persona she conveyed caused people to say she was ‘cold,’ or ‘dead,’ or ‘inhuman.’ Those her knew her well knew this wasn’t the case, but aside from her family, the only people who fell into that category were Shinji’s closest friends, who had spent enough time with him, and by extension, with Rei when she was around, that they read her demeanor differently. She didn’t really have friends of her own, she knew that much. It had been that way since she was a child. She had worried her teachers in kindergarten by the fact that she seemed to turn away all the kids who tried to connect with her. This hadn’t changed, and by the time she headed to junior high, no one tried anymore. The teachers had kept worrying of course, but as she got older, this worry had been offset by their satisfaction and appreciation of her academic performance; apparently, at the end of the day, even elementary school teachers cared more about a child’s grades than her ability to fit into classroom society.

She hadn’t understood it then. Hadn’t understood why her responses, her reactions shut others down. It was only after hearing the covert comments too many times that she had realized what other people thought of her. And by then, the road to remake her reputation had seemed entirely too insurmountable.

That perspective had resulted in her leading a life that was half-spent in sequestration. The silver lining to that, of which she constantly reminded herself, was that she had devoted plenty of time to pursuing her passions, even if it was at a solo capacity. The filled bookcases in her room were one testament to that. The filled folders on her laptop were another, and the guitar resting in its stand by her desk was a third. The lack of company had done wonders for her creativity, she supposed. Was it a worthy exchange though? That was all in the eye of the beholder.

Pulling her gaze away from the ceiling, Rei brought it to rest on the guitar sitting by the desk. The chrome elements of Stratocaster-imitation form glistened in the sunlight from the window above her desk, opened to let the breeze flow in (a partially successful attempt to offset the heat without resorting to blasting the AC, because Rei preferred a more natural solution). She knew it would be at the earliest, four hours before her brother made it home. His shifts had been extended recently, on account of another employee quitting. And of course, her mother wouldn’t be home for at least another hour after that, a timetable that had become the new normal over the past several months. There wasn’t much for her to do in the meantime. Shinji was officially the house chef, because he argued that it was a way for him to ‘destress,’ which was his way of saying that cooking was one of his favorite pastimes, and that he didn’t want anyone else in the kitchen, which he had unofficially declared his ‘dignified domain’ in one of his more emphatic (and comedic) moments.

Rei didn’t particularly like summers, primarily because of how empty they often ended up feeling. This summer had been particularly forlorn one, as with her brother spending nearly all of his time either working or in the company of his new friend Kaworu (she suspected that the her brother and the ashen-hair boy would be dating soon, not that she resented Kaworu; from the two brief interactions she had had with him, he seemed quite nice actually), she had been left to her own devices for days on end. At this point, her routines, as much as she appreciated them, had begun to feel somewhat monotonous. She had taken to browsing blogs lately, in search of a new potentially hobby she could try out to add some diversity to her day, but so far, she hadn’t had much lucky finding anything that she had gravitated toward with any great enthusiasm. She had briefly considered trying out her hand at archery, before swiftly coming to the conclusion that as enticing as her visions of Legolasesque prowess were, the actual effort that would undoubtedly be required to achieve any degree of proficiency wasn’t something she quite felt up to. The fact that even if she did manage to become a competent archer, her chances of being able to skate down a staircase atop a shield would most likely remain negligible was also a bit of a buzzkill. And so, at least for the moment, her current hobbies would have to suffice. She decided that tomorrow, she would take a walk down to Off the Shelf! If she was going to stick with what she knew, it wouldn’t hurt to at least get some new reading material. Well, new to her anyway.

With a barely audible sigh proceeding from her lips, Rei pushed herself up and out of her chair, and left the corner of the room, strolling over to her desk lackadaisically. She retrieved her guitar from its stand and plugged it into her practice amp, positioned alongside the desk. Flipping the amp on and turning the volume to a decent level, satisfied with her other levels. She then set herself down in her desk chair and rolled her volume knob up. She paused for a few seconds, thinking of a good song selection. After a moment, she made her decision.

The first palm muted notes sprung out from the guitar as she picked through the intro, before launching into the melody itself, the pensive tone pervading the room. She allowed the traces of a smile to steal onto her face. It was a beautiful song. One which promise never to leave, never to vanish. One whose titled she liked to think vowed to be with her always. It was a piece she was content to return to. That always seemed to make her day a little less lonely.

Perhaps then, the particular events brought about by her playing that afternoon could only be considered highly appropriate. If one was to take this view, then perhaps it could be called an act of fate, rather than a mere coincidence, that Rei did not think to close her window before she started playing on that particular occasion, something which she habitually did, half out of shyness and doubt of her own talent (unfounded doubt, of course, as anyone who had heard her play could attest to), and part out of respect for her the elderly couple who lived next door, whom she suspected were probably not fans of some of the more ‘enthusiastic’ music she played (which was to say, progressive metal). It would, however, be unfair to Rei to blame her for failing to realize that the elderly couple had moved across the country several months before to live closer to their family. It wasn’t as if she interacted with them frequently, or in fact, paid much attention to them at all. They had kept to themselves, something which she also did. On the other hand, a better case could be made to label Rei a bit on the oblivious side for not noticing the new neighbors who had moved in several days before. That had been a bit more of an affair, though not one which either Yui or Shinji could have been aware of, considering it occurred during the day while they were both absent. Rei, on the other hand, had no such excuse. Her excuse would be, if one were to ask her for it, was that she had been particularly engrossed in rereading one of her favorite books on that specific day, which was in fact true. All the same, it meant that she was unaware of her new neighbors. And furthermore, unaware that one of them would soon hear her playing. And of course, logically, this also meant she was unaware that her life was about to change. However, a lack of awareness rarely averts something from happening, and it certainly did not in this case.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Asuka glared down at the figurine in her hands, scowling. “Dammit,” she grumbled to herself, pulling away the now-severed head from the body of the dragon, and inspecting the jagged break. She spared a glance at the unraveled square of bubble wrap in the box below. “Well that’s just great.” With a sigh and a shake of her head, she set the broken figurine down on top of the bookcase. “I’ll have to fix you later. Gotta ask Misato if we have any glue, or if it’s lost in one of the boxes out in the garage.” She scowled, and turned back to sorting through the contents of the box. She extracted two more figurines from her their bubble wrap entombments, and was pleased to see that her cobra and sorceress were both still intact. Setting them on the shelf beside the beheaded dragon, she grab one of the discarded pieces of bubble wrap and held it up to the light coming through her window. “I guess you didn’t totally fail,” she remarked dryly, before crumpling the strip in her hand and listening to the series of satisfying pops that occurred as a result.

Tossing the now-pointless piece of plastic into the trash bin by her door, she set her hands on her hips and surveyed the pile of boxes that had yet to be unpacked, a hoard still big enough to lay claim to an entire corner of the room with a vengeance. What next? She ran her eyes over the bare walls of the room, finding the off-white coloration unappealing, to say the least. When was this designed? The 80s? Posters it is.

While she now had a goal in mind for the next step in her unboxing/room design (she preferred the latter description, because it sounded more dignified in her mind, and didn’t serve as quite the same reminder that she had just moved, but in all reality, the former was the more accurate description), finding the objects she needed to accomplish that goal was easier said than done. Opening yet another box, and discovering once again that the objects of her intentions were not within (said box instead contained several stacks of CDs, relics of a time before MP3s were the absolute norm), she set it atop the growing pile of boxes that had failed to contain her quarry, with a derisive glance at the blurred face of Avril Lavigne that stared back at her from within. “Why do I even still have you?,” she muttered as she folded the lid back over. And more importantly, why the hell didn’t we label more of these? I blame Kaji. Because yeah, the person who basically didn’t pack up any of my stuff is to blame for why I didn’t label it. Right.

With a roll of her eyes (mostly directed at herself, if she was being honest), she grabbed one more box from the trove. If they’re not in here, I’m taking a break. This is so stupid. As she opened this particular box, she was at that point not surprised to find that rather than the posters she sought, it instead contained two tight rows of game cases. Well, at least I found something decent. Box in hand, she made for the living room. I’m pretty sure Misato left the bottom shelf of the tv stand empty for these.

She was partway through the process of shelving the games when she felt her pocket vibrate. Pausing her activity, she pulled out her phone and looked over the text that had just arrived.

Tiffany H: How’s day four of the move-in going?

Asuka considered the question for a moment, before writing her response.

Asuka R: About as well as the first three lol.

Asuka R: As in, tedious

Asuka R: How’s life in Terahburg?

Tiffany H: Oh, fun. Same as always, tbh.

Asuka R: Aww, and here I thought you’d be sweet and say it was boring without me or something ;)

Tiffany H: Oh, I mean, you’re right! Whatever will we do? Life’s lost all purpose now that you’re gone xD

Asuka R: Now that’s more like it!

Tiffany H: We’re all lost without you Asuka! We’ll never see the light again without you!

Asuka R: And don’t you forget it!

Tiffany H: In fact, the entire town might perish out of sheer sorrow! Our lives our meaningless now!

Asuka R: Okay, that might be a bit of a stretch. . .

Tiffany H: Ya think? Lol

Asuka R: Hey, don’t stop on my account!

Tiffany H: I’m running out of material here *shrugs*

Asuka R: And here I thought you were a true thespian!

Tiffany H: Yeah, but talking about you gets boring after a while. ;)

Asuka R: I’m hurt. Deeply hurt. *turns nose up*

Tiffany H: There, there, you’ll survive. Just don’t drink the Asherdale kool-aid and forget we exist. Lol

Asuka R: Asherdale kool-aid? Seriously?

Tiffany H: Like I said, I’m running out of material here. Don’t @ me.

Asuka R: Uh huh

Asuka R: Right

Tiffany H: So, what’s the ‘dale like? We got any competition?

Asuka R: I’ll let you know when I figure out what the ’the ‘dale’ is

Tiffany H: Ur 1mp0ssebl3

Asuka R: My eyes are scarred now, thx

Tiffany H: You deserved it. So, what’s the ‘dale like?

Asuka R: Best adjective = boring

Tiffany H: RIP

Asuka R: No competition so far, so you don’t need to worry. The best they have going for them is an

arcade.

Tiffany H: An arcade?

Asuka R: Yeah, I saw it when we were getting into town. Looked it up, it’s some sort of retro deal.

Tiffany H: Retro arcades? Is that a thing now?

Asuka R: Apparently it is in the northwest.

Tiffany H: Whelp, sounds great

Asuka R: Oh yeah, fr

Tiffany H: Well, enjoy ur arcade. I gtg get ready for work.

Asuka R: Ok, say hi to Amanda for me!

Tiffany H: Will do! Ttyl!

When she had finished shelving the games, Asuka made her way back to her room, a determined glint in her eyes (not an unusual expression for her). Alright, now it’s poster time! I don’t care if I have to go through every damn box in that corner, I am finding them! I’m not going to let an outdated 80s color palate get the best of me! And plus, her mind added as an afterthought, Once they’re up, maybe it’ll actually start feeling a little more like my room. And less like someone else’s room, that I’m just staying in. A frown briefly crossed her face, but she tossed it away, steeling her mouth into a resolute line.

Approximately forty-five minutes later, the stack of boxes was no longer a stack, but instead a small pond spread across half of the room. Asuka, meanwhile, was red in the face, and looked as though she was a few steps away from steam vents cartoonishly bursting out of her ears. One final, unopened box sat in the corner, the last remnant of the toppled tower. She knelt by it, her face spelling murder, and began to cut through the tape with her pocket knife. . .

“Verdammt, wo sind sie?! Das ist lächerlich!” (Dammit, where are they?! This is ridiculous!)

She punched floor next to her, gritting her teeth as she looked down at the contents of the last box, namely a set of drum skins, and her stick bag. Still glowering, she removed these items and headed to the spare room. Might as well put these with my kit anyway. She couldn’t deny that one positive of this house was the presence of the extra bedroom, which meant that her designated practice space was no longer a garage. That was definitely a positive. Even if it one of the only ones so far.

Setting the sticks down by her stool and the drum skins alongside her drum cases in the corner, she looked over at the kit with a degree of temptation in her eyes. I should probably at least try to finish unpacking, now that I covered my entire room. But . . . I mean, it could help me calm down. And ignore the fact that we probably forgot the box with my posters somewhere. Walking over, she took her seat behind the kit and grabbed a couple sticks from the sling that hung off the floor tom. Just something to blow off steam. I don’t need to practice a song or anything. She was about to count herself off (out of habit rather than necessity, really), when an adventitious sound reached her ears. She blinked, pausing. That sounds . . . oddly like “Always With Me, Always With You.” She looked around, searching for the source of the faint guitar playing she had picked up. Her eyes locked in on the window behind her, which until that moment, she hadn’t noticed was partially open. Rising from her seat and dropping her sticks back into the sling bag, she walked over to the window and looked out.

This particular window looked down on the strip of the yard which ran alongside the building, and faced the house next door. She couldn’t be certain, but it sounded to her as though the music was coming out of one the windows of that house, which also happened to be opened. Her interest piqued, she decidedly to get a closer look. She headed for the stairs.

Emerging out into the backyard, she made for the wall that marked the border between her family’s yard, and the neighbor’s property. It wasn’t much of a wall, really. It only reached slightly higher than her midriff. She looked down at it skeptically. Well, I could practically step over this is if I wanted to. Guess they’re not too worried about trespassing.

Outside and closer to the guitar playing which floated out into the air, it was relatively easy to determine that its source was indeed the window she had identified earlier. Glancing up toward said window now, Asuka pursed her lips, faced with a bit of a decision. One one hand, she could forget about it and head back inside. She had determined the location of the unseen guitarist, and considering he or she was her neighbor, it seemed like there was a decent chance she’d be able to find out who the guitarist was eventually. On the other hand, going back in and continuing with her unpacking wasn’t the most enticing of options. In the end, she chose the path that let her procrastinate on facing her bedroom’s recently introduced ground cover.

Climbing up over the half-wall, she jumped down into the neighbors’ yard. She decided that if she ran in to any sort of trouble, or said neighbors turned out to be less than thrilled by her trespassing, she could book it back to her house with relative ease. It wasn’t as if the wall would provide any significant barrier. Plus, it’s not as though I’m going to try to break into their house or anything. I mean, I’m going to go ring the doorbell. Though I suppose I could have just gone out to the street from my house and gone over that way. Oh well. This’ll be fine.

Still listening to the solo (which, as she heard more of it and paid greater attention, she had to admit sounded quite good) rolling down from the open window, Asuka walked up along the side of the house, and curved around to the front until she found herself standing directly in front of the door. Alright, here we go. Plan ‘avoid unpacking’ #1, activate! Reaching up, she pressed in the doorbell and waited. She heard a bell-toweresque recording play from somewhere close by the door inside in response to the ring. That’s an interesting choice for a doorbell. Sounds sort of like an antique clock. That might not be a good sign . . . I can’t imagine anyone under the age of fifty using that for their doorbell. Oh well. If it turns out the guitarist is a retiree or something, I can always still act polite or something, say I thought his or her playing sounded pretty good, and then bail. Simple enough.

Asuka waited for a good thirty seconds, wondering if someone was going to come to the door. After a few more moments, she decided that the answer to that question was probably a definitive ‘no.’ Hmm . . . now the question is, do I ring the doorbell again? Or do I just head back home? On one hand, they might have heard it and just don’t want to answer, and in that case, I don’t want to be the jerk who can’t take a hint. On the other hand, maybe they just didn’t hear it the first time. That’s a possibility too. Which means it might not hurt to wring it again. Asuka pulled out her phone and looked down at the clock on the lock screening, waiting for it to change. I’ll give them another minute. If no one comes by then, I’ll ring it one more time. And if no one shows up after that too, I’ll head back to my place.

Watching the digits on the screen, Asuka gave a small nod to herself as the moment passed. She reached forward and gave the doorbell a final ring. Once again, she heard the recording play from within the house. You know, I think I’d get pretty tired of that if it was my doorbell. Just imagine what that would be like if someone tried to prank you by ringing it repeatedly. That would get real annoying, real quick.

After another solid twenty seconds or so, Asuka came to the conclusion that no one was coming to the door. Shrugging, she turned and headed back out toward the sidewalk, content to make her way home. Well, I tried. Guess I’ll find out who the guitarist is another day. Unboxing time it is then. Lovely. However, as she turned away from the path up to the door and angled herself back toward her resident, she heard the faint sound of the guitar carrying out from alongside the house. This time, however, it was a different song. She paused, narrowing her eyes in focus as she searched for the title. Oh, come on, I know I know this one. It’s not Satriani though . . . I don’t think it’s Vai either. Dammit, who is it? She shook her head, disgruntled with the fact that she couldn’t place the tune. Fantastic. Now that’s going to be stuck in my head and bugging me for the rest of the day. Presque vu sucks like that. It was at that instant that another thought snuck into her mind. The guitarist could be the only person home. That would explain why no one came to the door. If they’re practicing, they might have earbuds in or headphones on, which would mean they couldn’t hear me. So, I’d have to get their attention with something else. And their window is open . . .

Asuka practically sprinted the short distance back to her house, a confident grin across her face. When she finally emerged from the back door roughly five minutes later, she was glad to hear that the mysterious musician was still playing. Once again, the guitarist had moved on to a new song. This one, however, Asuka recognized. “Tender Surrender,” she murmured. “Not a bad choice.” At this point, Asuka was almost certain that whoever was playing was probably a good bit older than her. I mean, seriously, Steve Vai hasn’t been big since the nineties. At least, I don’t think so. I mean, I only know him because of Kaji, so that definitely says something. But hey, I’m not a guitarist though, so who knows? Maybe they still adore him or something. All the same, her desire to avoid completing (or at the very least, returning to) her unpacking process outweighed her potential concerns. Plus, her new plan kept her even further away from the person whose attention she was trying to get. Which meant that if they didn’t care for her methods, she could be long gone before they could do much about it. The logic of her strategy was moderately convincing, if she did say so herself, even if it was purely designed to give her a somewhat rational justification to her better judgment for her own procrastination.

Pulling herself up and over the sad excuse for a dividing wall, Asuka found herself in the as-of-yet-nameless neighbors’ yard once again. She strolled over a little closer to the house, positioning herself so that she was in a direct line with the open window. I have to say, this is one way I never expected that year I pitched for the softball team in middle school to come in handy. She looked down at the construction in her hand, the centerpiece of her quickly-concocted scheme. Guess all of that packing newspaper might turn out to have a second purpose too. Hopefully it’ll do better at this than it did at keeping Misato’s shot glass collection intact. With a chuckle to herself, Asuka rolled her arm back, lifting the paper airplane into the air, and let it fly toward her target. It soared upward, its arc accurate, and slipped straight through the open window, disappearing from her view.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rei was nearing the close of the song. Her plectrum had been relegated to a secondary position, pinched between her pinky and ring fingers, to keep it from obstructing her fingerpicking. Only the pads of her skin now met the coils of steel, coaxing melody from the taut metal. Though the piece was not an anthemic one at any point, never attaining any great summit or volume in its course, it had still diminished from its peak, drifting back into itself as the notes grew more wavering, less forceful. They now resembled soft, intermittent tears intermingled with trembling gasps, though whether these expressions were borne out of sorrow or ecstasy was a mystery offered up to the beholder’s mind for judgement.

In her mind, Rei could hear, could feel the presence of the band about her. Every feature, each individual auditory fragment of the track came to her as she moved her fingers, by memory rather than sight. She listened as the band’s accompaniment slowly gave way, dissolving into pleasant stillness, sending its light and focus toward the guitar’s shuddering cry, until it was the only sound left to fill the emptiness, in soundscape both physical and mental. But fill this space it did nonetheless, each caressed, drawn note wandering through the fold’s of her shut eyes, dancing over the defined, stringent edges of her desk and shaving them down into something smoother, unbroken, winding. Blurring the room she half-saw through the image she conceived, transfiguring the elements of the space to abstraction, melting the absolute and the tangible into the fantastical, the speculative.

As she glided into the final phrase, she slowed even further, elongating the notes, letting their voices sing louder than her conducting digits. She had led the song to its conclusion, she let the song itself lead what was left. It extended, sweeping over the growing seconds, echoing as it reiterated, reprising and refusing to fade. Rei followed the draw, her fingers seemingly moving of a will other than her own, glad assistants in the art. At last, the final reverberation arrived, pleading, yet peaceful. There were seven notes left, which dwindled to six, and from there it faded to five, a receding handful.

The fifth note was about to declare its presence when the moment was broken. Something struck Rei’s forehead, fracturing her concentration and dream state alike to shards. Her fingers fell from their unconscious ballet, the necessary pressure absent. The string buzzed against the fret before it died an abrupt dead, cut off by its impact against her lax digit. The song was stripped into nothing, the ending cumbersome and unheeding, true closer beyond its grasp. Rei’s eyes tore open as her hand plunged away from the neck, dropping limp to her side as she stared sightlessly at the desk before her, her blank visage betraying no hint of her acute bemusement.

Rei dropped her pick onto the top of the desk, and lifted the instrument from her lap, returning it to its stand once more. Slanting her head downward, she reached out and retrieved the ostensibly offending object from the floor by her feet. Lifting it into her lap, she rotated it around in her grasp for a few moments, examining the shaped newsprint, complied into a new structure, a form capable of flight synthesized from ink and pulped fibers. Adjacent to weightless, an insubstantial avian, an artificial imitation. Its name was derived from bellowing metallic brutes that claimed the skies as their domain, raging turbines thrumming, incensed engines clamoring, the bellow of war on their wings and a cold caterwaul in their grinding wheels as they wrenched away from the ground and took their place in the belly of the beast. Such a marked difference, an undeniable dichotomy, between this tenuous newspaper lark and those titanium pterosaurs that prowled the clouds at humanity’s behest. To think that both such beings were constructed and christened by the same species was a perplexing, confounding concept, one which spoke to the multitudinous nature of sentience. It could give attention no less assiduous than the sedulous scrutiny bestowed upon the architecture of alleged advancement to the most minute of pursuits. The value of each undertaking determined by the engineers, by the consumers, by whatever society observed its progress.

It was curious, the capacity which such a seemingly innocuous, inconsequential object possessed to act as a conduit for contemplations of the existential and philosophical varieties. Nevertheless, Rei pulled her thoughts away from such metaphysical meanderings and extracted her eyes from their glazed gaze, elevating them from the errant examination. Equally curious were the origins of the airplane. Her emphasis adjusted accordingly, Rei rested the newsprint coated craft on her desktop and rose from her seat to survey the yard from her window.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Asuka watched the empty window closed, scrutinizing the vacuum that had devoured her airplane several moments earlier. It showed no signs of providing any sort of reaction to that consumption. However, Asuka was nonetheless certain beyond any shadow of a doubt that her newspaper agent had fulfilled its intended purpose. Moments before, the song, which had crawled to a languid and hazy, yet subtly rapturous, finale, had come to a clipped conclusion. There was no mistaking that the ending was unintentional. The last note had been mostly-dead, the tone dulled and buzzed out, a quickly recognizable accident, that had been replaced by silence in an instant, the bum note sheared from existence before it could linger. That . . . was rough. Ooops. Well, hopefully they don’t get too annoyed.

At first, Asuka had expected that the guitarist would take one of two routes. On one hand, the musician might immediately make an appearance, due to the sudden interruption, and apparent derailment of the song. This had seemed to be the most probable outcome to Asuka. After all, most musicians didn’t appreciate being disrupted while they were in the midst of a piece. On the other hand, the guitarist might first finish the song, and then come to the window. Though the second possible outcome seemed somewhat less likely than the first, Asuka knew that there were many individuals who took their musicianship seriously to the extent that they would merely continue onward as if they had never been disturbed in the first place, until they finished their performance. Of course, given that the guitarist was practicing rather than performing, Asuka didn’t expect that this would be the case.

This was all to say that Asuka was not prepared for the reaction occasioned by her action. Or, to be more precise, the lack thereof. Asuka had firmly expected the guitarist to do something. Which was why she grew progressively more and more agitated, albeit it in an understated manner, as the seconds flew by and it appeared as though her ‘delivery’ had prompted positively no response whatsoever. No one appeared at the window, nor did the playing resume, and furthermore, there was not so much as the slightest audible outburst in response to the disruption. Aside from the botched note and the vexatious silence, there was nothing to indicate that the guitarist had even noticed the paper aircraft.

Asuka tilted her head as she continued to stare up at the window, her cheeks and lips creasing downward into the beginning of a frown. Come on, do something. Or are you actually going to just ignore that? Of course, there was no answer to this question, given that Asuka had inquired it of her own mind, rather than posing it out loud. The stillness stretched longer, no termination in sight. Asuka rested a hand against her hip, before dropping it back to her side. That might send the wrong sorta message when they finally decide to show up. If they decide to show up. Asuka’s frown had now passed its infancy, maturing into a full-blown line of irritation. Which is looking less and less likely. A measure of tension had filled the air, as anticipation of a reaction had turned to exasperation, and perhaps a portion of perturbation as well. The tension gave no indication that it had any intention of abating prior to Asuka’s departure. Well that’s just great. Dammit, I guess it’s back to my lovely, most definitely not covered in a mound of boxes room. Fantastic. Rolling her eyes, Asuka half-turned to withdraw, when a figure suddenly appeared in the window. Asuka hastily righted herself as her gaze locked in on the arrival. Took you long enough.

The person looking out of the window was not who Asuka had been expecting. The figure’s blue locks glistened vaguely in the sunlight as it touched them. Her eyes were dark, a rich, bark-like brown, the hue of tilled soiled moistened by a smattering of a rain. They practically gleamed with racing thoughts, deep pools of incalculable deliberation. It was the overall aura of her face, however, that knocked Asuka from her stride. It was expressionless, utterly unreadable, beyond the definitive certainty that the mind behind worked tirelessly and furiously. Asuka could discern no trace, however slight, of any sentiment or emotion in it. The emptiness, the absence, was uncanny. Asuka’s mind raced as well now, seeking an explanation for the void she beheld. Maybe I’m just too far away. After all, I’m a good distance from where she is. Maybe if we were closer, I’d be able to tell . . . something. Her attempts at persuading herself that this was a reasonable explanation failed miserably. The argument was woefully, blatantly incorrect. There was no denying the simple fact that the girl’s face, despite the fact that it appeared as if she was no older than Asuka, perhaps even younger, could have easily belonged to someone who spent years perfecting the perfect vizard. Somehow, I get the feeling that she’s never lost a poker game.

The duo’s encounter began in silence, both parties merely taking in the other, no words exchanged. Asuka did her best to hide her own feelings of confusion, as well as residual irritation. Can’t match her poker face, but I might as well try to not look too worked up. When the silence had lasted long enough to become uncomfortable, especially when combined with the force of the girl’s undeviating gaze, Asuka decided she would have to break it, as it didn’t seem feasible that the supposed guitarist would be the one to do so.

“Hey, you sounded good!,” Asuka called up, doing her best to sound both amicable and positive, in spite of the fact that these weren’t the foremost sentiments in her mind.

The girl said nothing in response, though Asuka briefly thought she spotted the barest, vaguest hint of a smile alight on the edges of the girl’s mouth for a split second. Well, no news is good news, right? And who doesn’t like a compliment? Guess I might have to do the heavy lifting in the conversation though. “That was Tender Surrender, right?”

The girl remained silent, but gave a small nod of her head, her expression unchanged. Asuka decided she would interpret this as an encouraging reaction. I mean, she doesn’t seem angry that I disrupted her earlier, so all things considered, I’m going to take this as a success so far. “Steve Vai is pretty cool. Classic 80s guitar, you know?”

The girl nodded again, blinking as she did so, before resuming her stare. Is that the first time I’ve seen her blink?, Asuka wondered. Because I think it is, and that’s more than a little bit unnerving. Because I’m almost positive she’s been staring at me for a couple minutes. No way, she must have blinked earlier. People don’t go minutes without blinking. That would be . . . unusual . . . and most likely not healthy for your eyes.

Asuka decided to try out a different subject. There’s got to be something that will get her to talk . . . right? Maybe? Hopefully . . . ?

“Anyway, I heard you earlier, and I wanted to see who the good guitarist was.” She bookended this with an agreeable chuckle, that was roughly eighty-five percent forced. “I’m Asuka Kaji. I just moved in to the house next door,” she pointed back over her her shoulder, “a few days ago.”

The girl tilted her head as she received this information, giving Asuka the impression that this was in fact new to her, and she was taking some time to process it. A few more seconds passed, and at last, the girl spoke. “I’m Rei Ikari,” she paused, and then added, “Thank you.” Her voice was soft, but carried down from the window fairly well all the same. It had a calmness to it, that matched up perfectly with her reserved demeanor. It was nearly a monotone, but not quite. There was a note of inflection in it, an element of what Asuka thought was cheerfulness, though it was difficult for her to be certain.

This time, Asuka was the one who tilted her head. Well, at least I got her name. Not sure why she’s thanking me though. “What for?,” she inquired, maintaining her amicable exterior, which was somewhat less forced than it had been several seconds earlier. Perhaps only seventy-five percent at this point, possibly even seventy.

Rei answered in the same voice, devoid of all but a hint of pleasantry. “For the compliment. I’m glad you like my playing.” Asuka hung on to that hint of pleasantry, decoding it to mean that Ikari was genuinely happy. At least, I hope that’s what it means. Although, she could just be putting on a front just like me. I’ll say she’s genuine for now though. It’s easier to be friendly when I don’t have to constantly second guess the other person.

Asuka smiled again, an expression which was mostly real. “No problem. Like I said, you sounded good.”

Rei nodded to this, but didn’t say anything immediately. Instead, she looked down, at something obscured from Asuka’s sight, and then back up at the other girl. “Would you like to come to the door? You won’t have to shout up from there?”

Asuka wasn’t quite sure that the volume she had been speaking at could be deemed shouting per se, but in comparison to Ikari’s subdued volume, she supposed she could see the logic in the other girl’s words. “Sure. Sounds like a good idea.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Rei intoned, not deviating in the slightest from what appeared to be her default voice. Stepping away from the window, she disappeared from Asuka’s view. Asuka set off along the side of the house, making for the front door, considering their conversation so far as she did so. Okay, saying ‘default voice’ might be a bit harsh. Makes it sound like she’s a robot or something. I don’t think she’s AI. I mean, probably not. She allowed herself a quiet little chortle as she rounded the corner and strolled over to the porch. She paused in front of the door. Guess I don’t need to ring the doorbell. Which means I get to avoid the antique clock. Or bell tower. Whichever one it sounds like. Probably both. Either way, not hearing it is a positive.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door in front of her opening. Rei halted in the doorway, looking at Asuka. Up close, Asuka couldn’t discern any substantial differences from what she had already observed of Rei’s demeanor. However, the hints of a smile which she thought she had spotted earlier were more pronounced now that Asuka had a better view, making Ikari look moderately more genial to Asuka’s eyes. Huh, maybe I was right. She’s more friendly when I’m not looking up at her framed in a window. And I thought that argument was absurd. Even though it was my argument. Ha! Shows what you know, me!

Asuka smiled back at Rei, the most genuine one she had offered Ikari so far. Abruptly, Rei held out a hand toward Asuka. She looked down, and her smile fell a bit. The blue-haired girl was holding out the paper airplane to her. “Is this yours?,” she asked, giving no signs that she was angry, which threw Asuka off once again. Alright, maybe she’s just at good at hiding when she’s upset as she seems to be at hiding when she’s happy. Then again . . . I don’t see anything. Not in her face, or her posture. And she still smiling. Well, if that’s what that is, I mean. Maybe I didn’t actually disrupt her? Maybe she just messed up on her own? Or maybe she really doesn’t care?

Asuka nodded slowly, assuming an empathetic expression, less cheerful and slightly more chagrined. Just slightly, however. She wasn’t one to act particular embarrassed, even if she was. Not that she “Yeah, that’s mine. Sorry if I threw you off, by the way.”

Rei extended her hand a little further, offering the miniature parody of an aircraft to the redhead. “It’s okay. I was nearing the song’s conclusion anyway.”

Asuka accepted the offered airplane. “You sure?”

Rei nodded. “Yes. Your technique isn’t bad.”

Once again, Rei managed to say something that Asuka was not anticipating. My technique? Where did that come from? This is kind of getting on my nerves. A little bit, anyway Who just randomly switches topic mid-conversation like that? “What technique?”

“Your folding technique. It’s effective. Do you make origami?”

Oh. That is not what I expected her to say. “Ah, okay. Thanks. But no, I don’t.” I mean, technically I have, but I don’t need to tell her about how great that went. Damn cat. Since when do cats eat paper anyway? When did that become a thing? And to think people say dogs are the ones who will eat anything.

“I think you’d be good at it if you tried,” Rei said sensibly.

“I’ll let you know if I ever try it out.”

Rei nodded, her faint smile becoming somewhat more defined, as if this was the most logical and appropriate response, and she appreciated that Asuka had used it. Asuka decided it was time for her to get in another question, before the conversation took an additional unpredictable turn. “So, do you go to Sarea High?” Might as well figure out if she’ll be going to the same school as me in the fall. It wouldn’t be a bad idea at all to know some people before I get there.

Rei only nodded again in answer to this question.

“Cool. I’ll be going there in the fall. You a,” she made a quick estimate of how old she thought Ikari looked to be, “junior?”

Rei shook her head. “I’m a senior.”

Well, I was only off by a year, that’s not too bad. “Me too.” You know, for expecting the mystery guitarist to be some guy in his forties, it turns out we have a lot more in common than I thought.

Rei didn’t respond to this information, but merely continued to look at Asuka, her head tilting slightly to the side, the smile on her face seeming more prominent than ever, though still more of a light impression than a defined expression. Asuka met the girl’s gaze for a moment, and matched the bluenette’s smile with a wider one of her own. I mean . . . she’s kind of unusual, but she doesn’t seem so bad. Could definitely do with talking a bit more, but whatever. “Are you in band?”

Rei shook her head. “No. I’d like to be in jazz ensemble though.”

Asuka grinned, and remarked, “I mean, from how you sounded earlier, I’m sure you could tackle jazz. Plus, it’s fun for guitarists!” Is it my imagination, or is that a tiny tint of blush I see on her cheeks right now.

“Thank you. Again,” Rei said softly. “I haven’t auditioned though.”

Asuka’s smile faltered, and she pursed her lips. “Why not?”

The imprint of a smile and the vague reddening slipping from her face, Rei shrugged. “Nerves, I guess,” she answered.

“Ah. I understand.” I’ve been there. Who hasn’t? But hell, she’s definitely good enough to make the cut! Especially in a town like this. I highly doubt they have a great jazz scene here or anything. Asuka paused, but then set off again, more animated, “Well hey, you should audition this fall! I’m going to be there! So there’ll for sure be someone else there who knows you’re a fantastic guitar!”

The mild coloring that Asuka suspected was a blush most definitely returned to Rei’s face with this comment. Without meeting Asuka’s gaze, a strange change from her pattern up to that point, she replied, “Maybe so.”

“Well, think about it at least.”

Rei nodded, and after another handful of seconds had elapsed, asked, “What instrument do you play?”

“I play drums,” Asuka answered.

Rei looked back to Asuka once more, her indistinct smile back on her face. “Are you going to do marching band?”

Asuka shook her head. “No, I prefer playing with a full kit. That’s why I’m going for jazz ensemble instead. It’s what I did at my old school back east in Terahburg.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yep,” Asuka stated smartly. A new idea had emerged in her mind, one which didn’t seem like a half bad one. “You know, we should jam together sometime. Since we’re literally next door to each other.”

Rei said nothing at first, but Asuka noticed that the blue-haired girl’s eyes looked more distant now, practically looking straight past Asuka. She was tempted to turn around, to see if there was something behind her worthy of attention, but she somehow doubted there was. She’s probably just appraising the idea. She seems like the type of person who thinks things over. Thinks things over intensely, to be precise.

When the space between the two girls had lapsed into silence for approximately thirty seconds, Rei spoke up. “What type of music do you like?”

Asuka gave a small shrug in response to this. “The short answer is, I like a lot of stuff. I’m open to pretty much anything. And the long answer is, well, long.” She let out a little laugh to accompany her quip. “But, you might be able to tell,” she shot a pointed glance down at her shirt, which featured an image of a man removing his face from his skull to reveal a bundle of bandages beneath it, an action which was surprisingly depicted in a manner that wasn’t particularly gruesome (which she personally thought a rather unusual choice for a gothic metal album cover, but she enjoyed the art nonetheless, a fact evidence by her possession of the shirt), “I like metal.”

Rei’s eyes followed Asuka’s indication, and studied her garment, taking in the image. “That is interesting,” she commented, giving no real suggestion of her actual opinion of the artwork. “However, I’m not familiar with Lacuna Coil.”

Asuka curled her lips into a wry half-smile. “Not enough people are. They’re pretty awesome though. If you like gothic metal, that is.”

Rei nodded gently, in a manner that came across as fairly noncommittal. “I’ll have to check them out.” Her tone didn’t particularly evince true interest either, thought Asuka couldn’t say that it suggested the opposite for that matter. It fell in line with almost all of Rei’s speech, in that it was nothing if not neutral and more than a little ambiguous. I guess you could call it balanced. It could go equally toward either side.

“So,” Asuka began, “What about you?”

“As in, what type of music do I like?,” Rei countered, seeking clarification.

“Yep.”

“I enjoy instrumental music. Especially when the guitar is the main focus.”

“I get ya, that makes sense,” Asuka remarked with a nod .

“But, I am open to many types of music as well,” Rei added.

“That always cool. Variety keeps things entertaining.”

“Indeed,” Rei agreed, though her voice showed no particular enthusiasm. The sentiment more closely resembled an acknowledgement of a basic principle that could only be recognized as a fact of life, rather than an identification with a specific, shared perspective. After this observation, she fell silent once more. Asuka tilted her head to the side, waiting for the other girl to continue, but she did not seem eager to break the silence which had descended. Well, she basically avoided that question. Or at least, she avoided giving a direct answer to it. I could press the issue, or save it for another time. Oh come on, I’m not one to save things for another time. She doesn’t seem to mind me too much so far. I’m gonna roll with that.

Asuka decided to reiterate her point. “So, what do ya think?”

“About what?,” Rei asked, her eyes twitching momentarily.

“About playing together sometime?”

Rei tilted her head to the side, before righting it and nodding. “I think that would be a good idea.”

“Cool!”

“Yeah,” Rei concurred, the smallest vestige of excitement briefly filling her voice. Asuka picked up on the alteration, as quickly as it passed. That sounded encouraging!

“Well, hey, let me give you my number, so you can get in touch with me when you want to. That work for you?

“Okay.” Rei extracted her phone from her pocket, a movement which Asuka mirrored.

It was when she glanced down at her phone that Asuka noted the time. Her eyes widened for a brief second. Crap! It’s that late already! Seriously, I’ve been here that long? I probably need to actually try to finish unpacking at least some of those boxes today. If only so I can move across my room without climbing on top of them. Oh well . . . all good procrastination has to end eventually.

Rei cradled her phone in her hands for a few moments. Asuka got the impression that Rei was a little hesitant (for whatever reason) to hand it over for Asuka to put in her number. Selecting a different strategy, Asuka opened her contact profile and held the phone out for Rei to see. “Here, you can just copy off of that. If you don’t want me to put my number in yours, I mean.”

Rei looked at the offered device for another moment or two, and then nodded. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Rei inspected the displayed information for a moment, and then quickly typed something into her phone. “Got it,” she announced.

“Awesome.” Asuka withdrew her phone and slid it back into her pocket. “Look, I gotta bounce. I still have lots of unpacking left to do.” She grinned and chuckled. “My room looks like a minor tornado or something tore threw it. So that’s fun.”

“It was nice to meet you,” Rei responded quietly, but the expression on her face gave the words weight. The impression of a smile that had lingered there for much of the conversation at the door had finally blossomed into something which could be firmly identified as a smile, even if it was a small, uncertain one.

“You too!,” Asuka agreed cheerily. Alright, now the question is, what will she interpret as a proper goodbye? This question proved unnecessary, as Rei gave Asuka another small nod, and then retreated into the house, closing the door behind her, in a startlingly swift burst of activity. Asuka blinked, shrugged mentally, and turned to go, trotting back out to the sidewalk.

Well, all things considered, I’d say that counts as an utter victory. Mystery guitarist turned out to be both under the age of thirty, and overall, pretty likable, at least, I think so. Not to mention I have someone to practice with already, and I’ve only been here a few days. And she lives next door. That’s a pretty great coincidence, I can’t lie. And best of all, I avoided unpacking for a solid half hour more. That’s the real success story here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rei didn’t leave after closing the door. She remained in the hall, watching the girl through the peephole as she departed. She couldn’t say exactly why she did it, only that it felt like the appropriate thing to do. When at last the redhead disappeared from her field of vision, she turned away from the door, and made her way to the kitchen. A strange sensation had developed in the pit of her stomach as they conversed. As with her logic for remaining at the door, the reason behind it barely escaped her mental grasp, as did an appropriate name for it. At best, she could characterize it as an unsettling experience, but not an unpleasant one. The feeling of a warbling tremor creeping up toward her chest, and then shying down and away once more. It played just beyond her reach, content to lurk there. Her first thought had been that perhaps food would lay the disturbance to rest. However, as she sat at the table and contemplated the granola bar she had retrieved from one of the cabinets that ringed the kitchen proper, she came to the abrupt realization that she lacked both the appetite and interest to eat it. Dropping the item in question back onto the tabletop, she tilted her head back to consider her kitchen ceiling. She decided that she preferred this view to the similar one she had observed earlier in the day.

There were fewer unpleasant memories wrapped up in this one. At least, that was the explanation she provided to herself, citing it as being the rationale reason for her mood. Because, clearly, it made perfect sense that studying the structure of the kitchen ceiling would fill her with a disconcerting, apprehensive excitement, but excitement all the same. Any other explanation would beg further questions. Questions she thought it was far, far, far too soon to be even touching upon. And that was without taking into account the fact that the excitement shied away from analysis. She suspected any efforts to investigate it would only yield confusing results. Results that led to the very same questions she wished to avoid. The safer alternative, then, was the ceiling. She was excited over the ceiling. Surely, if inspecting the ceiling of her bedroom could trigger a cascade of doubts and memories, inspecting the kitchen ceiling could make her feel giddy with an opaque happiness, until her brain was too muddled to focus on the shapes in the plaster and they meshed together into an indistinct collage of lines that made her eyes water when she tried to trace the maze she envision within it. Right?

#evangelion #neon genesis evangelion #fanfic #fanfiction #highschool au #asurei #asuka x rei #rei ayanami #asuka soryu langley

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

scopaesthesia 👁️ chapter 6

chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5

Warnings: nonconsensual sex, death, murder, violence, stalking, paranoia, blood, gore, bloodplay, knifeplay, suicidal thoughts.

This is dark!Bucky Barnes with dark!Steve Rogers as well and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your situation becomes even clearer

Note: I’ve been working my ass off but I managed to eke this out after sleeping off the pain.

I appreciate y’all reading and your reactions have been the highlight of writing!

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

A tray of food sat untouched just inside the door. Its predecessor had been retracted with a sigh from the other side and replaced with a fresh meal. You had refused either, only drinking the water as you kept mostly to the bed.

When you moved, it reminded you of what Bucky had done to you. The tender cuts throbbed and you hissed through your teeth as you hugged your only pillow in an effort to get warm. You’d even torn the fitted sheet from the mattress and wrapped yourself in it.

You cleaned your cuts carefully every now and then and replaced the bandages. Mostly, you stared at the wall or that little lens above the door. He was watching you. Always. The thought made you shudder and kept you awake when your body tried to coax you to sleep. Those minutes that you did manage to rest were sparse and disjointed.

When at last the door did open again, you didn’t flinch. You stayed as you were, sat on the bed against the wall with the sheet draped over you. You kept your head down as the tray was carefully pushed by the door and lifted by your visitor. Footsteps neared you and he cleared his throat. You finally looked up, startled by Steve’s gentle blue eyes.

He held the tray in one arm and a quilt folded over the other.

“You should eat,” he placed the food before you. His eyes lingered on the bandages and he gave a sad smile. He turned and placed the blanket on the foot of bed. “If you do, I’ll take you for a shower.”

You scowled and crossed your arms over your knees. You looked away. You shook your head as tears picked at your eyes. You sniffed.

“Of course you’re in on it,” you croaked. “Of course… I’m so stupid.”

He exhaled and the mattress dipped as he sat. “Will you eat for me?”

“Don’t… don’t talk to me like that. We’re not friends.” You hissed as you kept your eyes averted. “We never were. I was just your victim. Your plaything. So,” you gritted your teeth. “What you do want from me, huh? Don’t worry, Bucky’s already softened me up for you.”

“Shhhh,” he reached over and touched your knee, his touch warm through the thin sheet. “I’m not a monster.”

“No, just the monster’s assistant.”

“I brought you a blanket and you have food. It’ll only get worse if you’re stubborn.” He warned.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snapped and finally looked at him again. “How can you-- Did you help kill those girls? You must’ve done something. Helped him set me up. Maybe it was you on the phone--”

“I did what Bucky needed me to do.” He said evenly. “You don’t understand, sweetie--”

“Don’t.” You bit out. “Don’t call me that.”

He pressed his lips together before he continued and his eyebrow twitched slightly. “Bucky’s sick and those girls are just another symptom. What was done to him, it changed him and I’ve watched him fight to control it and he only finds that control with you.”

“No, no, that’s bullshit.”

“If you’re so worried about those other girls, if you feel bad about them at all, you will help Bucky.”

“Help him?” You scoffed. “You’re both insane.”

“If you help him,” he carried on, “He won’t hurt anyone else.”

“Just me?”

“No, no, that’s not-- I didn’t know he was going to use knives.”

“It didn’t matter, did it? He still did it.”

Steve chewed his lip. You shoved his hand away from your leg and sidled away from him. He huffed and stood. He moved the tray across the bed. His hands went to his hips as he watched you.

“You can eat when you get back but you should shower.” He said. “Keep yourself clean, maybe get warmed up.”

You shrugged and rubbed your cheek. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Look, I’m trying to help you,” he neared and bent to catch your eye, “It will be good to stretch your legs.”

“Just leave me alone. Let me die down here. We both know that’s how this ends.” You snarled.

He twined his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. “I can and will make you but I didn’t come here to hurt you so I’ll give you one more chance.”

You blinked at him and tilted your head. His fingers bent slightly and you knew he meant it. Your thighs rubbed together and reminded you of your cuts. You couldn’t handle much more pain. You looked away and made your way off the bed, keeping the sheet around you snugly.

“Can I have some clothes, too?” You asked.

“I tried but… right now, that’s not going to happen.” He took your arm gently and led you to the door. Your legs were stiff and slow but he was patient as he opened the door. “But I’ll ask again, okay?”

You were silent as he took you into the hall. He turned you and guided you away from your cell.

“You know, a blanket and clothes… it doesn’t make you any better than him.” You said.

He stopped in front of a sliding metal door and hooked his fingers in the handle. He pulled it open, inside was a shower in the closet-like space and nothing else. Just a showerhead and cold tiles. A neat line of bottles sat atop a single shelf.

“But it might make me preferable to him,” he leaned in. “I can be a lot nicer.”

You searched his face and his eyes slipped to the top of the sheet. He reached over and tugged on a wrinkle of fabric.

“You’ll have to leave this with me. I’ll get you a towel.”

You shivered as he pulled harder and you let go of the sheet. You couldn’t look at him as you were left entirely naked. His fingers tickled your hips and he nudged you into the shower.

“Take your time,” he cooed.

He pulled the door shut with an echoing clang. The latch twisted into place to secure the door and a little flicked on. You stared at the showerhead but could not figure how to turn it on. It suddenly shook and burst to life; you realised it was controlled from outside.

Steam rose around you and enveloped you in the tight space. Despite your circumstance, the water was soothing. You reached for the strawberry scented soap and scrubbed yourself, peeling away the bandages as they began to wilt. You felt as if you couldn’t get clean but you tried desperately.

You paused as you heard voices. You stepped closer to the door as they were muffled by the metal and the steady buzz of the shower.

“Come on, Buck. We had a deal. I didn’t do all this for nothing.” Steve said.

“She’s mine,” Bucky growled. “I told you.”

“You know I won’t be too rough. Not like you.”

“Why? You didn’t even want to do this in the first place?”

There was a silence, then a soft chuckle. “She’s sweet and my cock’s been hurting for days.”

“She’s not some toy.”

“Isn’t she?”

There was a sigh and a tisk.

“Jesus Christ, Bucky. I helped you clean up all those messes and I get what? You haven’t even said thank you. Not once.”

Another silence as you held your breath. It disgusted you to think they were bartering over you like an object.

“No cutting.” Bucky said tersely.

“Not into that,” Steve retorted.

“And don’t even go near her ass.”

“Aww…” Steve bemoaned.

“No kissing on the lips. You get one hour.”

“Can I dress her up?” Steve asked, his voice laced with sinister glee.

“Fine, but take the clothes with you after.”

“See, Buck, isn’t that what friends do? Share?”

You shoved yourself away from the door. You were breathless and weak. This couldn’t be real. None of it. It was so fucked up. It had to be a nightmare.

The showerhead died and the lock clicked. The door opened suddenly and the steam cleared. Bucky unfolded a towel and held it out. You quivered but made yourself step out. He wrapped your wordlessly in the fluffy towel and looked to Steve.

“Take her back to her room then.” He said sternly.

You snarled as Steve neared and for a moment you were sandwiched between the two men. As you turned, you looked at Bucky in the face, a wrinkle set deep in his forehead as he watched you.

“You’re a fucking monster,” you spat, “I fucking hate you.”

His jaw ticked and his nostrils flared. He stared at you then slowly looked behind you at Steve and nodded.

“Two hours.” He smirked, “And don’t be afraid to leave some marks.”

Steve ushered you away from Bucky. You dragged your feet as you let him and he stopped you before the same door with the slot. He reached out and touched your bare shoulder.

“I’ll be back soon, sweetie,” he purred and you curled your lip, “Bucky said I can bring you some clothes.”

“Oh, I know exactly what Bucky said,” you huffed.

His brows shot up and he snickered. “Ah, well then, you’ll be ready when I return, won’t you?” He opened the door and held it open. “Don’t forget to eat. You’ll need your energy.”

You frowned as he waved you inside and you turned to watch him as you entered. He smirked and gave a wink before he closed the door. You trembled as the cold crept up your legs and rolled down your spine.

You looked up at the camera. You knew Bucky would watch. He had never stopped watching you.

👁️

The deep, unyielding pain in your stomach made you eat. It might have been dread more than hunger but your head wasn’t so hazy as before. You set aside the tray in the corner and hugged the damp towel around you. You weren’t eager for Steve’s return but you were waiting for him because you knew it was inevitable.

You sat on the edge of the bed and rocked. They couldn’t just leave you like this all the time. With nothing but time and white walls as you braced for their next appearance. You would go mad. You felt it already.

When the door jerked, you did too, but you didn’t look over as Steve entered. You could smell his cologne and the fruity scent of the soap lingering on your skin. He inhaled deeply as the door closed behind him and he walked decisively to the end of the bed. In the corner of your eye, you saw him set something there.

“You smell nice,” he said. “I brought you something to wear.”

“Okay,” you grumbled and didn’t move.

He stood in silence. Waiting. “Well…”

“I know why you’re here so what’s the point?” You hissed.

“Why I’m here is exactly the point. Get dressed, sweetie.”

“Stop calling me that!” You turned to face him. “Stop. Just do what you’re going to do and go.”

“Not until you get dressed,” he said in a low voice as he came closer and bent before you. He stared into your eyes and swallowed. “I don’t want this to be difficult and I know you don’t either but it really doesn’t matter to me either way.”

You squirmed and looked back at him. You clung to the towel with one hand and pushed yourself up with the other. He slowly backed away as you stood and you rounded the end of the bed. You scooped up the clothes and headed for the washroom. You could feel him smiling at you.

You closed the door and put the clothes on the tank of the toilet. You dropped the towel and lifted the first piece. A sheer white blouse with a round high counter. You eyed it and bent to sort through the fabric. Satin panties, matching bra, garter belt, stockings, heels… the blouse and the skirt had a vintage feel to them. The attire was straight out of the pin-up era.

You dressed reluctantly. The panties were too small and kept riding up, the bra was uncomfortable and the underwire painful. The blouse was easy enough to see through and the heels made you clumsy.

You took a breath before you reached for the door. You stepped through and kept your chin down. Steve gave a hum.

“You look lovely,” he purred.

You ignored him and folded your hands. You kept as far from him as you could in the small room.

“Well…” he began, “Come here. I want you to undress me.”

You gulped and edge around the bed to where he stood. You hesitated and he grabbed your chin. He forced your head up and smirked down at you.

“The longer you drag this out, the less restraint I’ll have.”

You said nothing and ran your fingers along the hem of his shirt. He leaned down and helped you lift it up his arms and over his head. His broad chest was bared and his muscled stomach flexed as he stood straight. He shifted and forced his shoes off with his toes. Your hands fell to his belt and he groaned. You paused before you fumbled with the buckle.

“I really wanted to fuck you in the kitchen but Bucky doesn’t trust you upstairs,” Steve ran his hands down your arms. “But if you’re good, I might be able to convince him.”

You were quiet. You couldn’t think of words. You could barely keep from collapsing entirely. As you unzipped Steve’s pants you thought of Bucky stripping at the end of the bed, of the way he admired his knives before he chose one, at your blood dripping down his chin. You yanked Steve’s jeans down and stepped back.

“You’re not done, sweetie.” He taunted.

“Why?” You rasped. “Why are you doing this? You’re supposed to be good. You’re a hero.”

“I earned this.” He grabbed your hands and placed them on the top of his briefs. “I’ve saved enough lives to claim one.”

You shook and grasped the elastic. You didn’t look as you pulled it away from his waist and angled it over his obvious bulge. You let them drop down to his feet and rescinded your hands with a whimper.

“I can’t--”

He kicked away his brief and peeled off his socks. He came closer and you retreated until your legs hit the bed.

“Shhh, let me lead you,” he touched your chin and leaned in. He stopped himself and took a deep breath. “God, look at you.”

He cupped your tits through the blouse and squeezed. “It used to be that men were expected to keep women. Pretty little housewives; obedient, docile.”

You grabbed his wrists and your lip quivered. “Steve, you don’t have too--”

“Do you know what husbands would do to rebellious wives?” He asked. “Do you?”

You shook your head and clung to him, afraid you would fall back onto the bed.

“Let me show you, sweetie,” he ran his hands down your sides, “I’ll show you how to be a good little wife.” His hands stretched over your hips, “Turn around.” He spun you, “Hands on the bed.”

You bent without thinking. Even after all that had happened, you were still terrified. What worse could he do to you then had already been done?

His hands went to your ass and he kneaded through the skirt. He rubbed along your thighs and pushed his crotch against you as he reached to the hem. He raised it as he rocked against you and slipped it over the curve of your ass. His fingers danced on the satin and tickled the top of your thighs.

He pressed his hand across your ass. “Every woman needs her lessons.”

He pulled his hand back and struck you. Hard. Your legs shook and the pain reverberated through your body. You let out a whimper and he did it again, the slap echoed off the walls. You dug your fingertips into the top of the mattress. A third time. Again, again, again. You lost count as fire singed your nerves.

He didn’t stop until your legs slid out from beneath you and you clung to the bed weakly. He tutted and lifted your hips back until you set your feet again. He gripped the top of the skirt and tore. The fabric fell away from your body and the blouse slackened around your middle.

He felt along the panties and rubbed between your legs. He prodded at your cunt through the satin and you felt the slickness spread along the inside. You were ashamed as he pulled the crotch aside and dragged his finger through your arousal.

“Women need discipline. They crave it.” He flicked your clit and you moaned. “See?”

“Please--”

“Please?” He mimicked. “What do you want? You want me inside you?”

You shook your head and tried to stand. He pulled his hand from your cunt and caught the back of your neck and forced you back down. He pushed you until you were on your stomach, your legs hanging over the side of the bed. He bent over you and his hot breath grazed your cheek.

“Turn over, sweetie,” he ordered, “I’ll show you how to serve a man.”

You quaked but couldn’t move. He turned you over roughly and you bounced on the bed. He climbed over you swiftly and held your head between his hands. He pinned down your shoulder with his legs, his knees above them, as his cock bobbed over your face. You writhed beneath him and he easily kept you in place.

He lifted your head as he angled his cock against your lips. You closed your mouth and he pushed harder.

“Be a good wife,” he grunted, “Come on, open up.”

You opened your mouth and he slid inside. You were dizzy and out of breath with his weight across your shoulders and chest. He dipped deeper and poked at your throat. He forced himself as far as he could you and you gagged as he leaned forward. He planted a hand on the mattress as he pulled his hips back and thrust. You choked again and he groaned.

“You can do it, sweetie,” he moved slowly, “Just like that.”

Your spit gathered along your lip as he fucked your face. You struggled to breath around him but your struggle only seemed to encourage him. He moved his pelvis fast and harder until the bed was bouncing violently beneath your bodies.

You slapped at his legs as he ignored your gasps and gags. You kicked out, your feet sliding over the floor as you tried to wriggle free. He sank into you entirely and snarled. He took a breath as he held himself there.

“Should I come down your throat? Already?” He growled. “I could…”

You murmured around his cock and he chuckled. He pulled out slowly and pushed himself off of you. He bounced beside you as he hung his legs over the edge of the bed and winced.

“Fuck, it hurts so bad.” He pet your thigh as he caught his breath. “I’ve been saving it for you.”

You took frantic breath and he pinched your leg. He stood and hummed. He turned and stroked himself as he faced you.

“Turn over again.” He bid.

Your heart pounded in your temples as you dizzily rolled over. You were too senseless to resist. If you did as he said, it might be over soon. He grabbed your hips and drew you onto your feet as he lifted your ass. You kept your hands on the bed as you struggled to keep yourself up.

He bent his knees as he poked around with his cock and dragged his tip along the satin. He hooked his finger in the fabric and pushed it aside as he pressed himself against your cunt. He impaled you a little at a time, pausing to bask in each inch until he filled you up completely.

His grip tightened on your hip and he began to move you against him. Your toes barely met the floor as he slid you up and down his length. Each time, his flesh clapped against your ass as the panties twisted painfully.

“Tell me you like my dick,” he snarled. You murmured and shook your head. “Tell me!” He barked.

“I-- I-- I like your dick.” You sputtered.

“Mmmhmm,” he rutted into you even harder. “Tell me you love me inside of you, sweetie.”

You whined as your thighs tingled and tensed in tortured pleasure. “I love… love you inside me.”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he sped up again, slamming into your already raw ass. “Tell me you love me. You love me, don’t you?”

“Wha--”

“Say it.” He demanded.

“I l-love you,” you gasped as your eyes rolled back and the waves crested. “I love you.”

“Fuck, I can feel you cumming all over me,” he purred as wet noises filled the air. “Fuck, look at you, sweetie.”

You groaned as your arms bent beneath you and you leaned on your elbows as he lifted your ass even higher, his hands slipping to your thighs as he pushed your legs back against his.

“You like to make me happy, hmm? You like being my pretty little wife.” He hammered into you as his voice grew deep and fractured. “I’m gonna cum in you, sweetheart.”

“N-n-no,” your head rolled back and forth on the bed as you were helpless against him.

“You want me to make you a mommy?” He slithered. “You could grow big for daddy.”

He shoved you forward suddenly and fell atop you. He crushed you beneath him as he kept his hips moving and fucked you into the mattress. He slid his arm under your neck and squeezed. He jolted into you painfully as you spasmed once more in reviled delight.

“Here I go,” he uttered. “Daddy’s cumming.”

He grunted and your walls milked him as you felt his heat spill into you. You grabbed at his arm as your head began to throb and the cuts that lined your flesh burned. You felt everything, the pain, the pleasure, the despair, the fear, the hopelessness all at once.

And when he stopped, all your strength was sapped from you. Still deep inside you, he dragged his arm from beneath you and held himself over you as he watched his cock slipped from your cunt. His cum spilled out and coated your folds and seeped into the panties.

The mattress shifted and he grabbed the back of your blouse along the collar. “Take this off…” He tugged. “Then get in daddy’s lap.”

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