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seradyn · 10 months

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I Won’t Let Go

Ruben x Reader fluff

Helping Ruben cope with a seizure, giving him lots of cuddles and comfort afterwards.

For my dear @broteinshake69 , based on this post.

Word Count: 3611

^ I am incapable of writing short one-shots :)

TW: None

I am not a neuroscientist, nor have I ever had a seizure, so I hope you can excuse the pseudoscience and inaccurate depiction x)

Les go

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A soft, familiar squelch filled his ears as the scalpel cut cleanly through the brain. Each incision was made with practiced precision, every wave of the small knife deliberate. He’d done this so many times before, it was second nature by now. Dissect, record, kill, dissect, record, he’d done it since he’d freed himself from beneath his parent’s thumbs. Since he got out of the basement. Ironic, now that he’d set up his main lab there.

Today was no different, though Ruben had chosen to focus on one particular part of the brain; the cerebellum. It sat lower on the organ, closer to the brainstem, meaning he often had to kill his subjects to get to it. No matter, the data was more than worth it. And it was there waiting for him, a wellspring of neurotransmitters and chemical reactions. The mind’s response to his live dissections etched into the stone walls of chemistry.

With one final, satisfying cut, the gelatinous glob fell from the rest of the organ, the gentle weight falling into a gloved hand. Ruben placed it onto its own tray, shoving the rest of the brain into a corner. He’d have to discard it before it began to rot, but that could wait. His scarred fingers twitched with the anticipation of new data. His creation, STEM, was nearly ready for its first prototype, he was so close.

Standing, he went to retrieve the rest of the tools he’d need, listing them off as he removed his gloves; syringes, sharper scalpels, a microscope. Things he preferred not cluttering his desk while he worked on getting the parts he needed. Sometimes he could work on the surgical tables marking the center of his ‘exam rooms’, but alas, he still needed to dispose of the body, too. Something that only served to waste his time, which could be spent doing research.

He grunted with the weight of some of the equipment, his hands sending dull shocks of pain up his arms. Ruben had years to cope with the weakness of his body after the fire, but it was moments like these that made him grit his teeth in silent rage. That day had rendered his existence one of constant pain and strife, and he was loath to be reminded of such.

Though that rage quickly simmered down, burning with a low heat in his chest. That was why he was doing this research, after all. His body, his life…his sister. What he lost, he would get back.

One subject, one dissection, one brain at a time.

Ruben let out a tense sigh, his robe catching the stale air as he spun around, awkwardly walking back to his desk with the bulky microscope cradled in his hands. He only wished it wasn’t taking so long. His project was years in the making, and he knew it would take years more for it to come to fruition. Truthfully, he was frustrated by it all. He was tired of living this joke.

The microscope hit his desk with a dull thud, the scars on his hands and fingers aching from the excursion. He shook them out, flexing his fingers to tame the soreness in his joints. The day was still young, and he was determined to make the most of it.

Ruben picked up his scalpel, positioning the cerebellum so his cuts would be clean along its length. To get the proper images, he’d need slices as thin as hairs, which meant there was little room for error. Too thick and he wouldn’t be able to see what he was looking for, too thin and there wouldn’t be enough to work with. He would be injecting them with dye, which in turn would react with the various chemicals throughout the soft tissue, changing the dye’s color. Crude methods, certainly, but they delivered the desired results. The way the brain coped with such high levels of stress, fear, and pain - he would have that as his prize.

Or, at least that was the plan. Plans which came to a grinding halt when Ruben found himself unable to move his arm or hand.

Puzzled, he furrowed his brow, glancing at the offending limb. It was frozen in midair, scalpel raised, as if stuck in time. He tried to force it into motion, but it didn’t budge, the muscles stiffened without his consent. Frustrated, he turned his attention back to the brain on his desk, hoping his muscles would relax after a moment. It wasn’t unusual for his body to just give out on him, much to his annoyance, but with any luck, it would pass after a few moments.

Ruben was caught off guard though, when his vision began to swim. He couldn’t focus on any one thing, all of it smearing into a watery mess of indistinguishable colors. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his muddy eyes, but there was no relief.

He heard a distinct clatter, that of metal striking metal. He’d dropped his scalpel, it took him too long to realize. He hadn’t even felt it, couldn’t perceive as his fingers closed around nothing. He could feel his breaths becoming frantic, his body not listening to his commands. The colors warped, shifted and melded, until everything began to go dark…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You knew something wasn’t right when you heard a metallic tink as you were coming down the basement stairs. The place was usually home to similar sounds, that of Ruben exchanging one tool for another while he worked, but this time it sounded different. Louder, more chaotic, like something had been dropped. That wasn’t like him - Ruben was meticulous, and took great care of his equipment. It wasn’t like him to be careless.

You’d been on your way down to deliver some water when you heard it. Ruben had trouble remembering his own physical needs while he was working, meaning more often than not, that duty fell to you. You made sure he stayed hydrated, and had something to eat if he got hungry between meals. He feigned irritation, stubborn as he was about being able to take care of himself, but you knew he appreciated what you did. The glasses were always empty when you came back to retrieve them, and his supply of snacks was always steadily depleting. While he didn’t approve of you being in his lab for long, he allowed you these short visits.

Besides, you always sweetened the deal by giving him a quick kiss before you went back upstairs, and you both knew Ruben couldn’t refuse you when you did that.

All such pretense went down the drain when you heard the strange noise, your heart jumping a little. You hurried the rest of the way down, dropping off the glass on a random table when you reached the bottom. Without hesitation, you barged into the room he was working in, not caring if he got mad at you for the intrusion. He was standing before his desk on the far wall, hand poised above a pink blob on a tray. Part of a brain, you supposed, but you hadn’t the foggiest idea which piece.

More worryingly, Ruben hadn’t acknowledged you when you came in. You tilted your head at him quizzically.

“Ruben?” You said, voice meek as you tentatively stepped forward. He offered no response, which only made your concern grow. Upon getting closer, you noticed a slight tremble to his form.

“Ruben? Ruben, what's wrong?” You said, more frantic now. You’d never seen him act like this, and you hadn’t a clue what could be causing him to do so.

You reached out a hand to steady him. His trembling only seemed to be getting worse.

Before you could graze the fabric of his robe with your fingers, his legs appeared to give out. Eyes widening, you jumped forward to catch him, yelping as he dragged you down to the floor with his weight. You collapsed in a tangled heap, Ruben’s body cushioned by your own. The concrete was cold, unforgiving as it bit into your tailbone.

Recovering from the tumble, you looked down at the man in your lap, opening your mouth to ask more questions. You just as quickly froze, feeling Ruben’s body twitch and convulse in your lap. The blood drained from your face, heart in your throat as you watched his body jerk violently.

Seizure, your brain offered through its panic.

“Fuck,” you muttered, setting Ruben gently down on the floor, mind whirling with what you were supposed to do.

He’d warned you this was a possibility. When you two started a relationship, he’d given you a laundry list of various complications that arose from his injuries. Numbness, trouble with temperature regulation, limited movement, muscle stiffness, and yes, seizures were on that list. He told you they happened more often when he was a boy, his body unable to cope with the loss of so much tissue. They didn’t happen as much anymore, but they would never fully go away. There was always a chance of one happening.

Too great a chance, you thought, ripping off your shirt and putting it under his head. He’d given you some basic instructions on what to do if he ever went into such a state, back when he explained all this. It was a bit hard to concentrate though, heart like a drum as you watched him seize.

Safety, safety first, you reminded yourself, spotting a scalpel close by - the one he dropped, you presumed. You quickly snatched it away from him, setting it on his desk so he wouldn’t cut himself. Next, you remembered him telling you to time his seizures, to make sure they didn’t last too long. You grabbed at your phone with shaky fingers, fumbling with the device until you finally got a timer going. Make sure he’s breathing, don’t hold him down, keep things out of his mouth, your mind recited the list, mentally checking off each one as you did it.

His last instruction, stay calm, was admittedly quite a bit harder to honor.

How were you supposed to stay calm with your love seizing on the floor?!

What was minutes felt like hours. You sat beside him, feeling useless and scared as you worried your bottom lip between your teeth. Ruben told you these weren’t a huge deal, and you trusted him, but being in the presence of it was something else entirely. You felt like you should be able to do more, make it less torturous somehow, but the logical part of you knew you couldn’t. Now it was just about waiting.

Slowly, his muscles began to settle, the spasms happening less often, their strength waning. You spared a look at his face, frowning at the grimace still on it. You hoped he wasn’t in pain. You peeked at the timer; 1 minute 40 seconds, it read.

You let out an anxious breath, rocking back on your shins. Not a medical emergency, then, if it was already clearing up. For that at least, you were grateful.

A deep groan filled the room, and your attention snapped back to Ruben. He was finally starting to regain consciousness, squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the fluorescent bulbs overhead. Once you were sure it was safe, you scooped him up into your lap, cradling his head and shoulders while you softly whispered his name. You nudged his nose with your own, trying to get him to open his eyes. You needed to know he was okay. His flesh was cold, and you held him firmly, giving him as much of your warmth and comfort as you could.

Eventually, it worked. Ruben groaned again, a deep, pained sound, eyelids parting a crack to look up at you. They looked glassy, like he’d abruptly been awoken from a deep sleep. You gave his shoulders a light squeeze, delicately stroking the scarred side of his face while his good side pressed against your chest.

“Ruben, are you okay?” You asked gently, looking at him with clear worry etched into your face.

He blinked at you a few times, taking a moment to process your words.

“I…What happened?” He croaked, his voice horse. You’d have to remember to make him drink something.

“You had a seizure,” was your simple reply. You tried your best to sound calm, but your voice wavered as you spoke, giving you away. “I did my best to keep you safe and comfortable.”

Ruben studied your face for a moment before he nodded stiffly, his attention leaving you to scan the room.

“And where…are we?” He asked.

Ah, the confusion. You remembered he told you that was the most common symptom. Seizures almost always left their victims confused and disoriented.

“We’re in your lab, at the manor,” you told him. He seemed pleased with that answer, the last of the stiffness leaving him as he relaxed into you. Your heart melted as he nuzzled his face into your sternum, blinking lazily as he let out a contented sigh.

Loath as you were to move him, you knew this wasn’t the best place for him to rest.

“Hey,” you kissed his forehead to get his attention. Those pale irises snapped to you instantly; he couldn’t resist your touch. “I’ll take you to bed, okay?” You waited for a response, and after another nod, you continued. “Do you want me to get your wheelchair, or can you stand?”

His nose wrinkled at the mention of his chair. You knew he hated it, hated how much it reminded him how weak his body was, but with mobility being a common issue, he needed to keep it around. You wished for his sake he used it more often, but you never pushed the matter.

“I can walk,” he said quickly. He didn’t need the help, he could do it himself.

To prove his point, he tried to sit up. Tried, being the operative word. His adam’s apple bobbed with anguished grunts as his muscles screamed in protest. Everything was sore, like he’d just run a marathon in sweltering heat. His teeth ground together as he slumped forward, head hung as he fought down a wave of nausea.

“Hey,” you said again, supporting his back so he wouldn’t fall and hit his head. “Don’t push yourself. I’ll take you as far as I can, but if you need the wheelchair, please just ask for it. Now is not the time to be stubborn.”

Ruben huffed at you, but he knew he was in no position to argue. “Fine,” he hissed, letting you loop his arm behind your neck. With a quick countdown, you were able to hoist him up, both of you stumbling a little as you found your footing. His scars pressed up against you as he used you for support, and you did your best not to cause them any unnecessary irritation. After making sure Ruben was okay, you began your slow, awkward hobble up to the second floor.

It was a long, arduous process. One made almost entirely in silence, both of you struggling to put one foot in front of another. Only two questions from him broke the silence on your journey there: how long was the seizure, and why weren’t you wearing a shirt. You had to stifle a laugh at the second one, but you answered them honestly. It wasn’t long before you reached the bedroom, causing you both to sag in relief. You had to kick the door open, leading him inside as gravity shut it behind you.

He plopped onto the sheets heavily, panting from the pain plaguing his joints. You sat down next to him, taking his hand in yours, rubbing his knuckles with your thumb to sooth him. You couldn’t begin to imagine how hard something as simple as walking must be after that, especially with his burns already making movement difficult. Your own shoulders were sore from holding him up, but it was a small price to pay if it lessened his own suffering, even if only a little.

After a pause, Ruben sighed, lifting his head to stare at the wall opposite you.

“This is pointless,” he grumbled, turning to meet your gaze. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes. I should be back in the lab.”

Your brows drew down at that, eyes narrowing. Even for him, that was an insane notion. You leaned forward, placing a single finger on his charred nose.

“Liar,” you accused sternly. “I know you want to do more, but you’re in no condition to be running experiments. You need to rest.”

Ruben scowled, removing your hand from his face. “I need to get back to work. I’ve lost enough time as it is.”

You scowled back at him, a harsh rebuttal on the tip of your tongue, but you stopped yourself. The expression just as quickly dissolved, replaced by worry and sorrow. You knew how important his work was to him, you knew what he’d done to obtain it. Aside from you, it was everything to him.

“I know,” you said softly. You pushed the hood of his robe down, revealing his scarred, hairless face. You ran your hand along the edge of his jawline, admiring how handsome he looked like that. “I know it means a lot to you…I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He gave you an incredulous look, but you weren’t finished. “I know you’d stay down there every waking moment if you could, and I don’t fault you for that. But I can’t stand the thought of finding you impaled on your own equipment, or one of your subjects getting out because a seizure impaired your judgment. I don’t want to think about what could happen to you if you don’t give yourself a break. So if you can’t do it for yourself, can you at least do it for me?”

Ruben didn’t say anything at first, his eyes rolling over your face while you stroked his own. Part of you expected him to keep arguing; after all, he’d survived this long without you.

Instead, it hardly took a moment before his features began to soften, and he melted into your touch. His eyes closed in sweet bliss as you traced his scars with a loving reverence, basking in the way you worshiped his body.

“Alright,” he breathed. When he looked at you, his eyes were filled with a subtle adoration. “I’ll rest. But only if you promise to stay with me.”

Your face lit up at his condition, smiled brightly at him. You leaned forward, brushing his lips with yours.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” you purred, smirking as his pupils widened with desire, a tiny shiver rippling across his skin. God, how easily he became putty in your hands.

Before he got any ideas though, you pulled away, wordlessly tugging at the sleeves of his robe. You both knew it would only catch on his scars while he was under the covers, so it needed to come off. He let you carefully remove it, not a word uttered from either of you as you threw it over your shoulder. You’d deal with it in the morning.

Averting your gaze from his bare chest, heat rushing to your cheeks, you wormed your way back onto the bed, flopping down onto your back. As an afterthought, you unclasped your bra, pulling your arms through it as you tossed it onto the floor. Like hell you were going to sleep in that. Satisfied, you beckoned Ruben to join you, holding out your hand invitingly.

Unfortunately, he was a tad busy, staring wide eyed at your form, to notice. He still wasn’t used to seeing such things, even after living together with you for months.

“No funny business,” you teased, lightly pulling on his arm to make him lay down.

His eyes flicked up and down, meeting yours before admiring you again.

“No promises,” he smirked.

You scoffed, pulling on him enough to finally coax him into action. He hesitantly crawled over you, lowering himself as you wrapped your arms around his waist. He let out another happy sigh as your breasts squished against his flesh, so soft, so warm. You traced along his spine with the pads of your fingers as he buried himself in the crook of your neck, letting your chin rest atop his head. Legs intertwining, he gently clutched at your shoulders while you pulled the blankets over your bodies. You smiled at the feeling of the dual textures of his rough, burnt skin and the smooth, untouched parts of it. The buttons of Ruben’s pants dug into your thigh, but you hardly noticed, instead enjoying this moment of affection between the two of you. You knew you were likely to wake up alone, Ruben having gone back to his lab, so you were going to savor this as long as you could.

As his breathing began to even out, you placed a few final kisses on the crown of his head.

“Rest now, my love,” you whispered, hands continuing their ministrations. “Rest, and I might just let you go back to work tomorrow.”

“As if you could stop me,” Ruben quipped, but his speech was slurred, his heart not in it. Shortly after, his breathing slowed considerably, and you knew he was fast asleep. He must’ve been exhausted; he didn’t usually fall asleep so fast.

Happy he was heeding your words, you closed your eyes, determined to follow suit. You imagined sitting by him in the music room, Ruben expertly plucking a melancholy tune from his piano as you drifted off to sleep.

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It’s been way too fucking long since I posted any fanfics, I almost forgot how I even format my own posts >.<

Anyway, more Ruben x Reader fluff in the future.

#ruvik x reader #ruben victoriano #ruben ruvik victoriano #ruvik victoriano #ruvik #ruben victoriano x reader

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heartfullofleeches · 2 years

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can we get a scenario where y/n founds out Selene's obsession towards them

"Selene.. what did you do?"

Scrapbooking. That's what your wife had alway claimed to be doing everytime she headed down to the basement. Selene was a woman of many hobbies, given the fact she had time to spare. It was kind of funny how she'd cover the living room in new novels, your bed in balls of yarn when she did crochet at night; but she always kept anything related to the active she was most passionate about downstairs.

"I'll show you someday, dear. When we're old and grey, and can look back fondly on it."

Those were her words almost verbatim each time you asked. You eventually grew too curious for your own good. All you wanted was to see what brought such a wide smile to her face every night. She deserved it after her upbringing; the only joys she had nowadays being you, the home you made, and whatever lied below. One little peak couldn't hurt, right?

You find the key in her jewelry box; having to ever so carefully sort through the trinkets to not walk your sleeping wife resting in bed. With key in hand, you head to the basement. It was a behind a door in the kitchen and down a flight of stairs; a place to go for no distraction from the surface world - no sound able to enter or exit.

Unlocking the door; you're met with darkness and the faint scent of apple blossom, the flavor of her favorite candle. You remember the room's original smell when you first moved in and the only other time you had entered; mold and stale air. She rolled up her sleeves the next day and cleaned out the room top to bottom from what you heard.

You search around for a light switch; another scent masked by the sweet smell of fruit wafting through. You cover your nose with your shirt; thinking some animal must've come through and died, and carry on. Eventually, you find that little switch and turn the lights on; faced with a reality you never could have imagined to be true.

A table sat against a back wall; the only surface the room's dim light seemed to illuminate. Pictures were taped along the walls, and a black book rested atop the hard wood. With it being the easiest to spot, you decide to check out the book first.

It was her scrapbook; the cover bare except for a golden trim around its border. Opening the booklet, you find a pink heart on the first page; text written in cursive over its center.

"My love."

Flipping through, you find page upon page to be full of images of you, and her on occasion. The pictures from a photo booth on your first date, photos from your wedding, ones of you around the house, you... asleep. The more you looked through, the stranger they got. You behind a shower curtain, taking to neighbors, going about your day in town. You were sure there were even a couple taken before you got together given the date penned beneath, all taken without your knowing.

If there was anyone beside her in the photo, their image was distorted in some way. Scratched out with some sharp object, covered up by spots of paint or just straight up cut out. It made your stomach twist into knots. Flipping and turning. The pages get messier. Once placed in a four to a page format; photos now cram each page with no space in between. A few stains dot the white edges; the pads of her fingers dipped in a crimson dye.

After a while, the pages turn up blank, but you keep going. You couldn’t stop. On the final one, you find one last picture. The one you took on your first night home; a tagline beneath and the red print of her hand beside it.

"Everything I do, I do for you."

You slam the book shut, rocking the table on its legs from the force. You take a step back, unsure as to what you've seen. The room feels cold; that stench causing your mind to haze. Looking at the table again, you notice something you hadn't on first go. A drawer, slightly ajar and red leather poking through. A journal. Even as the wise part of your brain tells you not to, you begin to read. The first dozen pages are torn out, cursive letters written on those that remain.

"Just one night away, and I'll be married to the love of my life. It feels like a dream I never want to wake up from. I used to spend so many nights awake wondering if they'd love me, if I deserved their love. I can put the nightmares of my past to rest while in their arms."

"We've just moved into a new house, our forever home with hope. Our neighbors seem friendly and so do the friends my Y/n has come to make. They've always attracted a crowd."

"One of their friends invited them out for coffee today. Y/n asked if I'd like to come, but I politely declined. I needed to grab a couple things from the store, and happened to see them at the shop. They had their hand on Y/n's arm."

"That friend came by again, when Y/n wasn't home. They asked what made them happy, they asked if I made them happy. I heard something in the hallway today."

"They came by again. They always do. Looking for Y/n, so I let them in. Y/n, I'm sorry."

"I'm so sorry."

"I saw them again tonight. I wonder if Y/n misses them. I wonder if they've heard the sounds from the basement. Late at night, I can hear their screams. Y/n holds me tighter those days, when I'm cold. They've always been there for me. They're all I need. From now on, everything I'll do, I'll do it for them."

You swallow the lump in your throat; your hands clammy from the sweat that ran down your palms. Hesitantly, you look towards the wall; the final place you had yet to look. Before your eyes could take in the sight before you, a voice comes from your right.

"Y/n...?"

You look towards the door. Selene stands on the last step, robe snuggle around her shoulders. Her face read innocent, but her eyes told so much more.

"What are you doing down here?"

You didn't even realize you were crying until the tears drip off your chin; only able to utter a single sentence.

"Selene, what did you do?"

"Y/n, honey, just come back to bed."

"What did you do."

She enters the room, holding out her arms to you. "It's not easy to explain.. we can take about it in the morning."

"What did you do?!"

"What I had to!" She shouts back. "You don't know how many people want to take you away from me, how much they tell me I don't deserve you. I need you, Y/n. I love you."

She walks towards you, placing her head on your chest; feeling the heavy drum of your heart. "So much... that it hurts."

You gently push her away, refusing to look her in the eyes. "Selene, you have to tell me everything."

She shakes her head. "No.."

"It'll be alright. You just need to tell me what happened."

"They'll take you away from me.."

"Selene you hurt someone.."

"I did it for you!" Selene grabs the basement key which you had careless left on the table, running to the door before you can even realize what was going on. The door shuts before you can make it across the floor, the lock clicked into place. You pound on the door; shouting her name.

"Selene? Selene! Please open the door."

Selene is eerily calm, placing her hand on the door as it vibrates from your banging. "It's okay, my love. I'll let you out when you've calmed down. We can talk this over during a nice breakfast in the morning."

"Dont leave me down here!"

"I'm not going to." Selene sinks down beside the door, making herself comfortable on the hard floor. She doesn’t sleep that night; even when the pounding stops and your tears begin. She offers you the best comfort as she can through the thick wood; no one there to do the same for her while the shadows linger beside her - but that's okay. Listening to their damning whispers for one night is the least she can do as your loving wife.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere scenarios #yandere oc #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere female #Yandere housewife #yandere fic #tw yandere #yandere love #yandere story

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quickhacked · 2 years

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🧑‍🦰🍷💓🧳💀🧸 for my boy Vito for the oc asks

YEAAAS VITO MY BELOVED AAAAA THANK YOU SO MUCH MWAH

🧑‍🦰 - have they ever dyed their hair? ever cut it themself?

now this one is. well. not funny actually GHJDFHGJD vitali LOVED his long hair and really did not want to get rid of it EVER. but. well. in his fourth year of college he had an insane breakdown (i might write about this for the broker chapter at some point tee hee) and ended up cutting off his hair :( he still feels horrible about it but. well. he also refuses to let it grow out again because of. his mother mostly. something something a mother's obsession with her daughter's (gender neutral) hair and so on. there's much to say about that but i shan't go too deep into it <3 LMFAO

he's always dyeing his hair and also bleaching it too. his natural hair color is very dull brownish black. like his mother's hair :) do i need to say more :) it's funny because his sister roksana has now also bleached AND cut her hair. there's. there's much to unpack here but. you'll figure it out

🍷- how do they feel about alcohol?

vitali has VERY mixed feelings about it. on one hand he tries to limit his alcohol intake because he used to drink a LOT when he was younger and, well, in the broker chapter he's also had a lot at some point which didn't really do him well so he tries to stay away from it. but at the same time he Does really enjoy a drink or two. so. two wolves inside of him truly

💓 - what are some signs they’ve fallen for someone? how do they show their affection?

vitali is very gentle with people he cares about to begin with, but especially when he's in love this is very much visible in the way he acts around them. he's not one to initiate things anymore since. well. all of his failed relationships in the past. but he always gets SO happy when the person he's in love with is around and he's always trying to involve them in things so he can see them more :] this is how mikhail was able to tell vitali was in love with vincent SGHFJDGHD boy cannot hide it <3

🧳 - what countries have they been to?

vitali has only been in the united states unfortunately </3 though he doesn't really want to go to any other country even if it's just for a vacation, he's doing just fine here. well. "fine". you know what i mean

💀 - how do they feel about horror movies?

vitali is pretty neutral on them! he can enjoy a good horror movie but is also very good at thinking of The scariest image he can possibly imagine when he's in the dark outside. so whenever he watches a horror movie he looks up what he can expect from it first and prefers to watch with others there so hopefully he won't save a lot of scary images to the scary image gallery in his brain SHGFJDHGJDF

🧸 - do they have any stuffed animals? if so, are they decorative or do they sleep with them?

at this point it's safe to say all my ocs have stuffed animals unless explicitly stated otherwise SGHFJGHDJ vitali has a BUNCH of them from his childhood but most of them are in a box somewhere. until he meets vincent :] he eventually puts them somewhere in view again but they're mostly decorative, it would be around the time he and vincent also get together so if he needs to hold something in his sleep he can just hold vincent <3

oc asks!

#asks #mutuals #strafethesesinners #ask:vitali #oc asks #he is so so dear to me. the first question is something i could talk about for HOURS i'm not kidding

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dynamoe · 2 years

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also on archive of our own (save your eyes, read it there)

words: 3,389

SUMMARY: Billy has a crush on the mean girl who works the video store, but it's… just complicated, ok? Pete disapproves.

Billy pitched his tapes onto the unnecessarily high check-out desk of VIDEO MADNESS, the VHS rental with the best selection the way home from work. He stopped in there at least twice a week now that the trailer’s TV reception was on the blink.

“All good, Bonaduce?” asked the check-out cashier in a bored voice.

“Bonaduce?” Billy puzzled momentarily, “Oh. Right, ‘cause of my hair. Ok. I get it.”

She snapped her gum, stone-faced. She was one of those surly cooler-than-thou teenagers with a Kool Aid dye job, weird-colored fingernails and Buddy Holly glasses – a Riot Clrrrk.

“Of all the thingsch you could have made fun of I guessch that’s the moscht benign,” Billy lisped heavily, taking his video membership card out of his wallet.

“Well, I hadn’t heard you talk yet,” she said flatly.

Billy sighed. She flashed him a crooked grin.

“I’m just giving you the business. Relax, Bill Mumy.”

His life was an ever-repeating cycle of people picking on him just to see him flip out in rage. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction; he hadn’t ever seen this cashier before today. It was usually Mr. Mustafa, the owner, on the register. He must have just hired this high school kid to cover nights.

She shook the cassette of Barry Lyndon at him, “R-rated. Not for you, Pete n’ Pete!”

Billy sputtered, “What the– I’m over 18.”

“Pull my other leg and go pick a Disney Classic out of the vault, Carrot Top.”

Fuming, Billy pulled his ID out of his wallet and slapped it on the checkout desk (with difficulty, while on his tiptoes. Why were video store desks so damn high?) The cashier picked up the ID and eyed it ruefully.

“William Whalen. Born 197X. Making you—” She moved her lips while doing the mental arithmetic.

“Twenty-two.”

“— Ninetee— twenty-two,” She frowned and scanned the barcodes on his tapes.

“It’s a really good fake ID,” she said, pushing the stack of videos towards him, “I can recognize craftsmanship but there’s no way in hell you’re twenty-two. Enjoy your movies, Opie.”

Billy won but he was still called a liar. And a child.

This would not stand.

II. WORRYING DREAMS

Neuroscience was Billy’s special field of interest. He read every new study that was published on the formation of memory and the chemistry of thought. He knew what dreams were.

In REM sleep, the brain stem releases acetylcholine which travels to parts of the forebrain. Cholinergic activation of these higher areas generate meaningless images onto which the brain's cognitive areas attempt to impose sense or structure. Sleep rebooted the brain which reran images from waking life in a random order to erase or suppress parasitic nodes and process. Duh!

Even when Billy woke up sweat-soaked with a head full of vivid images of bending that video clerk over a display of New Releases and forcing a squeaky plastic VHS clamshell of the The Apple Dumpling Gang into her mouth to stifle her screams while he rode her raw... that didn’t mean anything, right?

Just... random... images...

III.

A couple days later, Billy clocked out of his library shift and said his goodbyes. He rarely was asked to stay late unless a new shipment of books had to be added to the database when the old lady volunteers who were afraid of computers were scheduled. He collected his own library books to check out for the night. Using the interlibrary loan system he was able to get anything assigned at the state college level for pre-med and even some textbooks from medical school proper. By his estimation, he had done all the reading for the first three years (but none of the lectures or blood-and-guts practical stuff) of med school by now.

Pete White didn’t leave his job until 5, plus his commute, which left Billy with 2-3 hours to kill. He bought an espresso from the coffee kiosk and camped out on the one bench in the strip mall near a neglected clump of bushes. He had barely cracked open Contemporary Topics in Pulmonary Disorders when he felt a tap on his head.

“Always unsettling to see extras from your life in one context recast into another.”

Billy looked up, “Mean video store clerk.”

“Customer with the fake ID,” she labeled him back.

Billy frowned, “It’s my real ID.”

She sat beside him, “How exciting to discover you are homeless! And live on a bench!”

“I’m not homeless, I’m waiting for my ride home.”

“I’ve got a car. I can give you a ride right now.”

“I wouldn’t want to imposzche,” he droned, leaning into his lisp on the last syllable.

“Even better, come eat with me” she nodded to the greasy spoon across the highway, “I’ll take you home right after.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not? Scared?" she smirked mockingly

Billy closed his textbook, “Let me call my roommate. Be right back.”

He found a payphone by the gas station. “White, don’t pick me up after work.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I got a ride.”

“It better not be a man with a van telling you he’s got candy and a lost puppy.”

“No, it’s not—”

“Stranger danger, Billy!”

“It’s a girl.”

A pause on the line.

“It’s a friend,” Billy explained frantically, “A friend-who-is-a-girl offered me a ride home.”

“Since when do you have friends?” White asked incredulously.

“We just met. At the video store.”

Further pause. White cleared his throat, “We’ll… we’ll talk about it at home, ok?”

Dial tone.

Not the reaction Billy was expecting. Was White jealous or was he worried? Was this girl actually going to do something bad to him? He wasn’t nervous before but he suddenly was now.

“Ok. I’m good,” Billy said, finding the video clerk going through his library books on the bench.

“Heavy stuff for half pint,” she observed, waggling Diagnosis and Treatment in Respiratory Physiology in mid-air.

“Before you get into your mental rolodex of every pop culture figure of the last 50 years with this color hair,” Billy stated preventatively as he extended a hand, “I’m Billy.”

The clerk looked at the hand and up at Billy's formal expression before collapsing in giggles, “A handshake? That’s hilarious. You’re joking, right?”

Billy still stood with hand extended resolutely, “And you are?”

As her laughter tapered off into wheezing, the clerk collected herself, stood up ramrod straight and extended her own hand stiffly, “Jolly good. Alison Wendy Kahan of the Rockrimmon Hills Kahans. I look forward to working with you.” She gripped his hand a little too firmly and bounced it twice.

“Let’s fucking go already. I’m starving,” she complained as she bounded off. Billy collected his books and scrambled behind her.

She wasn’t exactly pretty, as far as girls go, but every choice she made in how to dress or style her hair seemed to make herself look worse – mismatched and crazy and dirty. The heavy boots gave her a stomping gait and her old sweater was full of holes. Her fingernails were the color of a bruise, her glasses were too big for her face and she had plastic toy barrettes meant for a baby in her self-cut choppy hair.

It was a luxury of normal-looking people to dress-up “weird” instead of having the choice made for them by nature, he supposed.

Walking with Alison felt off. She was taller than him but didn’t tower over him. The top of his head lined up with her collarbone, which meant he was eye-level with her chest, which he tried not to stare at. He figured her for 5’1 — maybe 5’4 with those platform boots on her feet. He hadn’t walked anywhere with anyone other than Pete White for years. He couldn’t figure out his angles of where to look while they talked-and-walked.

The coffee shop up by the supermarket was gross and greasy but they sold cigarettes without checking ID. It was a dead time between lunch and dinner so they had the place to themselves and grabbed a booth in the smoking section (it was all the smoking section, honestly). Alison wanted a strawberry milkshake and, because the name on the menu made her laugh, ordered disco fries for the table. They both smoked, proving their teenage rebel bona fides (better late than never in Billy’s case).

“So,” Alison stared him hard in the face, “What’s your deal?”

More out of fear of dead air than a burning desire to share, he spilled, “I work at the library in the mornings. Shift ends by three so I usually have to kill a couple hours before my roommate gets off work and can pick me up. And I wash dishes at Sparky McGee’s American Diner Classic on the weekends.”

“Who’s your roommate?”

“Who, White?”

“White?”

“Um. This guy named Peter White. He’s older than me.”

“Taller, too.”

“Hard not to be,” Billy conceded without protest.

“Is he cool?”

“Oh, definitely. Very cool. Knows all about records and computers. But also kind of a massive dickweed, too. He didn’t seem to like the idea of me getting a ride from you.”

“How do you know him?”

Billy struggled, how to best euphemize it, “We worked together out in Los Angeles but that job ended suddenly. We did a cross-country road trip and sort of just ended up here, like… six or seven years ago now, I guess.”

Alison suddenly sighed, “I can’t wait to get out of this town and move to, like, a real city.”

“What do you, uh, like?” Billy asked, displaying his mastery of smooth conversational transitions.

“Movies, obviously. And I make stuff,” Alison jangled her employee lanyard decorated with small plastic charms and buttons and a severed Barbie doll’s head with a huge safety pin through it. Billy felt a little squeamish at the sight of that.

“And thrifting. Look what I scored it at the Goodwill in Mesa Ridge”, she said, lifting her purse from her side and plunking it on the table.

Billy gasped, “Oh my God.”

A genuine metal Rusty Venture lunchbox. Sure, it was a little beaten up but in good shape for being twenty years old. Paint color was bright. No rust damage and the hinges looked solid. He rated it “Good/Fair” but she’d drilled holes into either side to attach a shoulder strap, so it’s collectibility was not her concern.

“It was either this one or a Muppet Babies one that had a big dent in the side. But I couldn’t resist this shit,” Alison swiveled it to show off the art on back, “B’caw! Hot flying dinosaur action!”

“Pterosaur,” Billy corrected mechanically without even thinking. Quizboy's Tourette's.

“Huh?”

He changed the subject, “I had that exact same lunchbox when I was nine.” He ran his hand over the embossed metal and was flooded with warming nostalgia.

“Eh, I don’t know much about the show. I’ve only seen a couple episodes on USA Cartoon Express or Cartoon Network. Seems pretty dumb.”

“I’m a massive fan,” Billy caught himself, “Was. As a kid.”

“I’m sure it’s aged super well. Homoerotic male power fantasy in a world with no female characters.”

Billy fought the urge to point out there were TWO canon female characters actually: an Amazon death priestess in “Curse of the Brass Idol” and a cocktail waitress in the background of a casino scene.

“Yeah, well seen Johnny Quest lately? I’m pretty sure Race Bannon literally calls natives ‘godless savages’ every other episode,” Billy deflected.

“Thank God our generation grew up on Saturday morning cartoons that existed only to sell action figures and crap. Good wholesome capitalism über alles,” Alison made a lazy jerk-off gesture.

She thought they were the same age. Billy suddenly realized he had no idea how old Alison was. Was she underage? Had he lured her under false pretenses? Humbert Humbert. His anxiety was in full flower as he ran a jittering french fry through the daub of brown gravy on the plate.

“How come I’ve never seen you at school?” Alison asked, “Catholic school or homeschool?”

“I already graduated. I finished high school at 12.”

“Whoa. I didn’t know people actually did that.”

Billy held up his arms in a mock victory pose, “Genuine boy genius here.”

“You’re gonna think I’m hella dumb then,” Alison smirked, “I’m not even passing most of my classes.”

Billy waved off her concerns, “You’re not ‘dumb.’ The secret they don’t tell you is that nothing you learn in high school actually matters,” he tried to seem worldly-wise, “Actual real life requires a totally different skill set.”

“You probably were, like, valedictorian graduating top of the class or some shit.”

“I was out sick too much,” Billy remembered, “I wouldn’t have wanted to be anyway. The valedictorian has to give a speech at graduation and I’m not, er, the best public speaker.”

“I’m so ready to be out of school. Just one more year,” Alison said, resting her head on the table and stamping her feet.

“Do you know what you want to do?”

“Not this,” she said, still face down on the table.

“College, probably?” Billy suggested.

“More school, no way! I just want to go to the coast and make movies.”

“Then I look forward to renting them from whoever Mr. Mustafa hires as your replacement,” Billy said, moving his face sideways to attempt to meet her gaze. He wasn’t sure of the approved method to have a conversation with a person mushing their face into a tabletop.

“My dad said he’d get me a movie camera for graduation,” Alison said, sitting up and going for the disco fries, “If I graduate.”

“At my school all the rich kids got new cars as a graduation present,” Billy recalled, “I got a cerebral shunt and a limited course of hormone therapy. Invasive brain surgery and six weeks of my mother sticking me in the ass with giant horse needles.”

“A boy’s best friend is his mother.”

“The upside was I stopped wetting the bed every night and my balls finally dropped so it wasn’t all bad.”

Alison looked horrified. Overshare. Fuck, he had to pull it back.

“Sorry. I usually only ever talk to White so I don’t have enough of a social filter,” Billy blushed to his ears.

“Shunt sounds like a British swear word.”

“It’s a tap in my brain that lets the goo run out so my head doesn’t explode.”

Alison looked even more stricken. This one he could science his way out of.

He flipped over the paper place mat and drew a simple diagram: outline of a human body, brain, skull, some organs. He sketched a little rectangle above one ear going from the outside into the side of the brain.

“When I was a baby the first shunt was on the outside of my head but it gets kind of inconvenient being tethered to, basically, a head colostomy bag.”

“So a doctor drilled a hole into your head when you were a baby,” Alison attempted to summarize, horrified.

“A hole in my skull from the outside. But a shunt puts another hole inside my brain to put a little silicone water slide that slowly drips the fluid out of the skull and into my guts,” Billy drew more features on his diagram, circling the brain, “Less fluid, less pressure inside here.”

“So... your head can get smaller?” Alison said, struggling to keep up.

“Unfortunately, that ship has sailed,” Billy shrugged, “But I won’t die. You win some, you lose some.”

“Awesome looking robot hand. Does it do anything cool?”

Billy scratched his head and then grabbed his water glass from the table and lifted it one inch, “Taa-daa!”

“No, dumbass. Does it shoot lasers and shit?”

“A self-powered neurologically-interfaced, biologically-integrated mechanical prosthesis is a miracle of science,” he protested “But no, it does not shoot lasers.”

“Lame,” she pronounced.

“I can’t even get it wet. I have to wrap it in a freezer bag with rubber bands before showering,” Billy confessed.

Alison put out her cigarette on the dregs of the disco fries, “Wanna go?”

Her car was a third-hand American-made family tank that looked like it had been through all the wars. Whatever color it had been when it rolled off the Detroit assembly line was buffeted to “off-puke.” A previous owner for reasons known only to them had coated half the car with house paint and the oddly non-glossy finish made the car seem like it was made of rubber. Pits and scratches over the hood had lumpy patches of Bondo smeared over them and the passenger side door didn’t match the rest of the car.

“Behold, the Gossamer Angel of Death Boat-of-Car Wagon Deluxe!”

“Seriously?”

She threw her entire body weight against the door to wrench it open with a horrible grinding squeal, “It’s a piece of shit but it gets me where I’m going at a quarter mile to the gallon.”

Billy took a deep breath and jumped inside. The interior stank of mold and old cigarettes, but it was less exposed than hanging off the back of the Conjecture Scooter.

Alison pushed a mixtape into the stereo and they drove into the desert late-afternoon. Fifteen. Twenty minutes. Billy was aware of how far into the nothing he was dragging her.

“You can drop me here, I can walk the rest of the way.”

“In the middle of nowhere? Bad things happen in the desert. No way. I’m taking you to your front door.”

“I– I don’t want you to see where I live,” Billy admitted, “It’s… kinda bad.”

“I’m not judging you, Yahoo Serious.”

Billy sighed. He might as well have her drive all the way there. He directed Alison further down the largely abandoned highway as everything came into view over the horizon. His whole stupid life. Wind turbine. Jet engine. Neon Sign. Trailer. His Albino.

White sat on the trailer steps waiting with a plastic tarp over his head, dressed in only his boxers and sunglasses. He made an exaggerated gesture at his watch and a thumbs down.

“That’s your roommate?”

“Uh, yeah,” Billy was mortified.

Alison thought for a minute. “Man, your shower drain hair trap must look like a creamsicle.”

IV.

“I like talking to her and we’re just friends. I have no expectations.”

“How can someone so smart be so dumb,” White groaned, “You don’t know anything about human behavior or social cues or how society works. You’re a baby.”

Billy was lost in his own thoughts and theorized, “I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend before.”

“You got me, fella.”

Billy squinted, “I don’t know what you are to me.”

“A guardian angel.”

“A cautionary example,” Billy snapped back.

Billy searched his memory for anyone he could claim as a ‘friend.’ When he was in regular elementary school none of the other kids talked to him. High school? Just acquaintances of proximity. Too big an age gap for friendship. Situational peers. The other quiz kids on the Boy Genius circuit? Competition and most of them were real pricks to boot. For the last five years, Pete White was all he had.

White shook his head, feeling deflated, “I just don’t wanna see you get hurt, pally.”

“I can handle a social relationship with someone who’s not you,” Billy snorted indignantly.

“That’s not what I meant,” White said quietly.

“And if I can’t handle it then I’ll learn something from the experience,” Billy concluded rationally.

White just stared at him. The kid had no idea about the truck coming to run over him.

Pete White was no genius – he admitted that easily – but he knew a lot about being run over by trucks that looked like pretty girls right up until they were crushing the life out of him with 18 furious wheels going a million miles an hour.

He made truly terrible decisions most of the time – another thing he freely admitted to-- but from the time he figured what girls were for, the amount of terrible decisions increased ten-thousandfold. He had pointedly sworn off girls, blow, booze and pills from the moment they left Burbank hoping to pare that number down but now he was watching poor, stupid, naive Billy fall blindly backwards into the same mistakes he made a ten years ago.

This wasn’t gonna end well.

to be continued...

also available on AO3

The motivation to write this has less to do with the spin-off concept than realizing I've never seen a Billy romance fic while everyone and their brother bumps uglies fan-fictionally with his roommate. I've never written romance but luckily '90s indie cinema can guide the way with awkward comedy-(anti-)romances like Welcome to the Dollhouse (1995) or Rushmore (1998) —

youtube

—where no one gets what they want. I'm keeping it canon-compliant so, y'know, it can't end well for young Quizboy. If you catch my drift.

Names She Calls Billy

Bondaduce - child actor, Danny Partridge from the Partridge Family

Bill Mumy - child actor, Will Robinson on Lost In Space

Pete n’ Pete - Nickelodeon show about 2 red-haired brothers (1992-1996)

Carrot Top - red-haired prop comic

Opie - Ron Howard's character on The Andy Griffith Show

Yahoo Serious - Australian comedian, star of Young Einstein

The Corner Video Store

Users of this site are very young and may not even remember video stores. Pre-streaming. Pre-DVD. Before Blockbuster or Hollywood Video mega-chains, you rented your videos from scrappy independent shops with a random selection of strange movies (sometimes bootlegs), but only one copy of each.

Maybe you had one local chain with a couple locations (in my suburb it was Erol's Video who were muscled out of business by Blockbuster expansion and were reborn in the 2000s as a hosting service Erol's Internet) If you ever lived in Manhattan, you may remember the notorious KIM'S VIDEO (it lasted into the 2010s) with their notorious cooler-than-thou film snob clerks who judged all your rentals. You can watch the Michel Gondry movie Be Kind Rewind (2008) for an elegy to weirdo independent video rentals. But, unfortunately, it's not that good as a movie.

They also almost all had a crazy high counter when you checked out.

Shitty Math to get Billy's Age

For my purposes, Billy was born in 1974.

The first drafts I never said what year it was taking place in (as VB never says the year their flashbacks take place in), therefore didn't give Billy's birth year in the text (doing the anime trope of 19XX which makes no sense since I put a year on the story, I know.)

According to St. Cloud (S05E01), they were both 15 when they completed on Quizboys. (But how long was Billy's run on Quizboys? More than a year?) Billy's game show downfall takes place before the fall of the Berlin Wall (Nov '89); if the Bilderberg Group decided it at that year's meeting, is Invisible Hand also set in 1989? If yes, Billy is 15 in 1989.

Billy says he is 35 in S03E05, first aired in 2008 (making his birth year= '73) and 37 in S04E03 in 2009 (birth year= '72). But are the episodes taking place in the year they're aired? I'm not even factoring in the month and when Billy's birthday is. (When is Billy's birthday?)

The only other character to state his age on screen is Doc (43 in S01E08, 2004). Pete White has to be within three years of his age as they were at school together and neither was a Freshman. I didn't want more than a 10 year gap between Billy and White, so I fudged it— Pete White was born in 1966, making him 29-30 in this story (June 6, 1966, the same birth date as Rosemary's Baby; his parents were Satanists trying to create the antichrist. Albinism is a good start, but he ended up more annoying than evil so they left the cult.)

So, Pete is the oldest limit of Gen-X and Billy is the youngest Gen-X (missing being an elder Millennial by a good 6-10 years)

Riot Grrrls and Snark Goddesses

Riot Grrrl was a loosely affiliated third-wave youth feminist movement centered on DIY punk/indie music and zines. Initially meant to address sexism in the punk scene of Olympia, Riot Grrrl became a larger calling out of misogyny in American culture. Kathleen Hanna/Bikini Kill and Bratmobile are two of the major acts associated with it. There's tons written about it elsewhere online by people with better sources. But it more widely influenced general "cool girls," even those not in bands, to take a "fuck you" attitude towards... everything.

The archetype of the apathetic mean girl emerged in the '90s. Dark or dyed hair. Glasses. Monotone affect. Standup comic Janeane Garofalo, who got wider exposure from The Ben Stiller Show (1990-93) and Reality Bites (1994), was the original pop-culture template. Enid Coleslaw and her friend Rebecca in Dan Clowes' comic Ghost World epitomized the type in cartoon, emphasizing the adoration of kitsch culture and garbage media. MTV's animated Daria (1997 - with earlier appearances in Beavis & Butt-head) was the trickle-down dead end of the type which was all but gone by the end of the decade.

Despite being new to fan fiction (this is only my 2nd) I'm aware of the concept of "Mary Sue" and "Self Insert" characters, (which I am at great pains NOT to create) but oh god did I want to be one of these kind of girls in high school because they were the fucking coolest. (I was monotone & mean and liked obscure garbage but was too into comedy, too online, and too friendless to be a real riot grrrl)

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hes-writer · 4 years

Text

Reign (3)

Summary: harry sees something he's supposed to have

Warnings: angst in the beginning, angst in the middle, angst near the end

Word Count: 4881 words

A/N: @devilinbetweenthesheet-s : dont cheat and don’t do drugs, kids

Tarnish (1) . Halo (2) . Reign (3) . Trial (4) .

Errors (5) . Ruin (6) . Crumble (7)

Error Taglist

____

A writer that cannot write is dead.

When one loses the ability to tell their stories and anecdotes through the mere action of swirling words together to create an imaginable atmosphere of real-world fantasy; they are dead. A writer recovering from the mundane and mediocre way of penning experiences to bounce back into what they used to be is difficult. It is easier to free fall and drown in the depths of despair. The moment thoughts and rumination fog up to form a blurry image of conviction is a warning sign, blaring at the back of their minds and sometimes even in their faces.

Harry is a writer--or, he was. Picking up the pen to style the words lingering in his head used to be as easy as blinking; quick and natural. Now, the words claw at the swell of his throat, trying to spit an adjective to describe the way he felt. It was at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be lathed into existence. It did not matter if his cognition was mingled with various chemicals aimed to be able to feel happiness.

He was sober but he had trouble placing his finger on why it was so strenuous to narrate his feelings throughout the breakup. Being high or drunk was never the answer for him. Weed made him tired and made him have a case of cottonmouth. Harry learned from a young age that he should only ever engage with alcohol if he was in a mindset and setting that catered to increase existing good vibes. He thought that maybe he was in an odd phase of perceiving the opposite, and so he intoxicated himself enough to understand that it didn’t matter if he was soaked head-to-toe in sobriety or whizzed out of his mind by the amber liquid swirling in the glass in his hand. But that wasn’t the circumstance. It also didn’t matter if he was grasping his favourite pen to write--because it was comfortable--or tapping his calloused thumbs against his phone keypad. Hell, it didn’t make a difference when he sat down and prepared his typewriter to indulge in a headspace of vintage songwriting. Maybe that would help.

It didn’t.

He had stories to tell. Everything was laid out in misty overcast yet Harry’s great ideas morphed into gentle mistakes, harsh mistakes and discoveries that had him almost ripping his hair out of the roots of his scalp. When he felt the wave of his ocean-thoughts rise and peek where the sand shifted, his fingers were ready to move and discern for the eyes to see. But with each fritter, he couldn’t seem to get even two paragraphs in to decide that it was utter shit.

Harry was old enough to understand that slumping on the wet sand was a part of life. Sometimes picking up a fistful of grains and throwing them back to the sea was a great way to release frustration. But it seemed like this plunge of his ability to write was a hole of quicksand. He was trying his hardest to displace himself as swiftly as possible but it only made his scenario worse. The muddy sand clung unto his legs like sticky glue, heftier with each effort to leave. He wanted to move on. He wanted to forget everything that occurred in the past four years. Harry wanted to erase Y/N from his life because she wasn’t around anymore to bring those memories back to sparkly existence.

What he needed to do was nestle himself into a certain depth, calmly, in order to pull a limb out and ensure that his progress on the so-called ‘moving on’ did not have any drawbacks. Until then, he cannot possibly create songs that he was well-known for if he wasn’t patient enough.

He wanted so badly to tell his side of the story. Harry craved to think as clearly as he did when he told Y/N about his plan for their future. Admitting to his feelings was a hard route. Sure, he can be vulnerable but it took a great deal of convincing on his part to immerse himself in the deepest parts of his brain to understand why he felt the way he did. He usually had the means of songwriting to help him out but that obviously wasn’t working out that good for him.

___

Harry was packing the rest of Y/N’s things in boxes to be picked up later in the afternoon. He was annoyed at first at how she depended on him to fold her clothes properly instead of doing the bundle of the work herself. But he guessed that she didn’t want to be around him for longer than she had to. To be frank, he also did not want to indulge in what might turn into an argument if they spoke about the reason for their breakup. It was just a bit confusing because he had an urge to still want her around despite their less than likely situation.

Torture. If Harry had one chance to describe the way he felt right now; it was torture. With every nook of Y/N’s side of the closet emptying into brown, cardboard boxes--he physically how much she had integrated her life with his. How much space she took up in his life. How his clothes and her clothes were so interchanged between them that he couldn’t decide if the gray pull-over was actually his or hers. And in a moment of selfishness did he tuck it away for his safe-keeping despite seeing the tag imprinted on the inside; a shop that he hadn’t set foot in so it was a guarantee that it was hers.

Her scent embedded in the thin threads of each fabric wafted to his nose; each with a new wave of memories engulfing his senses as if each piece garnered a specific scent tailored to a specific event. Like her sunflower sundress--it smelled of fresh flowers as if the print was a scratch and sniff that released a fragrance. Or their DIY-ed tie-dye shirt of pastel blue and cotton candy pink. It was a matching piece made out of the cheap dye and a simple white tee but it was theirs. Things like these made Harry want to yell in frustration because every time he thought that he was completely over her-- Y/N appears out of visibly nowhere and towers over him.

Seeing her for the first time in days was a breath of relief. She looked fine. Glowing even, and Harry did not know what to make of it. As sadistic as it sounded, he was expecting dry-stained tears and a birds’ nest of hair trampling her head. Instead, Y/N was dressed for comfort in her baggy jeans and an even looser sweater covering her body. Her lips were drawn in a thin line, giving him a nod in greeting as he gestured to the boxes littering the floor.

Harry offered to help--it was the least he could do. And somehow, silence protruded from the tense atmosphere, begging to be cut by a knife yielded through their voices nipping at each others’ emotions.

“Let go of my damn hand,” Y/N stated, her hard stare could turn Harry into stone. He just wanted her to listen before she left.

He shook his head in denial of her request, tightening his grip further. “No. Listen to me, Y/N,”

“What do you possibly have to say that will change anything between us?”

And maybe it was her fault for assuming that he wanted to fix things. The sliver of hope thinly dressed behind closed lids enabled her to think that maybe he was going to say that he wanted to make things work again. That he had broken up with Camille and he realized what a stupid he had done throwing away everything they built up to for the past four years for an affair that couldn’t quench the thirst of his desire to have a family.

Harry sighed, a shadow of mischievous smirk painted on his lips. But maybe it was Y/N’s sight in deception because she could never see Harry as anything other than sweet and kind Harry incapable of hurting a fly.

“What? I don’t intend to. We’re broken. We’re beyond fixing,”

The hitch in her breath was as sharp as the stare he was searing her with. Forcing her to please understand that this would be their last conversation--if time and fate were on their side. “You’re not something I would take the time to handle,”

“Stop saying shit you don’t mean, Harry” Y/N rolled her eyes in annoyance. His macho act was barely an act and more like a stage curtain easily pushed with a flick of a wrist.

“Things I don’t mean?”

“You heard me,” She crossed her arms over his chest in defence, leaning against the closed trunk. “Say what you will but our love was real. Don’t make me seem like I’m crazy. Don’t tell me that I’m a mistake,” Her voice was filled with confidence because she knew the affection that Harry diffused.

The cradles of his palm at the small of her back when they had to walk past a crowd. The subtle graze of the back of his fingers caressing the bare skin of her arm. Kisses pressed to her temple as she read a novel and swirling fingertips twirling her hair. These were acts of love that happened nearly every day in their relationship. A routine that felt different if it wasn’t done to or with each other.

Exasperatedly, Harry felt the same itching crawling up his spine. His ego ballooning into a delicate size and one more word from Y/N’s lush lips would have him on his hands and knees, begging for her back.

“This, us, was a fuckin’ mistake,” Harry’s accent thunked heavily in her cochlea, practically spitting the words out of his mouth as if they were poisonous. Ringed fingers gesticulated the space between them to emphasize how much of a misunderstanding they truly were. “I should’ve known the second things went further than planned,”

Y/N felt her heart drop to her full stomach. The feeling so nauseating that she instinctively palmed her belly over the fabric to protect her little baby from his harsh words. Even though they weren’t directed towards anyone but Y/N. She didn’t think that their unborn child deserved scrutiny from their own father.

“You don’t mean that, Harry.”

Because how could he? Not when he emulated sincerity through his syrupy voice. Not when he spent hours loving on her tummy and spoke to it like he would if she were pregnant. Especially not when every kiss from him felt like a buzz of electricity coursing through her veins because he was the main distributor of her happiness.

Harry truly was an asshole for making her hope and wonder of what the future held when he was unsure himself. He did want a family. That was a statement in all its truthfulness. What he wasn’t sure about was if he wanted a family with Y/N. He could have a family; kids of his own in his own time. But Y/N didn’t have to necessarily be the mother. So was he besotted with the concept of family and marriage regardless of who it was with?

“But I do,”

The rain started drizzling in frequent spurts, planting a fat droplet on her cheek that could be argued as a tear escaping Y/N’s eye. It hurt a lot to hear that from him. The man of her dreams blatantly denying each sugary word because his plans had changed.

“You’re a goddamn mistake is what you are,’

“Why are you. . .saying all these things to me? Are you trying to hurt me?” The shakiness of Y/N’s tone had Harry swallowing his words down his strep throat.

He shook his head in disagreement, “No, I’m not. ‘M just tryna make you see my side. So you can understand,” His head dipped to the side, softening his tone yet stern as though he was speaking to a child.

And that was one of the reasons why Y/N didn’t believe his all-too stoic demeanour about her. Harry was great at making others see his side regardless of how much in the wrong he was.

So why was he struggling?

___

Needless to say, he wasn’t very respectful towards Y/N any other time afterwards. He had unblocked her number months after blocking it at one point and demanded answers that he didn’t have the right to know. In retrospect, Harry was embarrassed by the way he acted. He did cheat on her and suddenly he was a saint because she moved on quicker than he thought she would? Unbelievable.

In his defence, the night he became the drunk caller was the same night he fought with Camille about having children; having a family they can call their own. Ever since that discussion did Harry notice a dispatch in their relationship. It was like they were aware of a missing link that had disappeared in their connection, but neither one of them wanted to be the one to bring it up. Harry supposed that now that Camille knew what he wanted (and vice versa)--she was feeling the pressure of giving in to him. Don’t get him wrong, Harry absolutely wanted a family and he thought that Camille was the right partner to build it with. However, he couldn’t help the voice at the back of his mind slyly whispering that he had forced her to give him what he wanted for the sake of saving their failing relationship.

___

It had been two and a half years since he mildly and miserably accepted that his dream family was being erased like a pencil on paper.

The first year; Harry still clung to the obscure hope that Camille might change her mind of having kids. Many fights sprouted between the two of them concluding in them sleeping at different places for weeks on end until they eventually crawled back to each other like an invisible string. The second-year; Harry brought up the idea of adoption. It was a hard choice for him as he desperately wanted kids of his own. A boy that looked like him and his love or a little girl that smiled at him with deep dimples mirroring his own.

And Harry liked to think that he was just on the edge of convincing Camille to consider the option when his tour was scheduled a few months after. A new dealbreaker was that Harry wasn’t going to be around much to watch and nurture the little bub they might’ve adopted. It was a sudden intrusion to think about since Harry was good with kids. He knew that. That was why he had three godchildren of his own. But what hit him the most was how sure Camille sounded when she yelled at him about leaving for months at a time and returning for a bit, only to leave again. Now, Harry hadn’t considered that part. But surely he will be ready to choose between a family and his career, right? When the time comes, he thought.

___

It pained Harry to admit that his relationship with Camille was dwindling down the drain. The knowledge that there was no future--the one that Harry envisioned--for them was getting more and more real each passing day.

A late-night grocery trip was one of the many examples that had Harry rethinking his actions for the past couple of years. It was the time period where night owls arose and barely any customers littered the aisles. Still, Harry made sure to keep his hoodie up to shield his face.

Camille had an early flight to Milan in just a few hours later that day and she wanted to purchase some things to bring with her; in case they weren’t available in the country. So here they were at three in the morning.

As Camille walked ahead of him in her sweatpants and a plain tee, Harry couldn’t help but let his eyes flicker to the clothing section to his right The first-floor space was decorated with pastel blues and pinks; a stroller was displayed with a price would not make a dent in Harry’s bank account.

“‘M just gonna grab somethin’ over here, Cam,” Harry muttered as he pointed a thumb behind him. She nodded, “Meet me at the produce? Need to get you some fruits,”

Harry felt guilt thudding his chest because although he was losing feelings he thought were written in stone, Camille appeared to care for him the same way she always had.

He walked to the brightly lit area, puffing his cheek as a cute onesie caught his eye, “You’re so golden” with the word ‘golden’ printed in a shiny, yellow glimmer. He smiled at the thought of baby angel cooing at him as he tickled her tummy. Harry passed by the shoes next, picking up a pair barely the size of his palm. His mind flashed back to a conversation with Y/N years ago,

___

“I’m just saying,” Y/N took a bite of a pickle she held on her left hand, “Baby shoes have no business being that expensive,”

Harry chuckled from his place across the counter, “Babies need shoes too, love,’

She grabbed her fork and stabbed a piece of strawberry from her bowl, “I didn’t say the don’t need shoes. For tiny things, they could at least be a bit cheaper,”

Harry watched as she munched on a pickle on her left and took a bite of a strawberry on the other. His tongue poked out in a gag at the odd combination, resorting in glare and a huff from Y/N.

“You should try it instead of judging me,’

“No, thank you. Watching you eat it is enough for me,’

___

Harry craned his head at each aisle, hoping to find Camille and to distract himself from the endless Y/N related thoughts that somehow returned to his brain. He needed his girlfriend to remind him that he cannot just knock on Y/N’s door and ask her about the baby she has. If he could hold them for a bit because his baby fever was through the roof.

Locating the produce section, Harry whistled mindlessly as he searched for a blonde head of hair, failing to notice that there was a basket in front of his feet. He had kicked it, jolting him out of his thoughts in a hurry.

A man with brown hair sporting an outfit similar to his (sweats and a hoodie), chuckled at him as Harry leaned down to retrieve the gray basket filled with a jar of pickles.

“Sorry man,” Harry muttered, holding the handles up for the man to carry.

“It’s alright, it happens,” The guy had not seen his face yet, too busy inspecting the carton of strawberries.

He decided to continue the conversation, “Strawberries and pickles? Odd combo, huh,” Harry was briefly reminded of Y/N’s obsession with the two rival products.

“Yeah, m’lady loves ‘em. Had a craving in the middle of the night. She’s in the car right now with our lil bubba,”

Harry’s heart fluttered at the mention of a baby. He needed to get his rails in check. He cannot keep having his heart bursting with adoration at the mere mention of a baby.

“I’m Connor,” He said, finally facing Harry after choosing the best carton.

“I'm--,”

“Harry!” Both men turned their heads towards Camille carrying a basket full fruits and green veggies, “Got you some stuff to blend for your smoothies,”

Connor squinted his eyes at the couple and Harry internally screamed because he knew that he and Camille had been recognized. “Harry. Yeah, I know you,” The sudden hostility made Harry confused as Connor grasped his basket from him in a harsh manner, heading towards the checkout.

The rest of the time inside the store was filled with curiosities as Harry carried the paper bags towards the car, barely recognizing Connor’s figure heading towards his own vehicle. Luckily, Harry has parked only a few slots away and could inconspicuously watch Connor and his so-called ‘lady’.

Except, Camille was ushering him to hurry up as she still had a few things to pack at home.

___

On most days, Harry was used to waking up alone. Used to feeling the shiver crawling up his side, used to seeing the indent left by Camille’s body instead of her. He had grown familiar with the sudden cast of loneliness blanketing him thicker than the duvet on top of his body.

The early morning trip to the store had tired him out, paired with the overthinking of the man named ‘Connor’ that flipped his attitude towards him quicker than he could kick the grey basket with his feet. He flopped back to the mattress after washing his face and brushing his teeth. It was noon when he jolted out of bed again at the sound of his front door opening, voices filling the empty space that had Harry running towards the foyer in case there was an intruder.

His tense shoulders sagged in relief when he caught sight of his mum and Gemma, “Oh, s’just you guys,”

Both women looked up at him at the top of the stairs, “You forgot we were coming over for the weekend, didn’t you?” Gemma teased as she headed to the living room. Harry followed, walking down the stairs.

He scratched the nape of his neck nervously, “No. . . “

“Can you help me reach this, H?” Anne called out from the kitchen.

His mum gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, “Yes, you did, by the way. Slept through the whole morning. Good thing Camille let us in before she left,”

At the sound of a bag crumpling and squeals echoing the hollow house, Harry scrunched his nose in curiosity, briskly walking where Gemm was currently holding up tiny baby clothes in front of her. “Who’s that for?” He thought of any possible friends that had had a baby recently but couldn’t recall any.

She immediately stuffed the clothing into the bag, nervously placing a hand on her chest, “Gosh, Harry, you scared me,” Her brows went high on her forehead in alarm, sharing a look with her mum trailing behind Harry.

“Well? Did I miss something?”

“Oh, it’s for one of my friends,”

Harry contemplated on his next words, “D-did you know that Y/N had a baby?” It couldn’t be right if his sister and mum knew about his exes baby and not him, right? That’s just plain odd to still be in touch with an ex's family. His brows furrowed in suspicion as both of them declined his question.

“What? Nooo,”

Awkward silence filtered through the air as Anne sipped water from her mug and Harry was slowly putting the pieces together. Gemme dove to the centre of the couch where her phone was when it rang suddenly, surprising all three of them. Harry was quicker, eyeing his mum and sister and inspecting the emoji substituting as a name before sliding his thumb to answer it.

"Hey, Gems! Are you coming to the park? We're waiting for you,”

Harry felt his heart drop to his stomach just as the phone nearly slipped from his clutch. That voice. He could recognize it from everywhere having spent nearly every morning for the four years that they were together hearing it lulling him out of sleep. It was Y/N’s voice calling his sister who was looking extremely anxious.

He tapped on the ‘mute’ button, “What does she mean ‘we’?”

“Nothing! Give me my phone back,” Gemma tried to reach for the device but Harry held it high beyond her reach.

“I saw the picture you sent me. I told you that you and Anne didn’t have to get me anything,” Harry felt dizzy. “Connor and I got some things a few weeks ago. But that skirt is so adorable!”

One part of him was glad to hear her voice. In fact, Harry found himself smiling too, despite what he just heard. Connor. “Harry, won’t be there right? Hello? Have I been talking to myself this whole time,” Y/N laughed a little; she had a habit of talking endlessly when she was excited. It made Harry more sombre, letting his guards down and his arm in reach for Gemma to grasp.

“Hey! I'm just organizing the clothes, see you soon!" Gemma jammed her finger on the red end call, anxiously glancing at her brother, piecing everything together.

“Who's Connor?" Could it be that the Connor he met last night was the same as Y/N’s? The one who bought pickles and strawberries--one of Y/N favourite food combinations? He mentioned that he had a little girl and Y/N just called to meet his sister and his mum at the park. And baby clothes?

Anne and Gemma looked at each other, quickly deciding that for the benefit of Harry that they should tell him at least a little bit. He was looking as if he was going insane, especially with his bed head pointing his hair out in different directions.

“He’s Y/N’s partner”

Harry gulped, reeling his thoughts to a halt, “Partner? And the baby is...?” The last bit of confirmation was all he needed to lash his feelings out.

“Is... waiting for us at the park! Sorry H gotta go,” Gemma was swift enough to gather all the bags without having Harry chase after her. His state of confusion and shock was enough to render him partially speechless and immobile.

“Hey wait!”

Anne garnered his attention, “Oh, Mrs. Q from next door wants me over for dinner. I’m sure wants to see us both. Why don’t you get ready, Harry?” Anne tugged his arm in the direction of the staircase pushing him to stumble up a couple of steps.

Harry was confused. He made the sounds of his footsteps creeping up the wooden stairs, hearing his mum quietly talking to Gemma on the phone, “Elmsway Park, you said? How long till you're home? I’m not sure how long I can keep him occupied,”

With that being said, Harry was out of his house, silently unlocking and locking the door. He was dressed in some basketball shorts and a graphic tee, slipping on the first pair of sneakers he had tossed aside. Harry jogged to his car, typing in the name of the park on his phones’ GPS. The route was only a few minutes away so he decided to take his time, gathering his scattered thoughts along the way.

He parked just beside the playground scouting the trees around the premises. Harry decided that it was the perfect day. The sun was out. It wasn’t too humid and the birds were chirping on the branches. He could see why the playground was full of children running around in delight. The green patches of grass were partially filled with picnic blankets and food to be shared. Families laughed with each other as one in particular caught his eye.

It made him smile at first, seeing just how adorable the couple was with their baby. He exited the car, making sure to lock the vehicle. With his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his shorts, Harry could feel the tethered grass rubbing against his legs. As he got closer, he couldn’t help the twinge of familiarity spark in his chest, recognizing that what he was staring at was Connor playfully chasing a little girl of about two-years-old as she squealed at how close he was getting to tagging her.

Harry stood by a tree, shielding him away from view. He tried to appear invisible without seeming too creepy. He knew that it was only a matter of seconds before his eyes found the woman he had been missing, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Connor picked up the little girl in his arms, dotting pecks all over the girls’ cheeks, causing her to giggle and push his face away with a tiny palm. And there she was standing outside the raised platform of the playground, coming up to the both of them with a juice box in hand to hydrate the little angel. Connor turned his attention to Y/N, planting the most adoring kiss on her lips that made her smile so wide and the baby cover her eyes. They laughed together, looking like a picture-perfect family.

Gemma sat on the bench, flickering her gaze to the precious family in front of her and to the figure of her brother walking away from the scene. Her heart broke for Harry, and it cracked, even more, when he turned back. This time, watching Connor and Y/N cheer on baby angel to go down the slide. Both of them clapped their hands in enthusiasm as the girl hesitantly slid down the plastic slide. The smile on her face was infectious.

It almost made Harry smile, too.

___

Let us know what you thought!

Trial aka pt 4 is already up on Patreon! (link in bio)

___

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greenninjagal-blog · 3 years

Text

Let Me Hear You Scream pt2

Ready for more spooky vibes? If you missed the first part you can find it [here!]

Summary: Upon waking up in a forest he doesn't recognize, Roman vs a Bear Trap goes almost exactly how you would think it goes.

Words: 6374

TW: Bear traps, blood, violence,

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Masterlist

Roman has always had an unusually high pain tolerance. He had to, being twin brothers with Remus and all that. The sheer amount of danger the two of them got into as kids delegated that if he was anything less than completely indestructible, he’d be dead the next time Remus started a conversation with “I bet you won’t…”

He remembers that summer when Remus dared him to ride his bike down the concrete stairs, and he remembers how the wheels pitched him forward and his helmet cracked on the sidewalk, his knee skidded on the concrete, and his arm went snap with pain so white hot that Roman actually thought that the whole thing had popped right off his body entirely.

He remembers lying on the ground so shocked that he couldn’t even breathe, much less cry, and he remembers Remus laughing in the background, “I didn’t think you were going to actually do it! Oh shit, Ro? Roman! ROMAN!”

He remembers it so clearly.

“REMUS!” Roman shrieks into the forest, with tears rolling down his cheeks. “THIS ISN’T FUNNY, YOU FUCKER!”

His ankle burns. He can’t feel his toes, he can’t feel his ankle, he can’t feel anything, but there’s blood all over his hands and he can’t look down in case he faints.

His hands are trembling as they blindly work over whatever the fuck he stepped on. He can feel the slushie that he last ate, swirling in his stomach, boiling and bubbling until he feels it corroding his back molars. His fingers fumble around the… the metal teeth, oh god he’s going to vomit. His ankle screams in pain when his fingers prod too close to his actual limb. His ears echo with the painful awful SNAP of the jaw mechanism like its seared right into his soul.

“Remus,” He sobs, “I’m going to fucking kill you--”

Because there was a line here; Yeah, Remus dared him into a prank war with one of his stupid “I bet you wont, you prissy goody two shoes…” and Roman poured glitter into Remus’s laundry once, then Remus replaced Roman’s toothpaste with mayo, then Roman put white hair dye in Remus’s shampoo, and Remus swore he would get some type of revenge, even though he loved that look so much that he kept a stupid white streak in his hair. At least Roman thought he did-- He did, right?

Remus wasn’t the type to keep it to himself if he was upset. Neither of them were: Roman had perfected the art of loud sighs and dramatic monologues into a microphone and Remus had set things on fire to make people pay attention.

He didn’t-- wouldn’t--

He wouldn’t drag Roman into the middle of nowhere and make him walk into a bear trap for hair dye that would come out in another few weeks.

((Wouldn’t he?))

Everyone said Remus was insane, through whispered rumors and gossip that dissipated the moment that Roman walked into the room. Roman hadn’t ever seen the insanity himself; he grew up with Remus chasing squirrels in the park and diving into dumpsters for cool treasures and it was normal. Remus had always found humor in strange and weird things and as they had grown up those things had become less real and more abstract and Roman still didn’t think it meant that Remus would do this.

The forest is dense around him, stupid, dark; Roman isn’t sure he could recognize it even if he had a map in front of him, but then again Remus was always the more environmentally aware person of the two of them. He doesn’t know where Remus went the fuck off to either-- he’s brain is fuzzy at everything more than a few seconds ago when he blinked opened his eyes and took one step forward into a metal death trap, but he… he thought Remus had been right beside him, so close that… that…. His head is singing with pain and the backs of his eyes are melting.

“Hey!” A voice calls out and Roman flinches so hard that the metal spikes dig into his ankle and his scream strangles him.

Roman blinks back his tears just in time to see a figure stumble right out the thickets nearby, with the grace of a new born fucking dear. Roman swears in every language he knows and then some he doesn’t as the person scrambles back to their feet and zeroes in on him with an expression that Roman usually associates with the memory of his science teacher right before she demonstrated how to break a frog's ribcage for their dissection.

“No,” Roman says, “No, back off--”

He tries to scoot back and agony shoots up his leg so bright and violent that his vision whites out.

“Don’t move,” the person says, holding up their palms up suddenly to show they were unarmed or something. Roman isn’t sure what that’s supposed to do when he knows that Remus himself has never needed a weapon to be a lunatic. “I’m going to try to help.”

“Do not fucking come near me,” Roman snarls. “Who are you? One of Remus’s fucking little friends--”

“I assure you I don’t know a Remus, but you are in pain and believe I am qualified to help.”

“Fuck off!”

Roman swears that the pain is getting to his head, meddling with his thoughts like alcohol except not fun and Roman would not suggest anyone repeat this experience. The stranger-- Remus’s friend or whatever-- is staring at him with a patient impatience: like his mother waiting for him to finish his story before she runs off to answer a call on her work phone. They’re older than Roman, by a year or two, with sharp cheekbones and back framed glasses of a stereotypical nerd but a height that makes it hard to even imagine anyone looking down on them. Their eyes are colder than ice, and frost wafts off their breath. They’ve got a sweater vest on, with a tie, and converse dotted with glow in the dark paint in the shape of space nebulas.

Between his teary eye lashes Roman thinks that this guy looks incredibly tame for someone who associates with Remus and he fights the urge to vomit.

Is his leg supposed to be feeling cold?

Oh god, was he going to lose his foot? His breath swells up in his lungs, like a balloon pressing against his ribs. He wouldn’t be able to walk without a foot-- He wouldn’t be able to move or leave these woods or get help-- Remus and his psycho friends could easily cut up the rest of his body and let the wolves get him and then at school when someone would ask what happened to that dumbass who used to make dumb jokes on air during the football games, everyone will be like “Who?” and “didn’t Remus used to have an annoying twin? What happened to that guy?” and no one will ever find him because no one would car--

“Please,” The Doctor Who-ever says, in a faux calm tone as Roman nearly swallows his tongue. “I have medical knowledge, and you are clearly in distress.”

Agony races up his leg and Roman whimpers again. He swears he can hear the sound of metal grinding against his ankle bones, biting in deep and forcing the marrow to crack and shatter and explode until it's just a bunch of broken glass-like fragments under his skin. His head feels light and he frantically breathes deeply because he is not going to pass out, he is not going to make it that eas--

He’s cut off by a sudden crashing from behind behind himself: snapping of branches like a wild animal is tearing through them, the crunch of dead leaves steadily getting louder and heavy and deadlier, the swearing that are all tell-tale sounds of Remus crashing directly into someone and both of them eating the dirt as they barrel through the thickets and roll to a stop a few feet away.

Nerdicus jerks back like they were expecting anything less of Remus’s spectacular grand entrance.

Roman bites down on his tongue to stop himself from outright whimpering. Remus, his twin, his mirror image, rolls back to a sitting position like a possessed doll coming to life, untangling his limbs from another crumpled, groaning form that must be some other friend of his, and snapping them back in place because what are limbs to a maniac like him? The setting sun paints him in an eerie light and Roman’s skin itches with equal parts rage and terror at him, for dragging them out there, for putting out bear traps, for doing all this as pay back for a stupid little prank in a prank war he fucking started--

Remus’s laughter is obnoxious as always and Roman tries not to flinch at the sound of it alone, holding back a white wash of fear with just his force of will.

His other friend is another person that Roman hasn’t seen before-- not that he spends a lot of time getting to know the faces of the delinquents that his brother hangs out with. They’ve got on black jeans and a black T-shirt with one of those reversible sequin designs in the shape of a skull. Their blond hair dances in the last dregs of the evening, even as they pull a leaf from their bangs and yanks their dirty yellow beanie back over their head.

“Holy shit!” Remus says, spitting out dirt from his mouth. “Is that a bear trap?”

“Remus!” Roman whimpers with a tight throat. “This isn’t funny!”

“Au contraire! I left you alone for like five seconds and now you’re in a bear trap!” There’s a glint in Remus’s eyes and Roman recognizes it from those times when Remus climbed too high in the trees back at home, when he stared at a growing flame of a match too long, when he reached across the console and yanked on the steering wheel, screaming Roman’s name--

Roman brain pulses to the point where he can feel it knock against his skull and that hurts almost as much as ankle and he swears he sees stars on the backs of his eyelids and he does not want those to be the last stars he ever sees.

Remus swoops towards him and Roman flinches back, nearly screaming when his leg jostles.

“Chill out, Prince Charmless,” his twin says, rolling his eyes. “I’m gonna get it off. What’s your range of movement?”

“Do not come any closer to me, you asshole!”

“You can’t get that thing off yourself,” Remus says.

“And whose fault is that?” Roman snaps.

Remus freezes, tilting his head slightly to the side. His rat's nest of hair creates an unearthly silhouette as he looks down at Roman, something straight out his Halloween horror films, and Roman bares his teeth in warning. He’s not thinking about how Remus’s foot can stomp down on his injured, trapped leg, he’s not thinking about how there’s no one around for miles, he’s not thinking about how there’s nothing and no one to stop him from straight out fratricide--

“Why am I suddenly getting the feeling you think I know what the flying fuck is going on here?” Remus asks.

“Don’t you?”

“No!” Remus says, delightedly, happily, cheerfully and his voice makes some distant bird caw. “I thought you snapped and took me to the woods to kill me yourself! This is much more boring now that I know I haven’t managed to break your last shreds of sanity.”

“Why would I--”

“This is ridiculous,” Glasses McGee cuts in sharply, adjusting said glasses with their index finger. “We need to remove your foot from that trap now.” They look at Remus and the other person. “Are either of you knowledgeable about the mechanics of bear traps?”

Remus throws two thumbs up, and Roman remembers vaguely a rant from a year or two ago about unethical bear hunting and steel jaw traps and how animals would step in and then lay there for days suffering as their mangled limb held them captive regardless of them trying to chew it off for freedom and oh god he’s going to be sick--

“Roman,” Remus says somewhere beyond the screaming in his head. “Oh shit.” It sounds like he’s far away and distant, or maybe underwater and Roman is drowning. He can’t seem to breathe anymore, like the teeth biting into his ankles had wrapped around his chest and was slowly crushing him.

People are moving around him, faint voices talking and then suddenly burning blinding white hot pain that shoots all the way up to the back of his eyes.

He screams and bites down only to find there’s something in his mouth-- fibers and the unmistakable taste of wool and Roman nearly gags on it. He blinks back the foggy pain and finds that he’s leaning on Remus and Webster Dick-tionary is pressing a multicolored sweatshirt to his leg delicately with the bear trap fully closed a few feet away, tethered to the ground with a heavy metal chain coated in a red paint that makes Roman’s vision sway all over again. The slushie claws back up his throat and he gags.

There’s someone new standing just behind the nerd: a very pretty person in a pretty skirt and headphones with cat ears on them around his neck. The splash of freckles and the round glasses makes them look a bit younger than the rest of them, but that could also be Roman’s brain twisting things around the moment that they wince in sympathy as the nerd prods part of his ankle.

They’re magnificent, Roman decides with a dizzying certainty. They’re the sun in the middle of this dark and dreadful forest, the stars in the night sky, the lighthouse in the storm guiding Roman back from complete devastation with just those shiny eyes behind cracked lens.

The other person, the one in the black skull shirt, Sid from Toy Story come to life, is standing just behind him and Remus, looking on distastefully from a good distance away. It takes Roman a moment to realize he’s biting down on the guy’s beanie, and gross. He spits it out at the same time as the nerd presses too close to where the trap had caught him.

“Son of a Witch!” He hisses. “A dragon witch, a fucking---”

“Oh, boo,” Remus says. “He’s alive.”

“He was not in any immediate danger of dying,” Space Case says firmly. “And isn’t he your brother?”

“Looks like someone is an only child,” Remus says. The person in black reaches out and snatches back his beanie, his entire face curling into some disgusted expression as they hold the part with Roman’s saliva away from themself.

“Wonderful,” they say in deadpan and stuff the beanie in their back pocket.

Roman blinks, struggling to sit up by himself. He scrubs his face trying to get rid of his tears, and buries that boiling humiliation being the center of attention like this. Of course, he has to be grievously injured for anyone to care about him, for anyone to take a moment to look at him, for anything--

Remus lets him go, stretching up and yawning like nothing about this is weird or strange or scary to him.

Part of Roman is reassured by that. Like, of course Remus isn’t terrified out of his mind; what is there to be scared of when he’s the most terrifying thing in a 100 mile radius? When he handcuffed himself to the doors of the city history museum to protest its demolishment even though the wrecking ball was right there, when he wore a mini skirt to school to protest the dress code even though he’d been beat up for less before, when he marched into the Governor’s office when he was refused a meeting about the rescinding of the pollution standards in the the county and laughed in the face of the armed guards that told him to leave.

Remus had an endless supply of guts and determination and Roman had wished for so long that his reckless bravery could be contained, controlled and banished, but now it kinda felt like Remus slipping a familiar jacket over Roman’s shoulders and telling him to relax.

Google.com-- Roman is seriously running out of names for them-- leans in and tears the new holes in Roman’s jeans further-- Roman grimaces at the thought of having to buy another pair to make up for this, but the nerd expertly uses the excess fabric to tie up his wound with a professional precision.

“Alright, Doc Oct,” Remus says while they work. “What is the diagnosis? Amputation? Do I need a body bag?”

“I just said that he was not in danger of dying,” they say, finishing the knot which only causes Roman to grunt a little bit. “And my name is Logan, if you must know. I am not a full medical doctor by any means, but I believe that he will recover fully; the trap broke skin and there will likely be a nasty amount of bruising deep in the muscle tissue, but he will recover in a few weeks of rest. It will probably be best to keep weight off your foot as much as possible.”

“See, drama queen?” Remus says to Roman, shoving his shoulder. “You’re fine.”

Roman gives him double middle fingers for his trouble and tries not to shake too hard with relief. He stares down at his leg, forcing a steady breath through his lungs and out his nose, and wonders with a dizzying amazement how his leg was not only in one piece but recoverable, after all the pain. He isn’t sure that it’s not just the placebo effect of someone saying that everything’s going to be okay, but he wiggles his toes and swears that the pain only wracks his limb moderately this time.

Even closed, the bear trap looked menacingly at them: Roman’s blood on the jaws that were curled into a ghoulish grin, just waiting for someone to get close enough to open and bite down on. He’s not sure how Remus and the Doctor Doolittle-- Logan-- managed to get it off him.

Logan turns and offers the sweater to the person in the skirt. “Ah, sorry, I’m afraid the blood has…”

Roman sucks in another breath at the sight of it: the bright splotchy blobs of red that bled through the pastel tye dye design that would likely never come out and eternally remain a reminder of how Roman put his foot directly in a bear trap like an idiot-- What would he have done if there was no one around? Died? His own stupidity had ruined such a nice piece of clothing and--

“It’s okay!” The angel says with a somewhat cartoonish voice. Roman blinks in surprise at the sweetness of it, tasting sugar even as the words hold over the air. He swears he can envision their I’s dotted with hearts; a soft and kind tone despite the fact that Roman had ruined their sweater. “I’m much more relieved he’s going to be okay!”

“Let’s not get too excited,” Doctor Doom says, causing Roman to stiffen and Remus to glance back curiously towards them. They’re turned away from the rest of the mismatched, miscellaneous group, looking into the trees with a gaze that makes Roman’s stomach roll over and not in any way that is even remotely good.

“What?”

They glance back at them with an expression something that Roman can only call shifty. Like a snake before it strikes, they’re poised on the balls of their feet, coiled with the power to move at a seconds decision. Untrustable, Undependable, Unkind-- and Roman squares his shoulders just to prove to himself that there isn’t actually a dagger point about to plunge into his back.

The person’s voice is silky smooth, but Roman can’t find it in himself to be jealous when the meaning of the next words hit. “I don’t suppose any of you remember just exactly how we came to be here, do you?”

The woods echo with a strange emptiness, like the trees themselves are holding their breaths. The silence is eerie-- Roman’s never been a forest this quiet. He’s never been anywhere this quiet. The hairs on the back of his neck raise up.

Logan and the shining, shimmering, lovely vision share a look and the former shrugs, occupying their hands with tying their sweater around their waist.

“It’s fuzzy,” they admit, thoughtfully. “I was leaving my dorm...and then…” They grimace, which is downright awful to witness: Roman doesn't think anyone deserves to look so uncomfortable, and certainly not a beauty like them. “...then I was here.”

Logan makes a sour face like he managed to misplace a decimal twenty seven steps back in his math equations. “I was uncharacteristically late to class, but I seem to have some form of amnesia surrounding the hours since then as well; It was just past two.”

Dr. Facilier-turned-teenager turns to Roman, their eyes asking a question they already know the answer to. And part of Roman wants to snarl at them, tell them to knock it off with the creepy aura and better-than-you-expression, explain to them exactly how they ended up all here together because there’s a logical, causal explanation.

But Remus is already laughing. “Oh come on! We were…. What were we doing again?” Remus freezes for a moment, some of the smile leaving his face. “Ro? Where were we…?”

Remus is dressed in another one of his ripped T-shirts, the Save the Turtles one that he wore to that protest a few months ago and when he volunteered to clean up beaches for the weekend. His sleeves are ripped off to show off the endangered Tiger tattoo on his shoulder up to his neck, and his jeans are the recycled ones that he bought second hand and begged Roman to repair rather than buy a new pair and “give his money to the capitalists that are trying to kill us all”.

In comparison, Roman is wearing his letterman jacket, with his name engraved on it that he got for being the announcer for the football team three years in a row. He’s wearing his announcer uniform too-- his hair is styled and his colors are coordinated to the white and red of their school, but Remus never comes to the football games anymore.

Or well, he’s not allowed to come to the games anymore after he stole the tuba from the band players and charged into the field during the game back in their freshman year.

Still he-- remembers… he thinks he remembers... They were in the car together, Remus needed to go somewhere and Roman had to drop him off and then speed off to the game, right? Remus' feet were up on his dashboard, mud flaking off into his freshly cleaned car, his air fresheners weren’t working, they were fighting over the radio, Remus’s hand reached out, latching on to the wheel and a scream--

“Fuck,” Remus says, rubbing the side of his head like Roman had slapped him. “Did you crash our car out here?”

“Me?” Roman says, incredulously.

“Yeah!” Remus says. “Did you get brain damage in the crash too? Are your brains going to fall out? You were the one driving, dumbass.”

“You grabbed my steering wheel!”

Remus snorts. “What? No, I didn’t?”

“Yes you did!”

“No way!”

“Yes way!”

“I wouldn’t get anything out of--”

“Boys!” Skeletar says, clapping to get their attention. “Less arguing, more answering the question.”

Remus looks at Roman and Roman glares right back because he did not crash the car. Between the two of them Remus was more likely to crash a car-- proven from how he totaled their green Ford Fiesta nine months ago and now even around the pounding headache he can still remember the feeling of surprise as Remus’s sporadic movement jumbled through his own, the yank that caused him to lose control, the-- the--

He doesn’t remember what happened after that, but he knows that then Roman had opened his eyes out here, taken a step forward, and nearly lost his foot to a bear trap.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Logan says. “Even if perhaps you happened to have a car around here, that does not explain how the rest of us came to be here. And likely from the events that you are describing the car is not in functional condition-- although I’m unsure how your persons would have come out of such a thing without a few visible injuries…”

“I didn’t crash the car,” Roman says firmly.

“Oh, like you didn’t step into a bear trap?” Remus asks innocently antagonistically.

“Why are there bear traps out here anyway!” Roman hisses. “Isn’t bear hunting or whatever illeg--”

Roman almost doesn’t hear it: it starts so softly and then it raises in pitch and suddenly it's ringing in the air like cracks in the fragile glass silence. He feels his breath disappear right out of his chest, his body tensing and everyone jerks towards the direction the sound comes from, like they’re expecting to see something out there.

Roman remembers hearing people yell at Remus to get out of the way of the wrecking ball, remembers hearing the teachers snap at him to go change into his gym clothes, remembers the armed guard spitting on Remus’s face, his own shouts turning to something just above an animalistic growl when he told Remus to knock it off, you’re making me look bad.

And still he doesn’t remember hearing anything sound so horrified. So desperate. So despondent.

It is the noise that causes Roman to break out in goosebumps, electricity dancing along his skin causing all of his hairs to raise, and himself to find it suddenly very hard to swallow. Roman is scrambling back before he can remember that his foot should not be moving and he bumps into Logan as he does.

It cuts off short and disappears like someone took a pair of scissors to the sound itself, snipping the scream for help away before it reaches the end.

And Roman doesn’t think anyone is breathing anymore. His heart pounds in his chest, waiting for the rest of it.

The trees cast shadows so deep and dark that not even the moonlight will touch them. Somehow without Roman noticing, the temperature had dropped until the air feels like frostbite licking his exposed skin. Roman doesn’t dare move another inch-- doesn’t like the idea of what might happen if he reminds the rest of the world that time is still passing.

“I…” the person in the skull T-shirt says, in a very low, strangled tone. “I don’t think bears are what's being hunted.”

“No,” Roman says, “No.”

“Oh god, I’m gonna be sick,” the person in the skirt says.

“No!” Roman says, throwing out his arms before his thoughts can catch up. “This is not--”

“We need to leave,” Logan says, face pale. “Now.”

“I think I saw a gate,” Remus said, no hint of his unhinged grin. He thumbs the direction that he and Kaa came from. “I pulled the switch but it didn’t open. I thought about climbing but there are no holds and barbed wire around the top--”

“It’s likely lacking a power source then,” Logan says steadily calm and Roman feels like he’s losing his whole goddamned mind. “Let me take a look at--”

“We are not being hunted right now!” Roman blurts out.

The others stare at him for a solid, endless second and Roman’s stomach threatens to crawl up his throat. He waits for them to agree with him, waits for them to laugh and call it a joke, waits for Remus to tell him he’s so easy to scare, come on Ro, did you really think there was a murderer in these woods? This is grade school level effort!

Roman gets the feeling that he’s going to be waiting a very long time.

“Guys,” Roman says, slightly more wobbly than he means it to, slightly more softer than he means it to, slightly more terrified than he means it to. “We aren’t being hunted for sport, right?”

Because-- Because he’s seen horror movies. And he remembers once how Remus poured a bag of popcorn over his head and said that if they were ever in that situation, he’d leave Roman to rot, maybe even toss him to the killer himself, laugh as Roman screamed and begged and cried.

He doesn’t look at his foot. He doesn’t look at his foot and think about how he can’t run. He doesn't look at his foot and realize that they’re going to leave him behind and no one will ever know what happened to him and no one will care--

Remus is suddenly right in front of him, offering a hand right into Romans face. Roman blinks back the burning tears on his cheeks and looks at the limb with a trembling lip.

“Come on,” Remus says. “You’re a little bitch when you ruin your mascara, Ro.”

And Roman tries to articulate the billions of insults he has in his brain, but all that comes out is a whimper as Remus latches on to his wrist and pulls him to his feet. He stumbles the moment that he tries to put weight on his foot, flickers of pain echoing in his brain although it's not nearly as bad as he was expecting. Remus pulls Roman over his shoulder with his injured leg raised between them and all of his weight on Remus’s shoulders.

“I’m not leaving you behind, dumbass,” Remus says.

((Why wouldn’t he?))

“We need to help them,” the person in the skirt, the good and just and wonderful person in a skirt, says suddenly.

“I don’t think they need our help,” Hans Gruber-minus-the-German-accent says. “In fact, I don’t think they need anything, anymore.”

“How could you say that?!”

“Easily,” they respond, shortly.

The person in the skirt is shaking, Roman realizes. They’re shaking and hugging themself and they look slightly green in the face.

“I came from over there,” they say from behind trembling hands. “I-- I didn’t hear anyone else over there but they must have been there and I-- I can’t--”

“They’re dead,” Dr. Jerkyll says clinically, like a surgeon with a knife. “Us rushing towards that area is only going to get us attacked next. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to die, thank you very much.”

“We can’t leave them!” The other argues.

The person in the skull shirt steps towards the other and grabs their upper arm to spin them back to the direction the scream came from. Then with a derisive and terrible sneer, they shove. The cutie in the skirt stumbles forward, nearly face planting on the uneven ground.

“Then you go help them,” they say, with streaks of faint and awful moonlight painting them in a pale halo. They wave back to Logan, Remus and Roman, and Roman feels very much like he doesn’t want to be included in this group all of a sudden. “Don’t drag the rest of us into it.”

“Hey, don’t be a dick!” Roman says, stepping forward and hissing when he places a slight weight on his foot. “What if it were you out there?”

They scoff. “Me? I would never let myself get caught by a psycho murderer in the woods. But if I did, the last thing I would want is my valiant savior to come charging to my rescue and then get slaughtered right beside me like an idiot!”

“I’ll keep that in mind, you slimy snake,” Roman says.

“I bet you will, Hiccup,” they shoot back. “The gate is this way. Try not to step in another bear trap, won’t you?”

“Damn!” Remus says, “You’re a bitch! What’s your opinion on plastic in the sea?”

Roman slaps Remus’s arm and gives him a glare because really? Right now? They’re in the woods, someone just screamed and probably got murdered, they don’t know how to get out, Roman’s injured, and Remus is doing one of his weird flirting attempts.

Great.

The person in the skull shirt at least looks slightly thrown by the question, narrowing their eyes and shaking their head as they turn away as if they can brush off the rest of the group. “The sea turtles are dying.” They say blandly, without a hint of actual emotion. “Oh no. Next time I see one I will give my condolences about it’s mother.”

Remus’s mouth pops open for a retort that Roman knows is going to be bad, but before he can get the words out, there’s a loud sound of cracking branches from behind them. Remus drags Roman back from the area, planting himself in front of Roman like some kind of human shield and Roman wobbles, without anything to put his injured leg on.

“Jesus Christ!” A new voice screams, as they trip over a thicket and fall into the clearing.

They move like a blur; barely more than a shadow with the ungodly amount of black they’re wearing. Roman can make out a pale face, dark bangs and terrified eyes, before the scramble back in the ground leaving… leaving smears of deep red on the ground in front of them. Their flashlight goes flying off to Logan’s feet, but they don’t seem to care as much about that as moving away from whatever is behind them.

The air tastes like metal, like copper, and Roman swears the world sways under him. His heartbeat blares in his ears almost louder than the newcomer’s hysterical sobs.

There’s a thud. And another.

And the trees themselves seem to shake and draw from the shadow that takes form. It peels away from the others, massive, hulking and distorted in all the wrong ways: at some point it must have been human, Roman thinks hysterically. It has two legs and two arms and a torso and a head, but it's elongated towering over even Logan at his ridiculous height. Its skin is covered in soot and dirt, layers upon layers to the point where Roman almost thought that it was wearing some kind of leather armor. It has rubber overalls on, strapped...strapped to its body with metal hooks that catch the thin moonlight peeking out of its bulging bare shoulders in a way that looks…looks self mutilated. The patchy ugly skin is healed around the metal, molded to it, absorbing it. In one hand is a cleaver, cobbled together from various metals with an unfinished touch and dripping scarlet all the way down the handle to its massive hands. Roman thinks that with one hand it could easily crush one of their skulls.

But worse than that, than the blood, than the stench coming from the thing, than the bloodlust that's echoing out of it: worse than all that is the mask welded to its face. A pale white skin that nearly glows in the darkness, framed with jagged sharp edges of bladed teeth in a terror inducing smile. Soulless orbs exist where eyes might have once been: now there are empty voids without a human behind them.

In a slow, almost robotic motion, it raises the cleaver in its hand. Blood rolls down the handle onto it’s hand and Roman watches the bulb of red drip down into the grass right between the newcomer’s sneakers.

Oh, Roman thinks suddenly very clearly without any room for a single doubt, This is what death looks like.

“NO!” The person in the skirt screams and suddenly they shove forward and throw themselves in front of the swing of the cleaver. Roman isn’t sure who screams louder at that: him, the person in the skirt, or the person on the ground bleeding out.

His brain is on fire, every atom in him is screaming so loud that he can’t hear his thoughts. His own breath flees his lungs with abandon that Roman’s brain somehow hadn’t gotten because instead of running away he’s running towards the monster. His blood boils in his veins and he pushes through Remus with the sort of reckless abandonment of sanity he never would have thought he’d ever make.

His vision locks onto the kid on the ground and his fingers latch on their left shoulder and he hauls them back.

The air next to his ear whistles as the cleaver misses them by centimeters and the person in the skirt screams as they fall to the side, and specks of something wet and warm and sticky flings through the air like its a water fountain; Roman feels it splatter across his face and his brain heart thuds in his chest.

Remus appears on his other side, grabbing Roman’s hostage by their other arm and they both pull them to their feet, ignoring the way they scream in pain. Their torso drips ruby into the dead grass at their feet and Roman-- Roman--

The hulking monster in front of them gives his cleaver a shake and drags it over its own arm to wipe away the blood, like it's nothing more than a hindrance. It turns its entire body towards the person in the skirt, the gorgeous selfless angel of a person that Roman hasn’t gotten the name of-- of someone he isn't going to get the same of because the abomination raises the cleaver again.

Roman screams because he does not want to watch someone die, please he doesn’t want to be in this nightmare anymore, wake up wake up wakeup--

There’s a brilliant white light that explodes at the last second. Roman himself jerks away from it, but that’s nothing compared to the inhuman howl that the creature makes as it stumbles back to the edge of the forest, covering its beady eyes with its massive hands.

Logan flicks the flashlight off and grabs the person in the skirt by their uninjured arm and looks back at them only briefly with an air of finality.

“RUN!” He says.

And Roman does.

#dbd au #sanders sides #roman sanders #remus sanders #logan sanders #Janus sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #tw: violence #dead by daylight #Roman is incredibly unlucky #I ran out of nicknames #But heyyyy Virgil's alive!#isn't that great guys? :D #I am trying horror for the first time

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marvelmymarvel · 4 years

Text

Ice Cold

Keigo Takami x Todoroki!Hero!Reader

Synopsis: You didn’t look like Endeavor, but your attitude definitely gave it away who your father was. You despised the man and you dodged him every chance you got, but he wasn’t the only one you tried to ignore.

A/n: I wanted to make her a badass with a bad attitude because I’m currently in love with that idea. Thanks @lina-lovebug for the request!! Sorry, again it was so late but thank you for being patient :)

Side Note: I know I never include hair colors and such, but for this one (because you're a Todoroki) you’ll have to imagine your hair is white/black!

Song: Fall and Die by Xazror (Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwgF5GoYtwU&list=RDOMcDxljTXC8&index=17)

‘Not good enough’

That's all you and your twin Touya ever heard from your father growing up. You two were failures, twin flames who didn’t meet up to what the number two hero wanted. Your white hair was a constant reminder of your failures and the red that surrounded you reminded you of what your father did to him.

Did to Touya.

You snarled as you raised your fist and slammed it into the mirror before you. The sound of the glass shattering filled the bathroom and mixed with the cries coming out of you. How pathetic, you thought as you looked at yourself through the broken glass. Your face looked jagged and sharp, you almost didn’t recognize yourself... But something else needed to be done.

Your eyes glanced to the side, eyeing the black hair dye and dark makeup. It was time for a change, you weren’t your father. You weren’t going to look like your mother. You weren’t going to let him treat you like he did your mother. A knock sounded on the door, causing you to freeze in your spot. Your father wasn’t supposed to be home yet and the mess you made in your bathroom would surely cause him to lose his shit.

“Y/n... You okay in there, sissy?”

Your heart lurched as you raced towards the door, Shoto’s young and broken voice causing you to panic instantly. Did Enji come home? Did he hurt him again?! Whipping the door open, you looked down at a 6-year-old Shoto who looked back up at you blankly. Your eyes automatically roamed his face and arms, looking for any bruise or scratch that the monster could have caused. Seeing none, you cocked your head down at him before squatting to his height.

“What's the matter baby?” you cooed, hand running through the white part of his hair, the color reminding you of the task you still had on hand. The task of becoming your own self. “I heard shattering and you were crying, so I wanted to make sure you were okay” his fingers intertwined with each other, cheeks heating up as he became bashful under your loving gaze. With mom gone and Enji not being anything but an ass, this was the most love he's had in a while. He didn’t really know what to do with it.

You simply smiled at him and pressed a kiss to his forehead before scooping him up in your arms. Being 18 scared you, but nothing scared you more than leaving Shoto and the others to fend for themselves...

Should you do this?

Shoto hid his face in your neck as he relaxed into your cold embrace. Your eyes flicked to the dye and makeup, biting your lip in contemplation. Fuyumi was 12, the same age you were when Shoto was born, she could protect him. Forcing the tears back down, you brought your hand up and cradled him closer to you. You had to be mom still... Just for a bit longer. But you knew one thing for sure, you would never marry someone.

That's how you’d stay safe.

*10 Years Later*

Your black hair fell in front of your face as you shoved the man to the wall, your ice blades pressing against his throat while your knee held him in place. “There she is. There’s Endeavors daughter”

The name of your father made your cold blood boil, causing your eyes to sharpen and the blade to be pressed further into his neck. A bit of blood fell onto the blade, telling you that you were taking it too far... But you didn't care. You were known for your attitude, the only thing that linked you and Enji was that.

Your hair was black, your makeup was dark, hell, even your outfit was black and green. Everything about you was different, but that attitude? That attitude was something you shared with him. “You know sweetheart, your daddy might be upset if you get hurt-”

“My father doesn't give two shits about me, and I don't give two shits about him” you snarled out, knee pressing harder into his rib cage, forcing him to cough and heave for air. The movement he created made the ice blade dig into his flesh deeper, the redness of his blood causing your stomach to flip. Your eyes snapped shut, the image of Touya covered in blood filling your brain, it was everywhere.

“Awww, is the big bad wolf going to cry-”

Pulling the blade away, you grabbed his shoulders and slammed your knee up under his chin, knocking him out and silencing him all in one blow. Your chest rose and fell quickly as you tried to catch your breath, but the image wouldn’t go away. The sound of fluttering wings caused you to freeze in your spot, the image disappeared from your head and you were now focused on the one other person you were trying to avoid.

“Keigo” you called out softly, twirling your blade in your hand as you kept your eyes on the low life villain below you. Keigo didn’t say anything, only moved closer to you. You felt like you couldn’t breathe as the blood-smeared onto your hand, just like his did. The quietness of the alley and the feeling of the blood on your skin finally caused you to snap. Twirling on your heels, you whipped the bloody blade towards the wall behind Keigo. The sound of it shattering had you shivering in relief, thankful that you were able to rid of the trigger, you didn't want to see Touya. You didn't want the reminder. It missed Keigo by an inch, yet he was unfazed by it all as he watched you with loving eyes.

Why him? Why did he have to be the one you tried to stop falling for? “Endeavor was talking about you today, thought I’d come see my favorite girl” you felt frozen in your spot, half of you angry with the name and the other half in love with his nickname for you. Keigo knelt down and picked up a shard covered in blood. “Don’t say his name, and don't call me ‘your girl’ bird” you snapped out as you turned back to the knocked out man below you.

Keigo didn’t say anything else, only twirled the bloody shard as he watched you put handcuffs on the lowlife. He never understood your attire, but he wasn’t complaining. For some reason, the darkness made you look like a goddess...

Like the goddess of death.

“You really don't like me...” Keigo whispered out. You froze with your hand on the man's back, contemplating what to say to the man you actually somewhat cared for. Even loved. Standing swiftly, you whipped around and looked Keigo dead in the eyes. He wasn’t kidding, if anything, this was the most serious you’ve ever seen him. “Kei... I’m... It’s hard to explain” you whispered out, matching his energy as you sat down with your back against the wall.

Keigo blinked at you, confused by what you were hinting at. Were you scared of him? You seemed to hate your father, was that it? “I’ll stop being around your dad if you want-” your dark chuckle silenced him once more, the image of Touya coming to mind once more as tears fell down your cheeks. “My dad’s a monster, you shouldn’t be around him period Keigo... Not if you want to live” every cell in Keigo’s body was screaming at him to go comfort you, but something was stopping him.

Moving towards you, he plopped down in front of you and crossed his legs. His wings spanned out behind him and seemed to encapsulate you in a shield. A shield you’ve been for so long and a shield you wished for every time your dad came home angry. “You’ve been playing hard to get... But I can tell you like me... So tell me why you won't let me love and protect you” your eyes lifted from the ground and settled on the safety of his face.

“I don't want to get hurt again”

Keigo’s eyebrows scrunched together, what did again mean? Anger bubbled inside of him as a protectiveness overcame all of his senses, whoever hurt you... Oh he would kill them. “Who? Who hurt you?” the snarl in his voice had your heart lurching into your throat, the look in his eyes matching the possessive aura he was currently giving off. You smiled sadly at him, knowing quite well how this was going to affect him. Endeavor was his favorite hero, he had told you that the first couple of times you two spoke.

“My dad”

Instead of a sad look, Keigo’s face only hardened in anger. A father wasn’t supposed to hurt their child! How could Endeavor hurt his little dove like this!? His hand reached towards you and he noticed the way you flinched a bit at the motion, only causing the anger to deepen within him. Your eyes slammed shut, waiting for the smack as his hand got closer to your face.

Yet it never came.

His glove was soft as it touched your cheek lightly, “He will never hurt you again... And if you let me, I can show you what true love is. I won't hurt you like he did” your e/c eyes opened sadly as you leaned into his touch, the action alone showing him just how touch starved you were. Scooting closer, Keigo leaned in and pressed his lips softly against yours. The cat and mouse game was over and finally... Finally, you had a shield. A shield you prayed for.

A shield you deserved.

#keigo takami x reader #keigo takami imagine #keigo takami imagines #hawks imagines #hawks imagine #hawks x reader #mha hawks #mha imagine #mha imagines #mha fanfiction #bnha imagine #bnha imagines #bnha fanfiction #bnha x reader #mha x reader

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floralseokjin · 4 years

Text

;club zombie (m)

In a world overrun by zombies, you’d think everyone was a goner, but the reality is much different. A steady diet of brains lets a zombie exist as a fully functioning human. Just ignore the part where they’re technically dead… In fact, these days, the amount of zombies outweigh the humans. A lot jump at the chance to be turned. Beg for it.

Kim Seokjin controls the underground of Seoul. No one would dare cross him. That’s how most of the world goes these days. You wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of a zombie now, would you? However, you don’t quite see it like that. Spending most nights dancing at the club he owns, you catch his eye. It’s never the wrong side if you’re underneath him, right…?

pairing; kim seokjin x reader genre/warnings; zombie! seokjin, mafia boss! seokjin, smut, oc has a ring kink (relatable), gets angsty two thirds in, some type of romance bc of course it gets fluffy towards the end lol words; 17,113

listen to; friction // 555

⇢ Part of the Deadly Intentions collaboration. With @btssmutgalore, @kpopfanfictrash, @underthejoon, @lamourche , @prolixitae and @taetaetrashhh, who organised the whole thing and created the moodboard!

Please forget everything you’ve ever known about most zombie portrayals in books, movies and tv series, because this is totally different. The idea and inspiration came from the television adaptation of iZombie. If you’ve watched it then you have a better vision of how the zombies in my story are portrayed. If not, then please just give it a go lol. It may sound wacky, but it’s Halloween! So here’s to the 🧟🍆!! I hope you enjoy!

You could hear Seokjin’s footsteps, boots clanking up the wooden stairs, and your stomach lurched in anticipation. He’d made you wait two frustratingly long hours, which was hell considering you hadn’t had time to be alone together all week. You were beyond excited for him to finally get his hands on you. Your body had long got used to craving him down to the very bone.

He came into sight, the image of you draped along his bed rooting him in his tracks. Your robe barely covered your modesty. Nipples visibly hard against the silk. Sometimes there was no need for underwear. Not when it got torn off most of the time. He needn’t waste his money anymore. You let a slow smirk stretch across your face. “How do you want me tonight, Sir?”

No need to greet him with a hello neither. What was the point? He’d told you to be in his home ready for him when he got back. Bedroom. He’d made that very specific. There was no need for pleasantries. Not when you knew greater ways to please him.

Him.

Kim Seokjin.

How did you get here again? So easily. So willingly. Like you’d wanted such a thing from the moment you’d laid your eyes on him. You had. Seokjin wasn’t your husband, nor boyfriend. He wasn’t even a casual hook up. In some ways he was more than any of the above. In others, he was less. It was an arrangement. The most simplest kind. Sex. With the city’s most dangerous man.

No one in Seoul would dare cross him. Hell, this whole country. Maybe it ran deeper than even that. No, what were you saying? It definitely did. You just didn’t want to know. You didn’t want to know the details. You didn’t even want to think about what they could be. To you, the man you shared yourself so openly with could never be what they all described him as. Not when he’d shared so much with you too. It was puzzling to think people actually feared him. He had never frightened you. In fact, you’d only ever known him as gentle. Even when he had his icy cold hands wrapped around your throat, fucking into you so hard his bed, amongst other things, were fit to break.

Yeah. This wasn’t the turn you thought your life would take. But then again, this world wasn’t exactly the same place it had been four years ago. The human race had to grow a thicker skin. Most changed completely. See, Seokjin wasn’t just your average crime lord. He was a rotter. So was over half the population.

Dead and rotten on the inside. Cold and smooth on the outside. The correct scientific term was Undead, but in simpler, more familiar terms, they were zombies. Not your average text fiction kind though. No flesh rots. No foul smell. No incoherent noises, that sent a bolt of terror and dread through your body. No, the undead were able to live as fully functioning humans for the most part. A reality that took a little while to make sense of, but as it did, the world everyone had known began to change. Drastically.

Unsure how it all started, although known to have been caused by some crazy scientist type, the disease, as it was called—now more of a lifestyle—had swept through most of America before their government and medicals could get to grips with it. It was as it was known in fiction. A zombie apocalypse. The whole world went into lockdown, flown into madness. Panic and strife were universal. The infected were destroyed and the potentially infected were quarantined. It was there they began to understand the infection.

The virus still burning through the veins of the innocent would be extremely difficult to handle. The were, by lack of knowledge back then, your “cannon” zombie. Unable to speak, unable to think, and their eyes sunken, black and lifeless. If given the chance, and some had been, they would tear at the flesh of the uninfected, feast on their brains. However, kept under a close eye, locked and controlled in a box room where they couldn’t see out but an array of people could see in, medicals soon discovered there were ways to quell the deep, ravenous need they had inside them. Portions. That was the key. Starved or gorged of human brain just turned them frenzied. The need as a fresh, baby zombie was insatiable but with a controlled diet the world became a little more normal again.

If you could ever call it normal. Human greed was at an all-time high. Who didn’t find it amazing that you could be a certified zombie while also retaining your human life? Who wouldn’t want to be dangerous? Feared? Who wouldn’t want to live potentially forever? The list went on, and that didn’t include countless governments’ motives. Soon the infection had spread willingly throughout the world. It caused fresh havoc. Some countries who hadn’t even wanted to get caught up in the mess, perished because they were too small or undeveloped. But most were smart, scheming. Here in the East a plan was concocted.

Somehow they found the individual who created the virus. Whether they went willingly or were forced no one would ever know. Their identity still remained a mystery even after all these years. Together some of the countries’ top scientists helped mutate the sickness into something “better”. Injected straight into the veins, there was no longer a fear of the infected losing control. The Undead were created. Just another form of human, but with a hunger for brains. It took a total of eighteen months for the world to be okay again.

Now that was all just a memory. Zombies were considered the norm, accepted into society long ago. A recent consensus found that just under 60% of the world’s population were undead. Humans the minority. They lived like humans, worked like humans and had families like humans. Although not in the traditional sense. The undead could still have sex. The men could still cum, by some grace of god, lucky them, but they were infertile. Women too. Reproductive system dead like the rest of them.

Of course, just because there were a lot of humane rotters, didn’t mean there weren’t bad ones amongst the mix. Like you said, humans were greedy. Mostly for power, and being a rotter in the right place, right time gave people tonnes of that. They weren’t truly immortal though. That was well known. A shot to their rotten brain would kill them. Nothing else. That’s where the infection resided.

To be turned there was a system. Applications, interviews, contracts…a waiting list for the injection that would alter your life forever. However, it didn’t work like that most of the time. The world wasn’t so perfect. Corrupt would be a better description. There were other, more simple, ways of turning. A bite or a scratch. Or even sexually transmitted within the first year of infection. There was nothing the government could do about it, and there were many illegal zombies rooming the country. And try all they might, no matter how many times, scientists couldn’t change the way infection took place.

They also couldn’t change the compulsion for brains. Yes, there was no lost control in the beginning, but starved of brains for too long, devolved them into the “cannon” zombie once again. It would take months of starvation, but after the deed was done, it was impossible to be reverted back. Thus they were destroyed. As you could guess, crime levels had not lowered. They had only gotten worse due to gluttony.

Donors now offered their brains up once dead, in a bid to keep portions up. There was complete control when it came to that, but again, that didn’t stop some rotters. Over the years, a lot more murder victims had been found missing a brain. But you digressed. It wasn’t all bad for the undead. They didn’t starve. They could still eat normal food, just oddly needed some extra spice. Their tastebuds has pretty much been destroyed after the turn, so hot sauce was their best friend. Scientists had also created “fake” brain. Think of it along the same vein as fake meat for vegetarians. A substitute. It didn’t give complete satisfaction, but it helped. In fact, they had quite an array of foods now, sold at any local convenience and grocery stores. For some reason brain sushi always made you laugh when you saw it. Surreal. Fast food stores had also caught on. Yes, Big Brain Mac was a thing now… What more did they want? As long as they had the real thing each month, life went on as normal.

They looked normal too. You’d forgotten to mention that one. Sometimes, with the help of hair dye and fake tan, they looked just like their past selves. There were a couple of giveaways though. If they weren’t high maintenance. Their eyes had changed an ice grey after the virus had taken hold, skin pale and cold, and hair turning white. Sometimes fully, but more often than not streaks or wisps of it. Oh, and their heart rate was ten beats per minute. They were dead after all. Pretty much. It was only when they lost themselves, did they turn into something horrific. Eyes black, sunken into their skull, cheeks gaunt, close to rotting. You’d heard they could also fall into a zombie trance when experiencing intense emotions. Depending on the situation it had different levels of severe. You had never seen this though. You knew very well, that was a benefit for certain zombies. A scare factor. Intimation factor. Like you said, there were many who used their rotter status for evil and crime…

Which put Seokjin in a very grey area.

He controlled the underground of this city. You hated using the word mafia, naïve to it all. Something fictional to you, but that’s exactly what was going on. An organised crime syndicate. The oldest son of a wealthy and corrupt family, Seokjin was always heir to the blood soaked throne. He was extremely powerful, even more so than the city’s law enforcement. Actually, you knew for a fact he worked side by side with them a lot of time. Probably called most of the shots. He’d been human in the beginning, when he’d first become in charge, not long before the virus began spreading, but of course that had soon changed. You’d heard stories of how his turn came to be, but you took those with a grain of salt. They were hearsay in your eyes. You’d never been one for rumours and gossip.

As it would have it, you’d only ever known him as undead. You started working at his club just over a year ago. How you got there wasn’t important, you just liked to dance, and dancing was a must at Club Zombie. Cheesy name, but it got the custom. It was almost a sort of tourist attraction. An after dark one. Humans and zombies alike. The dancers were both too. It could be a seedy place sometimes, but you didn’t mind dancing around a pole for men when their money was involved. The day was yours, the night was easy; just dancing, putting on a show. Besides, you were safe. Seokjin never let anything happen to the women that worked for him.

This was the place you could find him at the most, although strictly professional he never brought danger here. The rumours surrounding him were probably what made the club so popular to begin with. He wasn’t stupid. A zombie mob boss, what fiction was made of. Everyone lapped it up. Some nights he sat right up front, quite literally a throne on a podium, surveying the bar and dance platforms. It helped that he was extremely good looking. Got the humans with a kink all riled up. Such soft, movie star looks when you truly studied him. Jarring in a way. A white streak running along the front of his dark hair, parted at the forehead reminded you of what he was. That and his cold, grey eyes.

It was working at Club Zombie where he soon began to take an interest in you. It was glances your way at first. When you made your way to the dressing rooms, or more often than not, when your eyes met as you danced and twisted around the pole. You wouldn’t admit it back then, but it did send a thrill up your spine, fresh confidence washing over you. Even more so when the glances turned to smiles. They could be better described as flirtatious smirks if you didn’t know any better. Because why would anyone like Seokjin want you? He had this whole city at his feet. You were a no one. No, you were imagining the signs. He might’ve not even been looking at you.

But he was. Or course he was. You just couldn’t believe it. Not until one night when he’d asked you to join him for a drink. Halloween night, to be precise. Not that you cared for the holiday. It was just another day.

You were the last one to leave the club. Usually the first, you’d misplaced your cell phone. Took you twenty minutes to find it, fallen behind one of the sofas in the dressing room when you’d flung your jacket down in a hurry not a few hours ago. You were in a hurry when you made your way across the bar, heading for the exit, hand in your purse trying to now find your car keys. You didn’t want to keep Yunho, the barman, waiting any longer. But he wasn’t the one left.

Seokjin was stood behind the bar when you looked up at the call of your name. A peculiar sight. In all the time you’d been here you hadn’t once seen that. The fact he knew your name was even more mindboggling. You opened your mouth to apologise to him, presuming that was why he was asking for your attention, but you got no where. Not when the question he asked stunned you to silence.

“Care to join me for night cap?”

You weren’t one for drinking, never had been funnily enough, but you ended up agreeing. You told yourself it was because he was the boss. You couldn’t say no to him, but the racing of your heart as you sat down argued it was something different.

He drank straight whisky, poured you a glass of rosé you didn’t request. Did he see you as that kind of drinker? Classy. Unless it wasn’t classy at all because you knew nothing about alcohol. You thought he’d stay behind the bar, lord of the house, but to your surprise he came out to meet you. You heart beat even faster when he sat on the stool next to you. You prayed hard that rotters didn’t have an acute sense of hearing. Your knowledge was failing you, but logically, going by that dumb fucking fiction, you’d have to assume they did. He knew you were nervous mess right now. How embarrassing.

He bared his teeth and made a wincing sound as he took a swig of his drink. It was nice to know the burn still affected him, and you watched him tilt the tumbler this way and that, staring at the swirling amber liquid as he did so. Maybe he was giving you time to relax. Maybe he just wanted to sit in silence. Who knew. His rings clanked against the crystallised glass. He always wore them. Large silver bands, dark coloured jewels encased in the centre. He had beautiful hands now that you saw them up close. Wrists too. His shirt sleeves rolled up to the middle of his veiny forearms. The watch he wore was more expensive than anything you’d earn in five years. Maybe a lifetime. You were clueless.

Momentarily distracted, it took you those five minutes to realise you’d never so much as had one conversation with him. He was mostly the untouchable boss who was more like a statue to awe over than a person to share friendlies with. There were other men who worked closely for him here, woman too. Those were who you went to if there was a problem. A drunken customer. A shift you couldn’t make. An emergency you had to leave early for. In fact, even when you had gotten this job it wasn’t by his judgement. So this made the exchange even more awkward considering you’d never said so much as two words to him. You sipped on your wine for something to do. The taste wasn’t all that bad actually.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

You had been so used to the silence you jumped a little from your seat at the sound of his voice. He sounded curious, and you glanced his way to see him giving you his full attention now. Body angled to you; eyes so intense they made you a little unnerved. Fuck. He’d definitely heard the racing of your heart then. Mistaken it for something else.

“Afraid? No.” You decided to be honest. Or at least as honest as you could be. He didn’t need to know you were even more unsteady now than you had been not ten minutes ago. All because of…thoughts, that had entered your mind upon noticing his long, deft fingers. Not that you knew they were skilled, but it was just a hunch. You shrugged in what you hoped was a casual manner. Voice straining to be very much the same. “My nail technician is a zombie. My running buddy at the gym. My doctor.”

To your surprise he chuckled. Deeply amused by something. “I didn’t mean that.” Oh. Had you misunderstood? How embarrassing. “Are you afraid of me because of who I am?”

You blinked slowly. His status. That was what he was referring to. You slowly shook your head, making sure to hold his gaze as you replied. “No.” You shocked even yourself, because you really did mean it. Maybe you were reckless. Your parents had always said such words. You were drawn to the unknown. The excitement got you giddy, but this—he—was something new.

Your idea of living life on the edge was dancing in hardly anything, not warming to a man who discussed crime over breakfast like it was nothing. Did God knows what when he wasn’t sitting in this club.

He nodded in almost confirmation. “Thought not. Just wanted to be sure.” He spoke with a certainty. Like he already knew this information before you did. What vibes were you giving off here? Or was he always this confident and sure when it came to assuming others’ thoughts and feelings…

“Why?” It came out slightly more accusing than you meant it to.

It took him a moment to answer, taking a swig of his whiskey again. You thought he was going to ignore it all together. In a way he did. “Did you know that any human who fucks a rotter in the first year of their transformation gets infected too?”

You took a moment to let that sink in. The casualness of his tone cut with the crude language took you by surprise. You swallowed. “I did.” Everyone did. It was the largest cause of illegal turning. Even a condom wouldn’t save you.

He scoffed in amazement. “It’s amazing how biology works, even for someone dead like me.”

When someone described themselves as dead it never ceased to blow your mind. It was hard to believe that someone as handsome as Seokjin was rotten to the core on the inside. Black and decaying. You let a wry smile play at the corners of your mouth, replying before you took another mouthful of your drink. “This world isn’t what it used to be.”

He didn’t bother to agree, instead taking a moment of silence before he hit you with another question. “Did you also know that we don’t have any sexual urges for a while after we’ve been turned?”

This time it took you everything to hold it together. The shock close to becoming visible on your face. You suddenly thought of every time he had glanced your way in the past few weeks. Each smile he had given you. Just like the one he was giving you now as he waited for your reply. “I heard it varies from r-zombie to zombie.”

You stopped yourself at the R for Rotter. Yes, he had used the word not moments before, but it was always such a grey area. Mostly used as a derogatory term, by humans—usually the older generation—who couldn’t get their small, little brains around the reality of the world today, it had become increasingly popular over the past couple of years. Now, it was just accepted. Like everything else this day and age.

“Correct.” He continued to smile. If he noticed your slip-up he didn’t care to mention it. “This may be TMI but mine’s only recently appeared again.” Something squeezed in your gut. “A few months ago. Maybe longer. I don’t know. With work and the stress I think I ignored it for longer than I should have.”

“Oh.” That was… Yes, it was fact all sexual desire left when first turned. Most for a couple of months, maybe a little longer. You didn’t know the ins and outs, but three years seemed steep. He was a busy man, it made sense, but… Fuck. Who were you kidding? You were just distracting yourself with nonsense now. Anything to not have to acknowledge what was really going on here. But you had to. “Not to be rude Mr. Kim, but why are you telling me this?”

No one, and you mean no one, called him by his first name. Not anyone you knew anyway. It was easy to see him as none other than Seokjin, your Seokjin, now thinking back, but a few months ago he was just your boss with the intimating aura. The one who wouldn’t dare be interested in you. That all changed that fateful night.

His lips curled. You couldn’t tell if he was trying to be friendly or if he was greatly amused. Maybe both. “Seokjin. Call me Seokjin.”

You swallowed. His name felt foreign on your tongue, but you needed to press on. You needed him to confirm the hunch now coiled in your chest. “Seokjin, why are you telling this?”

A beat of silence followed. He actually glanced away from you as he went to speak. “I’m incredibly attracted to you.” You let out a shaky breath, unsure you could say anything back even if you tried. He chuckled awkwardly. Such a human reaction. You found your heart warming. “Forgive me. I’m rusty at this.”

He sounded way out of his depth, which was incredibly amusing for someone like him. You wondered how long he had been thinking of confessing this. How long he’d been trying… He’d taken his chance tonight.

“You’ve noticed me staring a lot?” His eyes were back on you now. You didn’t know if you were imagining it, but the harshness of the grey had begun to soften. The coldness, warming up.

“Yes,” you murmured. Your throat felt dry. You wouldn’t have described it as staring, but to say you hadn’t noticed would be an outright lie.

“I just can’t take my eyes off you,” he admitted with a slight sigh. “I love watching you dance because it’s the only form of interaction I have with you.” Without realising, you squeezed your legs together. Your face was flushing, you could feel the heat prickle your skin.

“My view gets obstructed a lot of the time, or my attention is needed elsewhere but I always try...” He cleared his throat. “I always try to admire you.”

His words bloomed against your skin, sending a warmth all over you. Call you weak, it didn’t matter. An attractive man was complimenting you. You did not question him. He was short and to the point with his words. No sugar-coating. You admired that.

You smirked his way, confidence washing over you. In a way, you felt like you had the upper hand here. He was the one who had confessed in uncertainty. “You should get better seats for the show.”

His eyes widened a little in shock at your brazenness. You’d surprised him, and his mouth stretched into a grin, a bewildered laugh leaving him as his browline furrowed. It was a glorious sound. “I really don’t scare you? Disgust you?”

“Of course not.” You replied so surely it would be difficult to doubt you. Maybe you were stupid. Maybe this was all part of his masterplan, but there was a small self-destructive part of you that didn’t even care. “Would I be working here otherwise?”

“You got me there,” he silked. Gaze holding yours.

The most deepest of desires began to come alive inside of you. Swirling around in your gut. Desires you’d held at bay because it was laughable to think you’d ever be in with a chance with someone like him. And perhaps a larger part of you was ashamed by your longings. Kim Seokjin was a bad person by definition. It didn’t matter how charming he was. How potentially misunderstood he was, or how secretly sensitive he was. Romanticised theories that should make you sick at yourself. This was wrong, a small voice whispered furiously in the back of your head, but when had that ever stopped you?

You hesitated but went for it anyway. It was too late. You’d made your decision. “If we’re confessing things... You’re way too pretty to be as dangerous as you are.” Half a glass of wine and you were already losing yourself.

He cocked a black, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Pretty? That’s a new one.” He chuckled quietly before making a joke. “These genes come from my mom.” Such a normal thing to say. You wanted to believe he was just like anyone else. Or maybe you truly didn’t care…

“Mr. K–Seokjin,” you corrected yourself quickly. The concept of being on first name terms would take a while to get used to. You took a breath and went for it, fingers reaching for his hand that held his whiskey. What did you have to lose? His lust for you was real. The ball was in your court.

You circled patterns against the skin between his thumb and index finger. It was stone cold. A sensation you were still not too used to, or maybe it was because this touch meant so much more. Despite the ice, he was marble smooth. You looked at his face. True beauty. He was staring right back at you, holding his breath, waiting for you. Hunger roared inside your body now. You tried your best to keep it under control.

“I know it’s out of hours and I’m not really dressed for it anymore but... I could dance for you right now if you like?”

You tilted your head to match your question. He copied, giving you a small smile, tone teasing when he spoke. Low and oddly soothing. “Private dances aren’t allowed.”

“You’re the boss. You make the rules.” You watched him hesitate, mulling your suggestion over in his head. It was actually kind of cute. Had he not expected you to accept his advances so easily?

He pulled his hand from the tumbler, his fingers gingerly reaching for yours and you clasped onto them. “Mm?” You prodded, watching him all the way. He gave you a tight nod, and that was all you needed to continue.

Rising up from your seat and leaving your purse at the foot of the stool, he followed you as you guided him by the hand to a set of centre red plush sofas. They curled around a small table, in perfect view of the largest stage. Not two hours ago this place had been filled to the brim, this section worth a hell of a lot of money considering where it was placed, but now his club was empty, safe for you and him. The reminder sent a thrill up you.

You slowly pushed him down to sit, hand on his chest before you let go and stood over him. A grin on your face. “Best seat in the house. No obstructed view.”

He didn’t reply, but the look on his face was almost giddy. You spun on your feet, back to him as you slinked away, towards the centre pole, kicking off your shoes. You didn’t get much of a chance to dance with it, this place saved for the ones who had been here longer. So this was an added excitement.

“This would be highly unprofessional in business hours,” he called after you. His laughter fizzling off when you began to lift your sweater over your head. “What are you doing?”

You turned back to him, a shy smile on your face. “I can’t entertain you in this.” You threw the mustard knit to the floor. “Will it do?”

He scoffed. Eyes a little wide, pupils starting to blow out. “You could be in anything. I wouldn’t mind.”

You appreciated the sentiment, but you didn’t know if you agreed. You’d removed the showy lingerie you’d been wearing tonight in favour of something more comfortable; a black cotton bralette, and you still had your leggings on as you gripped the pole with both hands. It wasn’t your best outfit, but you hoped it sufficed.

How odd it was to swing and grind in front of your boss. A man you hadn’t had anything to do with until tonight. Dancing to no music was strange, too. You had to imagine the beats and sounds in your head, praying you didn’t look too wooden, but somehow it began to feel increasingly intimate. Seokjin was a silent spectator, but it didn’t bring you a sense of unease. Excitement coursed through your veins, but you didn’t dare look at him while you moved. This was a reality you still couldn’t get your head around.

You didn’t know how long you were at it for, lost to the soundless rhythm, but soon enough you needed to catch your breath. He was still sat where you placed him but his eyes were fully black now, trained on your figure. As if in a trance It took a moment for him to notice you had stopped. His legs were spread open, giving you a very great eyeful of his crotch. A couple of buttons on his dress shirt lied open that weren’t before. It gave him an almost bedraggled look. You say almost, because his hair was still perfectly parted at his forehead. You suddenly had the mental image of your fingers running through it, tugging at the ends as he fucked you into the very sofa he sat on. You blinked away the dirty thought, taking a few deep breaths.

He also blinked, albeit slowly, outstretching one hand to beckon you. “Come here.” He croaked; voice thick with something that made you burn up.

You smirked. “That’s against the rules.” Private dances were strictly forbidden.

“Am I not the boss?” That was so. You laughed, and obeyed instantly, descending the metal steps to make your way to him. “You move exquisitely,” he complimented as you did so. His voice a little more human now. His eyes however, were anything but. Close now, inches apart, you saw the light grey that ringed the dilated pupils. It made him look unreal. Showed him for he really was. Undead. However, fear was the last thing on your mind.

“Can I touch you?”

“I thought you made the rules?” This back and fore only thickened the desire in the room, but you truly did appreciate his manners. That, and you really wanted him to touch you. You wanted to touch him too.

Straddling him slowly, your knees pressing into the soft velvet of the sofa, his cold hands met your waist and you jumped in shock, giggling in reaction. He did nothing but hold on as you attempted to dance atop of him. You say attempted, because you were basically grinding on him by now. You wrapped your arms around his neck, loving the way his breathing was laboured. Chest rising and falling visibly.

You felt his erection quickly begin to from under you, and it wasn’t long before he acknowledged it. In his own way, of course. “Forgive me for being inappropriate.” He apologised in advance. You held your breath in curiosity. “But have you ever fucked a rotter?”

With a lack of oxygen you replied instantly. “No.”

He swallowed. His dick twitched in his expensive slacks. “Are you opposed to it?”

You replied with only truth, confidence and desire. “Not if you’re the one in question.”

The noise that tore from his throat was nothing you’d ever heard before. A man starved, finally given the chance of relief. He flew at your mouth, movements hasty and rough. You gladly matched them. Everything was cold, something you weren’t used to at all. Not like this anyway. His tongue like ice ran along your own, both wet but drastic in temperature. It was a contrast that sent your nerves into overdrive. Sensitivity at its highest peak. You clung to his shoulders, rolling your palms over the thick flesh and muscle, as you moaned quite shamelessly into his mouth.

His hands found your face, gripping you tight as he continued to kiss you furiously. You were close to burning up, heart pounding in your chest at your new reality. A groan from him puzzled your mind as he tore away. “Not here. Not yet,” he rasped, lips wet because of you. He tried to keep him distance but failed, falling into your mouth once again to taste you. “I won’t fuck you in a place like this. You deserve better than that.”

You clung to him now, deflation beginning to drop to your gut. You were riled up, ready for him, he couldn’t take it away now. Not when he was solid between your spread legs. You gasped when he took your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging it carefully. Everyone knew the dangers of a zombies’ teeth. One false move and it was game over. The risk just seemed to turn you on all the more. You were sick. Sick for him.

“But I want you so bad. I want to make you feel all the pleasure in the world,” he divulged. He sounded so passionate, so desperate, fresh waves of longing and need flooded your body. Heat pooled against his cock. “Will you let me do that right now? Just a little bit?”

“Yes,” you practically exclaimed. Overcome and out of breath. You didn’t know what that request pertained but you would take anything for even the slightest bit of relief.

You had a better understanding once you found yourself under his large, solid body. Spread out on the velvet like your tainted mind had imagined not fifteen minutes previous. He kissed down your neck, lapping at the skin like you could fill him up. A sensation that had your eyes closing, feeling powerless but loving it. Even more so when you felt him between your breasts. It was a wonderful fusion; to be boiling hot but feel his cool, marble touch all over your body. His hands roamed you, familiarising himself with the woman’s body. Every bump, curve and dip, your soft moans encouraging him, until he couldn’t take anymore.

You pulsed when you felt his long fingers curl behind the waistband of your leggings. “Can I take these off?” He looked you straight in the eyes as he spoke, as if he was reading your face for any hesitation. There was none. You nodded firmly, a trembled ‘yes’ leaving your throat.

He pulled you forward in one swift motion, propping you up against the plush backrests. He was out of breath, jaw slack and eyes still practically black as he crouched, beginning to tug down the black fabric, your legs thrown over one of his shoulders. You didn’t realise he’d strip you of your underwear too. You were very naked, very quickly. Your bra the only thing left.

“Beautiful.” He uttered, eyes between your legs before he looked up at you. “You’re beautiful.”

You smiled at him, something he couldn’t seem to be able to bear, because he was on your mouth again in a flash. He kissed you greedily, low moans escaping him in regular sequence. Spoiled, he made his way down your chest, finding the swell of your breasts to flirt between. It wasn’t long before the fabric was pulled down, one nipple in his mouth while he rubbed the other with the pad of his thumb. That had you moaning, your legs wrapping around his hips to keep him latched to you. Cramped on the sofa, cramped under his body, but loving it. Pleasure swirled and grew heavy in your stomach. Arousal beginning to pool between your legs. It wasn’t long before you were grinding yourself against his body uncontrollably, desperate for some relief down south.

He pulled away when you began whining, teeth lightly grazing the flushed peak as he went. You gasped. Maybe it really was the danger that turned you wanton. Seokjin grinned your way as he sunk to his knees on the floor. He knew it too. He was already learning. You watched with bated breath as he spread your legs, giving him a very intimate view. You’d be self-conscious by now, maybe even uncomfortable, but not tonight. Not with him.

You pulsed against his thumb as he touched you, and all you could do was watch as he carefully began to rub at your clitoris, feeling it engorge beneath his cold touch. You moaned softly, hips circling ever so slightly, enjoying the almost cruel pleasure. Your arousal spread, wet noises squelching under his skin, lewd in your ears.

He looked up at you, eyes black, ringed silver grey. They made you shiver. So did his words. “Can I taste you?” His hair had become out of place, finally, falling in his eyes, and you reached for it, running the white and black strands through your fingers before nodding.

He dived straight in, those plump, almost blue-red lips encompassing your clit. You gasped as he sucked, pushing into him and clutching his hair in your fist. His cool tongue laved you almost hesitantly at first, searching for what you liked and what made you moan, until he grew confidence. You forgot he was familiarising himself again after so long. Hazy with lust, his movements weren’t calculated. They were made with haste and a fervent urge; hands wrapping around the underside of your thighs to hold them and pull you closer. Letting him feast until his heart content.

He only pulled away to catch his breath, minutes later, face from the nose down shining with a colourless substance. The same substance coated the heat between your legs and apex of your thighs. Probably stained the sofas too. You were sticky and burning up. Not even the the touch of his cool finger could control it as he ran the digit down your folds. He stopped at your entrance, tip pushing in slowly. You throbbed around nothing, desperate to be filled. He noticed of course, and he made to remove his rings.

You stopped him. “Keep them on.” You’d already felt the cool metal of his rings against the inside of your thigh when he’d been enamoured with your centre and everything it had to offer. You wanted more. A hell of a lot more.

He raised his brows in surprise, pausing before shrugging. “Anything for you.” You tried to suppress your moan as he pushed his index finger inside you, palm up, cold metal pressed against your swollen folds. He shifted closer, curling the digit against your velvet-like walls. He seemed to like the feeling, humming to himself, before he studied your face closely. “When was the last time someone had you like this?”

You cocked an eyebrow, smirking. “What? Like this specifically? In this bar, spread out naked on the VIP suite? Never.”

He gave a low chuckle. It shot through your body. “You think you’re funny.” You tried snarking him back but he slipped a second finger inside you, straightening them as he went. “No but,” he began, slowing thrusting them in and out. Your jaw grew slack as you watched him, the quietest of strained moans leaving you. “I just want to know how many people I have to contend with.”

That made you laugh. But fine, if he was so curious. “It’s been a while. Nearly a year.” You’d been single since then, your last relationship ending badly, and hook up culture wasn’t what it was since the virus. You smirked his way. “So, no one at all.”

“That’s great for me then.” He laughed heartily, almost as if he wasn’t three knuckles deeps inside you, and wasting no time getting intimate between your legs again.

You came hard. Shaking all over when he finally relented his tongue. Covered in a sheen of sweat and out of breath. He continued the movement of his fingers at his leisure, looking up between your body. The tips of his hair were wet and clung together. It wasn’t him—the undead incapable of sweating—but your arousal, which he seemed to be unable to get enough of. In all honesty, it seemed it he was unable to get enough of you full stop. Still determined to please you.

He shot his fingers deep, ripping a moan from your chest as your back curled. “You’re still sucking me in. What a greedy cunt you have.” Your burned at his crude words, squeezing around his fingers. “Do you consider yourself greedy?” He spoke low and calm, but you could hear the slight quiver to his voice. It made you feel powerful. You hated that word. Greed. But for him… It was different.

“If it’s for a pleasure like that, then yes,” you laughed breathlessly.

He tutted, curling his fingers along the ridges of your insides. Coaxing you. Enjoying the way your lower body contorted. “You flatter me. I would say I’ve reverted to novice status again after all these years.”

You didn’t think so. Unless that was the reality of someone like Kim Seokjin between your legs. He got you coming so good, better than you had in a long time, so maybe it was both options shared. “Somethings you never forget,” you told him simply.

He didn’t reply, instead rising up, kneeling on the edge of the sofa instead. You lifted your legs to accommodate him. His fingers got deeper and you tightened around them again. “I’m greedy too, you know?” He almost warned, his free hand gripping the back of your neck to tilt your head. Ice. He was speaking as he held his breath, moaning slightly when you did. “I want you to cum again. Please.” He always remembered his manners, even when impatient.

You faltered. You didn’t know if you could. Yes, it still felt good to have him inside of you, but you were too exhausted to go again surely. He leant over your body, caging you with his solid one as he murmured into your ear. “I want the visual ingrained in my mind forever.” He snapped his wrist hard against you. The pleasure made your eyes roll back.

“O-kay–!” You gasped out, nodding your head eagerly, gripping onto his shoulders. It was a big fuck you to the exhaustion. You wanted to cum again too.

Your body withstood his vicious pace, walls clamping down on him every time he thrusted into you. You were hot and sweaty again, held down by his large build, which only added to your delight. You imagined he was fucking you. Desperate for the real thing.

“You trust me a lot,” he mused, your hands in his hair now. It was surprising to you that he let you touch it like this. You looked at him curiously, wondering what he could mean, and felt his movements slow. You realised just how hard you’d been holding your breath, gasping for it at the tiniest of reprieve. “One accidental scratch and that’s it, game over. You’re one of me.” He spoke in an almost disarming whisper. It did not frighten you.

You moaned at the dragging of his fingers, before smiling lazily. “You’re not so foolish.” You’d already taken note that his fingernails were perfectly trimmed when you’d admired his hands at the bar.

“Maybe not. But in other ways…” he drawled off, lips millimetres from yours. You wanted him to kiss you so bad. “I enjoyed being a fool between your legs. On my knees…” You moaned softly, enjoying his words, eyes still glued to his mouth. It moved away; your chest grew heavy in disappointment.

“Would you get on your knees for me?”

His question had you squeezing again. The smirk told you he felt it. “Right now?” You asked, maybe a little too eager.

“No.” He laughed. “Not right now. Tonight is about you. But next time...”

You took a shaky breath and nodded. “Gladly.”

“Good girl,” he smiled at you. The praise went to your head, somewhere else too, and he let go of your neck, readjusting himself to begin picking up the pace again. You watched down your body, lifting your folded legs nearer your chest so you could have a better look at his hand as it pleasured you. His veiny forearm tensing with the force of his thrusts. You were so wet you glistened in the overhead lighting—so did the dark jewel on one of his rings—and you squelched noisily around his fingers, sucking him in over and over again. Greedy, you were.

“Fuck.” Seokjin cursed under his breath, distracting you, and you found his eyes were locked between your legs too. Mesmerised. “Delectable, as ripe as a peach…” It didn’t take you much longer to cum again. You felt sorry to whoever would sit in the VIP lounge tomorrow night.

Afterwards, once you’d both calmed down—you, dressed but still quite shaky, and he, now composed but hair still in disarray—he asked if you’d accompany him for dinner at his house next time he was free. You agreed quite instantly. You knew what it meant, and you needed it. Needed him. You also agreed when he insisted he’d arrange for a car to take you home that night. You had your own, but you’d had something to drink, regardless how small, and that just didn’t sit right with him. He’d get someone to drop off your vehicle the next morning.

Before you left, he bid you goodnight with a kiss to the cheek and thanked you for a lovely night, emphasising just how much he was looking forward to dinner with you soon. Just the thought had you up for hours when you found yourself in bed, alone, but still warm and sated from your two orgasms.

Seokjin’s house was stunning. A far cry from from your dingy apartment on the tenth floor of an ancient tower block. You were used to it now, but back then you had felt very out of place in such a beautiful home. He arranged for a car to pick you up, very much like the one that had dropped you off home four nights ago. A sleek black thing, with darkened windows. You didn’t know the name, a car was a car, but again, way out of your league. Four days was a short time in someone else’s perspective, but to you it had dragged by. Especially having to see him every night since while you danced in the club. Glances and knowing smirks just made it harder. You understood though, he was a busy man. He called you in the morning, apologising for the short notice, but he’d found a break in his schedule. If you agreed not to be at the club tonight, he could arrange dinner at his place.

You hadn’t hesitated. Had been preparing all day. The longest soak in the bath you could manage without turning into udon. You even brought the wax strips out. Found the most elegant dress you owned in the back of your closet. A blood red, floor length piece.

His phone call had felt very formal, but that was him all over, you had only just started finding out. You weren’t 100% sure, but the 0.1% didn’t matter… You were going to have sex together tonight. The thought made you giddy. It was only the shock of his house that distracted you as you stepped inside. Large and elegantly decorated, it did not look at all like you’d imagined. Not that you’d tried to. It was impossible to wonder what an undead mobster’s home would look like, but as a bachelor, it definitely wasn’t this. It almost seemed lonely to have just one person living here. You kept those thoughts to yourself though and let him lead you into the lounge, where, and you assumed this, a butler of some kind handed you a glass of champagne. This was not your world.

He even had members of staff to cook for him. Food you knew for a fact belonged in michelin starred restaurants. His dining room was grand, the beautifully carved mahogany table able to fit six people. Perhaps this place was once his family home. It made sense. He sat at the head, while you were placed directly opposite him. The distance was a little unnerving, but he was able to converse in small talk exceptionally well. It was lighthearted and casual, and soon eased you up.

You found it intriguing when he doused everything he ate in hot sauce, unable to stop yourself from giggling and he looked up, confusion etched in his features before he realised what had amused you so. You had no idea the need was that bad.

“Nothing tastes good without a little kick,” he explained, putting the bottle down. “Even the brains.”

You laughed. “You must go through hot sauce by the gallon.”

He smiled before reaching for his glass of red wine. “Me being a rotter really doesn’t phase you, does it?” He still seemed to be unable to get over the surprise.

You gave him a small shrug, picking up your cutlery. “It’s the world we live in now.” You sounded like a broken record. That was your explanation for everything.

You waited for him to continue the conversation. There was a pause and then– “Thanks to your father.”

You froze, an instant sense of dread filling you at the casual remark. You swallowed, looking across at Seokjin. “H-how did you know?”

He raised a perfect eyebrow as he brought the glass to his mouth. You watched half the red liquid disappear. The clank as he put it down on the wood made you flinch, and your heart thudded as you waited for his reply. He gave you smile. It didn’t seem fully loaded. “Is that you undermining my power?”

Whatever his intentions were you panicked regardless. “No, I just–”

“Don’t worry, this isn’t some kind of trick. Some kind of revenge...” He interrupted with a quick chuckle. Relief flooded you. Not that you had thought such things explicitly, but Seokjin was the man he was… Your lust hadn’t made you forget that much. He had found out what you’d spent the last three years or so trying to hide after all…

“I have brought you here to fuck.” Despite your alarm, something squeezed in your gut and pulsed between your legs at his frankness. “I’m just curious... You hide it well. Why?”

Unsure what to do, you took a mouthful of food. The chewing letting you think for a moment. Did you really want to divulge your family affairs with him? He was a man of few words and considering what he was—dangerous and undead—you couldn’t be sure to trust his intentions. Maybe you’d made a mistake coming here. Letting his words and actions cajole you.

“Good?” He asked, watching you eat.

You looked at him and nodded. Wiping your face with the napkin placed on your lap you decided to give him some of the details. Not all. “It’s not something I want to be associated with.”

Seokjin frowned. “You don’t agree?”

You shook your head. That had come out wrong. “I don’t agree with my parents’ greed.”

When the zombie virus had hit four years ago your father, a highly gifted scientist, had been one of the first to try and recreate it. To produce something better. For what, you didn’t quite understand. He had no desire to turn himself or his family. No, you guessed it was for the fame, the money…the glory… In the end, it took a number of people to create such a thing, but yes, he’d been one of them… Your mother had been so proud. Sick. That was still what you thought now. Turning the world into undead creatures who needed human brains to survive seemed utterly bizarre. Disturbing… But like you said, the glory seemed to be their fuel…

You hadn’t spoke to either of them in two years and prior to that, conversations were few and far between. To cut them out of your life hadn’t been a sudden decision though. Your whole life you’d always felt like you didn’t belong. Born to the wrong family. Maybe that was a problem with you. An issue you didn’t want to give much thought about, but one thing was for certain, you didn’t think anything like them. You’d spend most of your life rebelling. Maybe you were still doing so… The club you worked at would see them foaming at the mouth. You, surrounded by the people your father helped create. And Seokjin… Seokjin was a man your parents would be horrified to see you with. That thought brought you great pleasure.

“You don’t get along?” You shook you head in reply. Surprisingly it was enough for him. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.” Or maybe he already knew that… He probably knew everything about you. He’d been humouring you all this time. For some reason that didn’t scare you like it should’ve. It was quite reassuring to know that despite everything, you were the one he wanted. Maybe your self esteem was shot to pieces. Maybe you were just an idiot.

You smiled. “Thanks.”

He jerked his head towards the direction of your plate. “Let’s not get distracted for too long. Dinner is getting cold.”

You ate with more small talk. He asked if you’d ever been out the country and when you’d replied yes, he insisted that you tell him all about Japan, like he’d never been there before. Maybe he hadn’t… You didn’t ask. In all honestly, you were positive he was trying his best to relax you again after his slight interrogation. It was endearing.

Once dinner was done and his staff had taken the used dishes away, you suddenly remembered what was to come next. You began to feel a little out of your depth. The night at the club had happened out of the blue, but this was pre-planned. Nerves itched at your skin, just wondering how this would go down now, but that didn’t mean you weren’t excited. Giddy.

“You really do look so beautiful tonight.” He praised quietly, admiring you from across the table. He had already told you that when he’d greeted you at his door, but you would never get enough. “I feel a little underdressed.”

You scoffed. “You look perfect. As always.” He was always found in a suit, so his attire for tonight was nothing new. Apart from the velvet suit jacket he wore. It was fancy, something you could never imagine him gracing the club with, and the cream embroidered shirt underneath suited him beautifully. His hair tonight was swept above his forehead, accentuating his breath-taking bone structure.

He closed his eyes as he smiled in silent thanks. When they opened you noticed they were getting darker, grey almost unnoticeable from where you sat. You suddenly thought about him between your legs. You squeezed them together under the table, trying to quell your dirty thoughts. You think he noticed, or maybe he was remembering back too.

“I’m surprised you can’t feel it,” he mused on cue.

“Feel what?” You sounded slightly shaky. Out of breath.

“My need for you is practically raging from my body,” he explained simply.

Something heavy dropped into your gut. Confidence began to wash over you again. It was nice to feel this powerful. “You hide it well.”

“Do I?” He laughed. “I must have more self control than I give myself credit for. I’ve been agitated ever since that night… Unable to stop imagining getting my hands on you again.”

You let out a tremble of a breath. More images flew around the forefront of your mind. The coldness of his hands caressing your body. The ice of his tongue inside your mouth, against your skin, laving against your… You closed your eyes, unable to cope. He murmured your name softly. As if he was desperate for you to look his way again. You obeyed. “I’m so incredibly attracted to you.”

You could hear your heart thudding against your ribcage. It almost felt strange, like it didn’t belong to you. When you chuckled, it didn’t sound like you either. Your lust for him was taking over. Time was nearing. “You already said, Seokjin.” You liked the sound of his name as it curled off your tongue.

He chuckled back. “Am I boring you? I thought flattery would be first protocol.”

You continued to laugh at his choice of words, shaking your head. “There’s no need. I’m here, aren’t I?”

He held your stare. It was almost like he was staring inside of you. “That you are.” He sounded like he still couldn’t believe his luck. He rolled his shoulders. “Well. I can still say what I like. It’s all true. I’m not trying to manipulate you here.” You chose to believe him. “Although... You don’t look like someone who falls victim to such things.” You shrugged, playing it casual. Maybe he was correct. You’d long stopped giving men the power to get inside your mind. You hoped it would hold with Seokjin.

“I’ll cut to the chase then.” He continued, realising you weren’t going to divulge anything that could confirm his assumptions. “One night won’t be enough. I want to enter a sexual relationship with you.”

Your eyes widened. Surprise visible on your face no doubt. Call you naïve, maybe clueless, but that possibility hadn’t crossed your mind. A one off was all you’d imagined. Seokjin had thirsted after you for months now, it seemed. Until he couldn’t ignore it any longer. In your head, one night would have been enough for him. What was so special about you? It seemed ludicrous he’d want something permanent. Taken aback, all you could do was listen to him.

“These,” he paused, “urges I have, they’ve been suppressed for far too long. I have curiosities. Maybe they’ve always been there, morphing with the passing months...years.” He shrugged, and you wondered why he had stifled himself for so long. You also wondered why you. Why were you so special? “It wasn’t until I noticed you that these thoughts...fantasies, became unbearable.”

You took his words like they were information at a business meeting. In fact, he was talking to you like such. It was strange. He was talking about imagining fucking you most probably, and here you were just nodding your head. You squeezed your legs under the table again. You were hot. Your excitement was building again and you were trying your best to control yourself. This wasn’t normal. You shouldn’t be here, but your desire for him seemed to have crept up and snaked its way around your throat.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you but I need things to be in black and white.”

“I understand.”

“You do?” He raised both eyebrows in surprise. You felt powerful with the knowledge you kept proving him wrong. “Your pleasure is my utmost importance. All of my fantasies include you enjoying yourself. Rest assured. However,” he looked down at the table. Was he flustered? Feeling awkward? How unusual. “There are some things I want to indulge in that aren’t to everyone’s taste. I do not wish to trap or force you into anything. If you don’t agree, then that’s that. No hard feelings. This isn’t a sweet or romantic joining. I don’t know if I’m truly capable of that…”

You puzzled in your head. What an odd thing to say. You hadn’t so much as thought about this being anything about romance. You knew where you stood. You hoped he wasn’t assuming that’s what you thought. You’d given up on love and romance a long fucking time ago. “I don’t expect it to be,” you added, wanting it to be clear.

He paused, smiled slightly and then chucked. “Then you understand I have this animalistic need to take you any which way I’m allowed.” He made sure your eyes were locked when he spoke. So he could see your reaction. It was hard tying to keep your expression neutral as you imagined just as he’d said. The corner of your mouth definitely twitched. Of course he saw. You could tell by the way he tried to suppress his smirk.

“I can be patient if you need more time.” He continued. “I am very much insistent that it’s you—there is no one else—however, if you disagree or discover I bring you no joy, I expect one day I’ll find another.” You admired his honesty. “Also. Selfish of me I know, but if you agree then there must be no other sexual partners during our attachment. Please.” “Seokjin...” You began, guessing he’d finished his proposition of sorts.

“I know.” He interrupted before you could say anything. “This is a lot to take in. You’re overwhelmed.”

“No,” you insisted. “I agree. I’m willing to give this a chance.”

He let your words marinate before swallowing. “What I’ve said doesn’t scare you?”

You scoffed. “No.” You’d already knew sex with him wouldn’t be conventional. You’d found that out from his very brazen attitude and mouth the night you were spread against the club’s VIP sofa. Your only mistake had been thinking it would be just once. You felt giddy knowing there would now be endless encounters. You craved him just like he craved you. It was a new sensation, something that had only been been simmering since you caught his eyes on you as you danced, but it was powerful and steadfast, and needed to be sated. Tonight.

He nodded to himself, seemingly deciding then and there to start taking action. “We’ll take it slow. Learn from one another.”

“That sounds good,” you agreed, unconsciously sitting up straighter, leaning in almost eagerly.

“Tonight,” he hushed. “Tonight I just want to feel you. Pleasure you. To become accustomed with your body and what you like.”

You let out a shaky breath. You could almost feel the impending pleasure running through your veins. You’d had a taste of it a few nights ago. “I feel very much the same. Tonight is just the beginning.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tensed before he looked you straight in the eyes. Raising his hand he beckoned you. “Come.” You were beginning to see a pattern, and just like that you obeyed. His tastes were of the dominate kind. You would gladly listen.

Rounding the corner you made your way over and stopped right in front of him. He scraped his chair back, making room between him and the table, and motioned you to slot in between.

“When you said you’d get on your knees for me…” He reminded you. A suggestion of sorts. Maybe it was put that way to soften the order.

Your eyes widened, looking at the door that lead into the kitchen. “Here?”

“Don’t worry.” He smiled, taking your hands. “No one will will come in. They shall be leaving soon anyway. They won’t interrupt us.”

You listened, finding yourself in his lap, dress crumpled around your middle, creasing to no end, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. Not when you could feel his erection pressing into you. You took initiative. Rising up to let your palm caress him. You’d been dying to get your hands on him ever since the night at the club. To feel him full and thick and long between your fist, in your mouth, in your– You reached to kiss him. He slipped his tongue inside your mouth like he’d been waiting for it, grunting when you gave his dick one quick squeeze.

“Seokjin,” you breathed, lips sticky as you pulled away. “Forgive my manners. I never confessed my attraction towards you too the other night.” It was easy to let him do all the talking, but you wanted to let him know you were 100% into this because you wanted him too. It didn’t go one way. You weren’t just agreeing to this for the hell of it.

He reached for your face, rubbing the apples of your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “No need to flatter me,” he smiled, dropping one thumb to the edge of your mouth. He tugged your bottom lip down slightly and met the tip of your tongue. “I guess my tongue did the persuading, mm?”

You swiped across the cool flesh and pulled away with a grin. “Trust me, if there was no attraction that wouldn’t have happened.”

He laughed, genuinely amused, before grabbing you by the hips, pulling you into his chest. “Enough chit chat. I thought you were supposed to be sucking my dick?”

Just like the rest of him, his cock was cool. Something you had never experienced before. It was swollen, filled with blood, but ice cold. Impossible, yet here you were. Knelt between his spread legs, laving him against your tongue. You had the intense urge to please him as best you could. Show him what he’d been missing all this time and just worship the beautiful, pretty gift between his thighs. He seemed to be unable to get used to the hot, wet velvet of your mouth, eyes glued to you, watching every move you made with soundless gasps. His hands gripped the arms of the chair at first, knuckles purple, until he decided he couldn’t hold back any longer. Taking your hair in his fists, his rings cold against your scalp, he held on tight, finally letting himself moan when you slackened your jaw and slid him down your throat as far as you could take him.

He liked it when you choked on his dick. He froze every time, digging his fingers into your scalp. He liked when you slicked him with your fist, thumb circling the sensitive slit that pooled drops of precum all over the place. He really had fought off all sexual urges for so long it seemed. You wondered if he’d even attempted to pleasure himself? It wasn’t something you were brave enough to ask, but you were brave enough for other things…

You wanted him to experience all the pleasure he’d been missing over the years, tongue pointing and going south, licking thin but long lines up and across his scrotum. He gasped, the noise choking in his throat as he jerked, chair legs screeching against the tiled floor. You shuffled closer on your knees, holding his cock tall in your hand so you could slowly suck one of his balls into your mouth, softly caressing the cool encasing with your tongue. You made sure to look him in the eyes as you did so, feeding of the reactions he gave you. His mouth fallen open in a soundless groan.

You smirked as you pulled away, pleased with yourself, and began kissing up his length, swirling your tongue across the cool marble, pressing your plush lips in the flesh; getting him obscenely wet. His fingers found their way around the back of your neck, holding you firmly as you popped him back into your mouth, sucking intently on the head of his cock, your fist working the base of him, slick noises filling the air, mixed with his low, staccato moans.

When you began getting lower, hallowing your cheeks to accommodate him, your tongue tracing patterns along the underside of his thickness, his hands flew to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair to stop you. You pulled back instantly, waiting for some kind of response from him. He was close. Dangerously close. You understood that.

“I want –” He cut himself short, voice gruff, and cleared his throat, hips jumping when you kissed the tip of his cock. He tried again, taking one hand to caress your face. “I want to cum on your face.” Your legs squeezed together. Excitement overcoming you. “Please.” He added that as an afterthought, forgetting his manners with the urge to cum.

You smiled, slowly taking his hand from your cheek to guide it to the base of his cock, exchanging yours with his. He gripped himself tightly, and you squeezed your palm over his fist. Giving him permission with a sordid whisper. “Be my guest.”

You waited for it on your knees, between his spread legs and watched as he raked his beautiful hand over his equally as beautiful cock. Slowly at first, exploring the pleasure and then he sped up, jerking the top in tight, quick motions, chair legs screeching across the floor again as raised up, tightening his hold on your head to keep you in place. His breathing laboured before a strangled roar left him.

You prepared yourself, closing your eyes as you felt the first spurt hit your nose and drip down your top lip. The second flew across your left cheek. Unlike the rest of him, this substance was searing hot, shocking you so much you gasped. The third spurt, stronger, landed in your mouth. You swallowed and savoured the taste. It wasn’t over. It just kept coming, coating your face and congealing in the air, as Seokjin furiously tried to get every last drop out. Savouring the pleasure, moaning in sweet relief until he grew weak from exertion, collapsing into his seat.

You peeled your eyes open, cum glooping from your right eyebrow and onto your eyelid and watched him with awe. All that filled the dining room was his rough breaths as he tried to get a hold of himself. He ran his clean hand through his hair, strands of white falling down, and finally took a look at you. He was silent for a long time, eyes still black, the crescents of silver sending a shiver up your spine. He leaned over, pulling some of your hair behind your ear, saving it from the mess that coated your face. He looked at you with wonder and amazement in his eyes, like he was trying to retain the image of you like this forever.

When he spoke, his voice sounded different. Softer, warmer. Weaker… “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on…” Two of his fingers ran along your bottom lip, spreading some of his cum along the way. “Like this…” He awed. “It takes my breath away.”

He reached behind you, his embroidered napkin coming into view. The set was probably more expensive than your outfit. He began cleaning your face up, and you let him obediently, still kneeling on the hard floor. It was all worth it though. For him. For what was to come.

When he was done, he threw the soiled cloth to the table. There was still some cum on his fingers, where he’d rubbed your lip, and he opened your mouth, dotting your tongue with the fluid before he stuck two fingers inside, holding the muscle down before he prodded you to suck them. You did so, mimicking how you had pleasured his cock, letting your tongue trail along the expanse of his rings. He groaned, the other hand cupping your face to make you look at him. He opened his mouth, sounded beside himself. “The things I want to do to you...”

You got no sleep that night. Fucking one another until the sun began to shine through his drapes, and then some more, letting him enjoy getting familiar with the sensation again, but also feeling a pleasure like no other yourself. No man you’d ever been with had been into sex this much, and his stamina, his strength, was like nothing you’d ever experienced before. He fucked you, quite literally, to glorious, pleasure-soaked tears. Three years really hadn’t hindered his skill at all, but he blamed it on his greed, incapable of taking a compliment. Nonsense, but you soon got used to that charming personality trait…

The weeks had rolled into months, and you continued just like that. Meeting and fucking any chance you got. It was him who called the shots. He was a busy man after all. You worked to his schedule. Fucked to his schedule, and luckily for you, you were in a position to drop work every time he called. Direct permission from the boss.

True to his word, you took it slow. Going further and further each time until your body was trained to him. His was trained to you too. What he liked, how he liked it and when to do it. You knew how to read his moods and work with it each time you met up for sex. There was a mutual trust between the two of you, and you would give your all if it meant pleasing him, because it brought you pleasure too.

Sex had always been just something you’d done. The guys got their rocks off and maybe if you were lucky, you’d get one orgasm, probably gifted by your own hands. Even when in love, sex hadn’t been this enjoyable nor exciting. It was all new with Seokjin. You lived for pushing yourself to the limit, finding something new and trying it. Greedy. Maybe that was the correct word, Seokjin had been right. You were greedy for one another. You’d be dammed. The desire and the pleasure you just knew you couldn’t get from anyone else. The chemistry was on a totally different level, and it just kept getting stronger.

Seokjin did have a softer appetite though. It wasn’t all hard and extreme. That was the beauty of it. He wasn’t a one-sided dom who used you as some kind of sex toy. He was gentle and caring, even when he had you tied to his bed, blindfolded and at his mercy. Sometimes he just wanted you. Raw and passionate. An unspoken vulnerable. You think in a way, even though you would never say it to his face, he sought comfort in you. On days when he was tired or stressed, he wanted you. Only you. There was a comfort there. And you gladly obeyed. How could you not? You were flattered he chose you to share this with. Touched, in a way.

Your bond only grew, until any awkwardness was a thing of the past. You could tease one another, joke around. It was surprising at first to find out someone like him could become embarrassed and shy when provoked about certain things. Like how he had been so formal in the beginning. He insisted it was because he was so awkward about his extended inexperience fighting head to head with the raging desire he had for you… It had sent him frenzied, until he had to do something about it. You were so glad he had…

Your relationship for the most part was left undetected. It was chosen that way, to keep things strictly professional at work, but also you suspected it was something more. He requested for you not to tell your friends or family, and the only one who knew about your arrangement on his side, was the driver who took you to and from his home. Seokjin’s line of work came with danger, and even though you didn’t voice it, you guessed that danger spread to anyone he was involved with; family, friends, lovers…

You say mostly undetected because of course there had been a slip up somewhere along the line. Working in such close proximity, perhaps you had been foolish. The club was always packed, someone was bound to pick up on it, and unluckily for you, it happened. Give you a major reality check to go with it.

You had been involved with Seokjin for near to three months when it did, juggling nights at work and nights spent with him. More often than not, both at the same time. That night wasn’t one though. He was away from the club altogether, so you got changed at your usual pace, surrounded by the rest of the human girls as they chatted. That night rotter talk filled the dressing room. There had been one watching one of the girls, Jaeha, dancing. He’d taken a shine to her and asked her out for dinner at closing time. She’d agreed, but now she was getting doubts, some of the other girls laying uncertainties in her head. Of course the conversation had turned to sex. It always did where men were concerned. But this was different. They were talking about having sex with a zombie. It was times like these you were thankful there was separate dressing rooms for the human and undead girls. Although some would probably still carry on the conversation regardless.

“What about you?”

You looked up, realising that Jaeha was directing the question your way. “Hm?” You played dumb, even though you had been listening to every word of the conversation. You just didn’t want to answer.

“What would you imagine it feels like being with a rotter?”

You gave a small shrug, realising you had no choice now and turned away as you replied. “I don’t know.”

“Wait. What was that?” She exclaimed excitedly and you inwardly sighed. You guess something about your body language hadn’t been believable. “You have?!” You gave another shrug but she wasn’t having any of it. “Look me in the eyes and say you haven’t!”

You faced her again, defeated, realising you had about half a dozen other pairs of eyes looking at you too. “Fine. I have.”

A couple others squealed. Maybe it was an age thing. You were a few years older than a handful of the girls. At twenty-two you had probably been easily excitable and naïve too. Scrap that. You definitely had been.

“Who?!”

Shit. She really wasn’t going to drop this, was she? You were hoping admitting to it would have been enough. You did up your jeans as you dismissed her. “It doesn’t matter who. It’s just sex. No different.”

“No different? But they’re cold,” she whined, shuddering at the thought. “Doesn’t that feel weird?”

You opened your mouth but found yourself stuck. This conversation was making you feel uncomfortable. Thankfully, a voice came to your rescue.

“You just get used to it.” You looked to your left to see Yeeun coming into view behind

the group of girls. She’d been here nearly the longest, your age, maybe a year older. She kept herself to herself most of the time, but you guessed she wanted to put this conversation to rest. That, and maybe put you out of your misery.

Jaeha turned and opened her mouth to ask more questions, but Yeeun spoke over her. “Jaeha, just make sure to be careful if you decide to go for dinner with that guy, yeah? Undead doesn’t mean he’s inherently bad but coming to a place like this should make you think. Keep your wits about you.”

Just like she’d wanted (and you) the conversation died. Everyone left soon after that, you close behind, but Yeeun was still getting changed, distracted by her phone. You stopped by the door as an afterthought, wanting to say something to her. “Thanks,” you called, waiting for her acknowledgment.

She slowly turned and smiled. “No problem.” You watched as she shoved her cell into her jacket pocket. “Um, you got a minute?”

You nodded, unable to guess what she wanted. She sighed, almost like she was psyching herself up. “First, this isn’t me trying to get up all in your business, alright?” You nodded again, slower this time. A sicky feeling in your stomach. “Everyone else may be clueless when it comes to who you’re fucking, but I’m not.”

You tensed. Maybe you’d misinterpreted her motives. She was trying to put you out of your misery yes, but it ran deeper than that. She was trying to save your skin. She knew. How? You were always careful to never talk in public with Seokjin. Yet… maybe your reluctance to leave early like you used to do roused suspicion from her. Maybe she’d seen you both leave together… Foolish. You panicked, played stupid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She stared at you, calling your bluff. “Be careful, okay? You’re an adult, you can do whatever the hell you like, but just don’t forget who he is.” You kept quiet. There was no point denying it. “And I’m not on about him being undead. He’s...” She hesitated before deciding to go for it. “Just don’t forget he’s responsible for a lot of this city’s darkness.”

Unexplainable anger filled you. You didn’t like being judged, but more than that, the idea of someone judging Seokjin made your blood boil. She didn’t know him like you did. How kind he was when you were alone, how gentle… He wasn’t what people described him as behind closed doors. But what was the point? You knew you couldn’t tell her that. She’d just laugh at you, tell you how deluded you were. Maybe that’s what you were scared of... That you really were deluded. In over your head…

You watched her shrug on her jacket, her mind at ease now that she’d warned you. “You don’t have a problem working in his club though?”

She froze before pulling out a cigarette from her pocket and chuckling. “It’s money, babe.” She placed the rolled tube in between her lips and spoke through it. “We all need it, and at the end of the day, I’m not the one fucking him.” She finished with a casual shrug. As if she had no worries. You had plenty.

You swallowed, careful to keep your voice steady. “Well thanks for your concern. I’ll bear it in mind.” And the you left, wiping away a stray tear from your left eye.

You didn’t tell Seokjin about what happened that night, certain that Yeeun didn’t care enough to tell anyone. She wasn’t like that, hated gossip like you. You were also worried that if he found out, he’d do something. You didn’t want her to get fired. She said she’d needed the money after all. Maybe your worry went even further than that… You didn’t know. If Seokjin was as bad as everyone seemed to think, you really didn’t know…

So you kept it to yourself. But you couldn’t shake the exchange. Seokjin noticed there was something wrong with you instantly. You saw him two nights afterwards, seeking distraction in the only way you knew with him. Sex. He was tired after his “business trip” and you went along with it, using it as a way to explain your unusual behaviour, so the sex was quick but indulgent. Definitely needed. You clung to him because you’d missed him. You clung to him because you were beside yourself. Torn and unable to truly feel fine. You’d thought being reunited again would reassure you. But it didn’t.

“Smoking again?” You asked him after you were done, watching him reach for the pack of cigarettes he kept on the nightstand.

He chuckled, knowing you hated the dirty habit. The addiction. Maybe in a way you were a hypocrite. “My insides are rotten anyway. What can it do to me?” He was correct you supposed. Rotten to the core. He was untouchable.

However, to your surprise he put them back, wrapping his arm around you like it had been. Your head on his chest, protected from the chill by a fur blanket. His temperature always seemed to get you after sex, your own levelling out. Plus with the winter months now it was harder. He wasn’t the best to cuddle with after sex, an activity that seemed to be happening more often, so you had to separate your bodies with warmth. You let silence spread over you both, lost in your own head with a whirlwind of thoughts.

“Hey,” he prodded gently after a little while, wanting you to look at him. “You’re lying to me. You’re not tired.” You didn’t bother to deny it. He sounded hesitant when he carried on. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

You stayed silent for a moment. unsure how to begin, but you knew you couldn’t continue like this. You needed some type of reassurance from his mouth. Selfishly, you needed your conscience eased. You explained with a question, at least you hoped you did. “Do you like being who you are?”

Seokjin tensed under you, his expression becoming guarded and you instantly feared you’d crossed a line. He knew you were referring to his status, not his being. Something pretty much off limits. Discussed vaguely in the beginning, your joining was never about that. Now it seemed like a forbidden subject. You understood Seokjin saw you as an escape. He didn’t want to discuss work, and you didn’t want to hear it. Yet, it was looming over you, like an ominous presence. You needed something. You could live with who he was if he was as unsure of it as you were. You were positive. He just needed to be honest with you.

You waited patiently, and just as you resigned yourself to stone cold silence, he spoke.

“It was handed to me. I don’t particularly have a choice. It’s all I’ve ever known.” If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that was bitterness in his tone. “My father is frail now. I don’t know how long he has left. I want to make him proud, regardless of how stupid it sounds. It’s fucked up, I know that. Especially with life as it is now.”

You’d long given up trying to make your father proud, but you understood. Seokjin’s experiences were vastly different to yours, but you understood. His was a matter of life or death, you were sure of it. Yours was just the gradual estrangement from the people who had raised you. He confirmed the seriousness of his detriment in his next sentence.

“There’s nothing I can do about it. It’s my life. It’s expected of me. If I refused, said no... Ran away like a coward... God knows what would happen to me.”

Cruel of you maybe, but it was warming, reassuring to know he’d had such thoughts. Soothing to know in a lot of ways, he didn’t want this life. Selfish of you like you’d known. Trying to ease your own conscience, but here in his arms perhaps you really didn’t care. You didn’t care what Yeeun thought, what others would think if they ever found out. Your parents… None of it mattered because you knew that deep down, in his core, Seokjin was a good man. Rotten or not. He was good to you, and all that mattered. Yes, you were selfish, but you didn’t care.

“Fuck.” He cursed quietly, voice thick with emotion before he laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. “What a world we live in. When being a motherfucking zombie is considered normal and the least of your problems.”

You didn’t laugh along but kissed him softly. You think it stunned him, shutting him up instantly when you pulled away, until he exhaled, pulling you into another, longer, even sweeter kiss. He wrapped you in his arms tightly and you’d never felt safer. He got you onto your back, rolling on top of you, the fur separating your bodies, just, and your need for him burnt away inside your chest.

But he pulled away before you could do anything about it, opening his mouth to say something, expression hesitant. You cupped his cold face, trying your hardest to spread some of your warmth through his body, silently encouraging him to speak. He smiled thankfully. “I didn’t choose that either, by the way. This rotter body.”

Your forehead furrowed, trying to make sense of his words. “That shocks you,” he noted. “I know why. You think I wanted this, just like everyone else.” You opened your mouth to deny it, but what was the point? You hated gossip, like you’d said so many time before, never listened to it, but you had let it sink it’s way into your mind without realising.

Greed. You thought he was like all the rest. Seeking power. Your attraction to him overshot your distaste for the ghastly act of will, but maybe deep down, you’d hoped it wasn’t true.

“It’s okay,” he reassured, twisting slightly to kiss the palm of your hand. Then the tips of your fingers as you sought the touch. “I know what people say about me. They’re wrong though.”

“What happened?” You were whispering, asking without thinking. You didn’t want to pry but Seokjin had never shared this much before. You didn’t think he’d ever shared this much before. To anyone.

“A miscellaneous deal gone wrong. I won’t bore you with the details, but I was scratched.” Your eyes widened, heart ached for him. How wrong people were. How wrong you were. “I took it in my stride, still do. I guess in some ways it helped me, in others not so much... But,” he stopped himself, letting his eyes close as he kissed your fingertips again. When he opened them the grey looked sadder than usual. “Who will follow after me? The family name gone. Although maybe that isn’t a bad thing.” He added with an afterthought, chuckling humourlessly. “I would want no kid of mine doing this. I don’t know. What I’m trying to say is, if there was ever a cure, I’d take it in a heartbeat.” Your own heart beat loudly in your chest. “Wishful thinking, right?”

You were stunned to silence now, trying to make sense of everything. You wanted to reassure him. There was adoption, he needn’t have to dwell, but then it seemed like such a human, vulnerable thing to get hurt over. It made your throat tighten, eyes well up. You had never imagined his anguish over being undead. He always seemed so casual, so put together. His human life was stolen from him cruelly and he was just left to deal with it, alone. You didn’t care if that was his by choice or not. It made sense now, that in ways he had hidden from himself, and why. He was ashamed. He wasn’t greedy, he was lost.

“I don’t think so,” you murmured, caressing his face. “If they can mutate the disease and inject people with it, they can find an antidote.”

He smiled sadly. “Do you think they want that? This world is a corrupt place. Everyone has their own selfish reason’s for letting this disease take over.” He was correct. A cure would never be made by any official. But there could be other options. One day. Hope wasn’t lost.

“You can still live a normal life,” you insisted.

“I can never age. Who would want that? Amongst other things. I have everything against me.”

Something strong tore through your chest. It almost took your breath away, but you couldn’t voice it. You were too afraid. “I don’t think so.” You replied instead. It was hard to keep your voice stable. “What’s inside is more important.”

He chuckled sadly. “Angel, I’m rotten on the inside. Maybe on the outside too.”

His pet name warmed your heart, always did, but his words made it weep. You swallowed, coating your dry mouth and squeezed his face, clinging to him, hoping he’d understand what you were trying to say. “Not to me.”

He smiled, his eyes warming up and leant down to kiss you. “Thank you.” You held him close, sinking into his mouth. The cold was unnoticeable. He did understand. You could feel it in his kiss, taste it on his tongue.

He drew back slowly, just before he lost himself entirely. He had more to say before then. “I have never felt more comfortable with anyone than I have with you. More human...” He trailed off and laughed quietly. “Even when I was one.” He kissed you once more. Like he couldn’t keep away. Hands holding the sides of your face, he lingered, your breaths mingling.

“You care for me without judgement. That’s never happened before. I’ve never had that feeling.”

You squeezed his wrists in silent understanding, eyes glassy. You couldn’t speak if you tried. Couldn’t let him know you felt exactly the same, in fear of bursting into tears. He understood though. Of course he did.

And that’s where you were now. This present moment. The aftermath of such a confession only bringing you closer together. There were silent boundaries that had been made that night. Seokjin did not wish to go into detail about his days, nor did you want him to. You were at ease now, knowing you had been right about him, the others wrong. Yes, he wasn’t perfect. No one was. Yes, maybe if you knew the cold, hard facts, you wouldn’t be able to bear it, but you were happy being ignorant to that. It wasn’t greed that drove you, for Seokjin and all the pleasure he could give you. He had been wrong. You made him see that. It was a selfishness, and that was okay. It had to be. They were two different things. You were selfish for the happiness he made you feel, and likewise for him.

For the first time in your life, you were truly happy. Felt truly understood and not judged, and so did Seokjin. Despite your different life experiences, you were the same in your hearts; yours alive, his rotten, but it didn’t matter—and that’s why you’d been so drawn to him. Twin flames in this dark, overbearing world. You knew the weight of such words, but you didn’t care. Not when you had something good, something pure, and you were clinging to it with all your might.

As much as you had put him on a pedestal in the beginning, not quite believing he’d chosen you, wanted you. Potentially put your worth on his choice, it didn’t matter. Because he had done and felt the same. He had always been thankful you’d made the decision that you had. He was thankful that you wanted him. Still, even now. In ways, you had given him certain confidence and esteem that he’d been lacking. Similar to how he helped bloom yours too. Made you feel beautiful, sexy. It was not one sided with you two. It was real, and pure, and shared. Your admiration for one another. Your love…

Yes, this had been a simple arrangement. Sex. But it wasn’t so simple anymore. You both understood that. There would come a day when you’d have to acknowledge it, your feelings… It was potentially soon, or you could just keep hiding for a little while longer, but it would happen. Seokjin didn’t think he was capable of love after his turn. You remembered him saying something similar the first night you spent together, about romance. You knew now it was because he hated what he was. Undead. He had already lost so much of himself over the years, and to become infected only tore away more. But he was wrong. He was capable. You felt the love he gave you every day. Even if it was the silent kind. It shone from him, warmed you up when you clung to his ice cold flesh.

So yes, you were selfish, so was he. But you didn’t care. Not when you had one another to hide behind.

“How do you want me, Sir?” You silked the words, excitement bubbling away in the pit of your stomach. That was your little thing. What you called him sometimes. When he was in the mood for it.

He smiled at you, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. You tensed, studying him almost intently now. Maybe there had been a reason he was delayed. You opened your mouth to ask if everything was okay, but he beat you to it.

“No need for that tonight.” He sounded exhausted, beaten. You realised how terribly you’d misread the signs, feeling a little guilty as you sat up, tightening your gown over your chest. He walked over to his bureau, steps heavy on the wooden floor. Long ago had you come to accept his insistence on wearing shoes indoors, but you watched him step out of his boots now. Loosening the red tie around his neck before removing it completely.

You waited politely for him to continue in some way. Not wanting to push an explanation for his depleted mood. He removed his rings one by one, dropping them into a glass bowl. That’s where he spoke to. “Today’s been hard. I–“ He stopped himself, unable or unwilling to go on. You wondered if you should press him. You realised keeping things bottled up like he did wasn’t good. But you were scared. Scared it could ruin things. You bit on your bottom lip, hard, stifling yourself.

He turned to you then, a longing in his eyes. You knew that look very well. It was a yearning for you. “I just need some solace.”

You nodded slowly, outstretching your arms for him to meet you. He rounded the corner of the bed in a few, quick strides and dove into you. His mouth finding yours in a deep, intense kiss. You wrapped your arms tightly around his shoulders, feeling him squeeze his around your chest, like he needed to make sure you were really there. He spoke no more and that was okay.

His mouth and tongue found your neck, kissing the skin like it could kiss back, until he ceased and held his face in the crook, hugging you tightly. You ran your fingers through his hair, unsure what else you could do. Your chest felt sad and heavy, his mood affecting you immediately. But you needed to be strong. You kissed at whatever part of his face you could reach, your turn to make him feel good. Make him feel loved.

Somehow your lips met again, tongues slipping together, going from slow to fast. His anguish over what was unknown to you, turned into an urge to forget. An urge to bury himself so deep inside you, he’d forget the outside world. If not just for tonight. You would gladly give him that. Give yourself that.

Your hands ran along the tops of his arms, squeezing the muscles as you went, moaning softly when his tongue slipped into your ear, the coolness sending a shiver up your spine. You quickly found the buttons of his shirt, undoing them in equal haste, revealing the expanse of his chest. His hands tugged at the tie of your gown, getting it to fall open and reveal your chest. He cupped your breasts softly, like you would break if he tried any harder and slowly got you onto your back. Your gown slipped open fully, rendering you bare to his eyes, and he let out a sweet sound of awe. He loved your body. Always had. Always would.

You tugged where his shirt tucked into his slacks, and he ripped it from his body, desperate to get as naked as you. It wasn’t long before he was, lying atop your body, staring into your eyes as he caressed your face. His heart was beating a little faster than usual, like it did when he was aroused, yet still not that of a human heart. It never would, but it had become oddly soothing these days.

“Not too cold?” He asked, voice thick with something that had you reaching for him, holding him close.

You smiled. “No. I like it.”

He returned the action, rubbing your noses together affectionately. Your heart swelled in your chest. Fit to burst. You closed your eyes and let yourself sink when his mouth began travelling your body. Your chest rising and falling visibly as he found his way between your legs, making love with his mouth.

In fact, out of the hundreds of times you’d had sex, tonight was the closest you’d ever gotten to such an act. It just felt different. More vulnerable than ever before. Sweeter. It filled your hole body, elevated you. Took you to places you’d never been before.

He pushed inside you slowly, indulging in your velvet warmth, and when he began to thrust it was to a tantric rhythm. Your back arched, your toes curled and all that you felt was warmth. No matter how cold his flesh was, his glow engulfed your body. You wanted it to never stop.

“Tell me you’ll always want me,” he rasped into your ear. Silver and black eyes burning into yours when he pulled back to view you. It was the most defenceless thing he’d ever requested of you. Exposed in the darkness, you shone, giving him the confidence to plead for such a thing.

You held his face tight, voice a hushed whisper, but it didn’t make it any less true. You didn’t know what the future held, nor what would unfold. But you were sure of one thing. There would never be a time when you didn’t want him. You were his, and he was yours.

“Always.”

#seokjin smut #bts smut #jin smut #bts fic #jin fic #fic:club zombie #floralseokjin:writings

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gumnut-logic · 4 years

Video

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Coffee

This is @godsliltippy ‘s fault because she was so kind to me and posted Pocket Virgil to help me through the day. Above is the original three clips, of which Pocket Virgil is part of Clip Two. After watching Pocket Virgil try again and again with no success, I kinda wanted to help him, so this fic happened.

Total meta crack, that really didn’t go anywhere, but hopefully will be fun nonetheless. Certain laws of both physics and worldbuilding were totally ignored, so there may be some brain frying concept-wise.

This is for Thunderfam and for all the kindness you continue to bestow upon me. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You guys are amazing. ::hugs you all::

Leave sense at the door. I hope you enjoy it :D

-o-o-o-

Virgil Tracy was grumpy.

He knew this idea was good an all and he fully supported Lady Penelope when she suggested they document some of their rescues for the general public.

But not once...not once! Did she mention that he would be dragged out of bed before the sun, thrown on a set to perform, and the only coffee they would provide would be thimble-sized, consequently cold and allocated to break times.

At the moment, ‘break’ was definitely a keyword. Sans coffee, Virgil Tracy was quite ready to do something of the kind to the director.

“Now, Virgil, I know you’re tired, but you are the calm brother, the respected peacemaker of the family. Snarling at the camera isn’t quite in character.”

In character? He was playing himself, for goodness sake. He was in character, character sans coffee! Across the studio, he eyed the Tracy villa swimming pool and wondered if there was a possibility of filling it with coffee.

“Can we try again?”

Virgil grunted at the director. Bet he had had his coffee. Bet he was allowed to access that wondrous machine up so high on that shelf. Bet he hadn’t given one thought to how his precious Tracys might feel about the matter.

Yeah, Virgil Tracy was not in a very good mood at all.

The director stood up from the set and stepped away to be half hidden by the camera again.

Virgil lowered Two’s hatch and climbed aboard. All prepared to launch Two with a smile.

He grit his teeth.

Backing her up into her hangar again, he closed the cliff face and waited for the call.

“Action!”

Practised fingers went through their motions and Two cruised out onto her runway under the fake sunlight.

A poke at a control and the palm trees moved aside...not quite the way they did at home, but well enough...and Two taxied towards her ramp.

“Cut!”

Oh, for the love of...what now?!

“Virgil, you are grinding your teeth. I would say we could mute it in post, but you look like you want to kill someone. You’re the valiant hero, the gentle giant, not Hannibal Lecter daydreaming about dinner!” Virgil stared up at him through the windows. Usually, Virgil would be mortified, but it was barely past 7am, he had been up late for a real rescue last night, hadn’t slept well, and there was no damned coffee!

The director stared at him a moment longer before throwing up his hands. “Okay, you know what? Take fifteen, go find some coffee, for all our sakes.” He ended that with a glare and turned away calling the crew to a halt.

Virgil sat there staring at the replica of his ‘bird’s controls. He had been in the real thing last night. Saved sixteen lives.

He was just tired and not really being fair to anyone, including himself.

He just wanted coffee. Please, I just need coffee.

If his inner voice sounded like a dehydrated man in a desert pleading for water, it was just being honest.

The thing was that the crew had coffee. In that machine on the shelf. Sure, the cup was bigger than he was, but it might be just enough to put his brain to rights.

But he couldn’t reach the button to activate it. In fact, the one time he had tried, some smart ass on set had filmed him jumping up, trying to reach it. It had made the rounds until it hit Gordon, who then promptly made sure the rest of the world had the opportunity to enjoy laughing at his brother.

But then Gordon still didn’t know who poured dye in his pool...while he was in it.

The full body make-up his brother had to wear that day to hide the purple was almost worth it.

But coffee...god, he needed coffee. If only he could extend his reach. If only he could grip the cup...

Virgil blinked.

The solution was obvious. Oh my god. He felt like kicking himself for not thinking of it before. You idiot!

There was one piece of equipment he had brought on set that wasn’t fake.

It was here for two reasons. The first was that it was built for Virgil, only he could wear it and it was cheaper to just wear the real thing than to build a poorly functional duplicate. Secondly, Virgil preferred to have one on hand as often as possible, just in case, and since they had been spending so much time in Aotearoa on set, he had stashed one with the lead model maker for safe keeping.

He exited the fake Two and leapt out onto the runway. The fact that one of the set hands saw him and immediately made herself scarce was kind of depressing. He had been a grumpy bear this morning.

But that was all about to be solved.

He eyed the director and, making sure the man wasn’t looking, grabbed one of the discarded thimble-sized coffee cups and slipped away towards prop storage.

It was a hike and he had to dodge wheels and staff who didn’t see him. Those who did all immediately looked at their watches and, just like the set hand earlier, hurried out of his sight.

Maybe he was beginning to get a reputation.

Serve them right for not giving him coffee!

He found his helmet and his exosuit exactly where he expected them to be. Some neurotic librarian type had attached a huge name tag with a barcode onto it.

Virgil’s shoulder mounted laser took care of that.

It was almost comforting to slide on the equipment. The surety of its strength settling on his shoulders, its weight snug at his hips and ankles.

He sighed.

Of course, that one moment of relaxation was interrupted by Steven, the lead model maker, suddenly bursting into the room.

“I don’t know, Scott. That sounds kind of dangerous. The real Thunderbird One might be able to handle you surfing it, but I’m not too sure of the mockups.”

“I’ll talk to Brains. We’ll make it happen.”

“Why are you feeling the need to surf on the outside anyway?”

“Because it looks cool?” Scott cleared his throat. “Ah, because that is what happened during the incident we are portraying and accuracy is important.”

Virgil hunched down behind a scarily accurate model of that moon buggy Scott was always raving about. He dared not move because the wheeze of the suit’s hydraulics was far too familiar a sound to hide from his brother.

But then, since Scott was buzzing around at Steven’s eye height thanks to one of his jetpacks, his older brother really didn’t have a single leg to stand on.

Mostly because he apparently didn’t need them.

Virgil found himself grinding his teeth again.

He really needed coffee.

“You actually surfed on the outside of Thunderbird One?”

“Well, yeah.”

“That is so cool, man.”

“That’s what I said!”

Steven reached past Virgil’s hiding spot and picked up one of the fake explorer pods and Virgil remembered that he was supposed to clamber up the side of an equally fake mountain later in the morning.

Hell, coffee was mandatory.

Fortunately, Steven appeared to have everything he needed and both he and Scott left almost immediately after that, Scott coming as close to raving as Virgil had ever heard him, babbling about surfing on One.

Sounded about right. Scott and Alan might as well have been twins if it wasn’t for their age difference.

They both gave Virgil grey hair.

But then so did Gordon.

John was easier, cool and calm and sensible most of the time. But that just meant that when he did slide off the rails, he did a proper job of it, likely taking most of them with him.

Hmmm, must remember to grab some more hair dye on the way home tonight.

With the coast clear, he secured his thimble cup to his suit and made a run for it.

He made it across the floor to the blessed coffee machine without interruption this time, though he had to admit, his suit was much noisier than he had realised. But a good percentage of the crew were focused on that scene Scott was filming.

He could still hear his brother declaring that he knew his stunts better than any stunt man.

Virgil had to agree. If anyone was capable of surfing Thunderbird One, it was Scott.

The idiot.

Now, not only was he doing stupid stunts to save people, but now just to show off.

Virgil had a good mind to kick his ass. He was as bad as Alan.

No, correction. Alan wasn’t that stupid.

Virgil found himself taking a step in his big brother’s direction and it was only the wheeze of his suit that made him realise exactly what he was doing.

Coffee, goddamnit, he needed coffee!

Without a second thought, he fired a grapple line up to the bench top and was gratified it secured with a thunk. Pulling himself up with the right equipment was so much more efficient than the equivalent pseudo rock climbing he had had to do last time.

Before he knew it, he was up there standing next to the huge dispenser of coffee. He gazed up at it for a moment and blessed its existence.

But unfortunately, Sadie who had been kind enough to set it up for him last time wasn’t available.

Hell, if his assistant hadn’t been called away at the last minute, he would have gotten his coffee that day. As it was, the director had found out about the incident when Virgil arrived late on set and had given Sadie a dressing down that involved images of Tracy brothers falling into giant vats of coffee and being boiled alive.

As if Virgil would be that stupid.

Boiling himself would be such a waste of good coffee.

But there were no more attempts at giant coffees for Virgil Tracy from that point on. It was banned.

So, this time, he had to set it up himself.

He was consequently reassured that yes, he was really good with his tools. The suit hummed in appreciation as he made it do what he needed it to do and despite dropping coffee granules all over himself at one point – he was considering eating them off the counter, but then considered that a caffeine overdose wasn’t wise – he set up the machine ready to dispense some black heaven.

The teacup he had used last time had been pushed away to one side, but his exosuit made it a simple job to manipulate it into position so he could stand on it.

With the extension of his claw, he easily reached up and hit the green button.

It was a pleasure just to hear the coffee machine start up.

He was seriously tempted to take off his helmet and breathe in the gloriousness that was the scent of brewing coffee, but he still had to get that coffee cup into a position from which it would be safe for him to drink.

He may be coffee and sleep deprived but he wasn’t an idiot.

So, he stood there watching the coffee machine make the drink of the gods.

It was a little mesmerising.

And then the process was complete. The machinery quietened and the coffee cup sat waiting for him.

He didn’t hesitate.

It took both claws and a secure grapple to the shelf above the bench for stability, but he manoeuvred the cup down onto the bench top.

Steam fogged up his helmet as he looked down from atop the upturned teacup, so finally, he broke the seals and lifted it off his head.

Oh.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

He almost melted on the spot.

The smell was heady, intoxicating. Drowning in the dark liquid no longer seemed a bad idea.

He leant over a little further.

Ohhhhhhhhhh, it was just too good.

“Virgil! What the hell do you think you are doing?!”

It was Scott’s voice. Unmistakeable.

He would want to take away his coffee.

No.

No!

Not his precious coffee!

His brother flew up onto the bench and alighted without a sound. “Virgil!”

Virgil hissed at him. “Go away.”

That earned him a worried frown. “That’s not safe.”

Screw safe, he wanted coffee. He unhooked his thimble cup from his waist and reaching down, scooped up some blessed, steaming liquid manna.

It was hot.

It was delicious.

He poured it down his throat.

Oh, god, yessssss.

Another scoop and he sculled some more. His tongue scalded a little, but he didn’t care.

More.

He was guzzling like a dying man at water filled oasis.

“Virgil?”

“Virgil!”

And suddenly the coffee cup disappeared.

No, no, no, no, no, no!

He over balanced and would have fallen if it wasn’t for a sudden thunk of a grapple on the back of his suit.

He looked up to find Scott securing his grapple line to a coffee cup hook underneath the overhead shelf as Virgil teetered on the edge of his teacup, barely prevented from falling by the cable’s connection to his suit.

And there was no more coffee.

No.

Please.

“I need coffee.”

Scott floated down to Virgil’s eye level and Virgil realised exactly who had taken the coffee cup away.

The director was standing behind his big brother.

Virgil was in so much shit.

Damnit.

“I just want coffee.”

Scott was frowning at him. “Are you okay, Virgil?”

“DO I LOOK OKAY?!”

Um, that may have come out a little bit louder than intended. But then he was hanging partly suspended from an empty coffee cup hook.

Much quieter. “I just need coffee.”

Scott’s eyes were wide. “I think you’ve had enough coffee.”

No, he needed more. Buckets more. “Please, Scott.”

“Uh, no. We’re going home.”

Virgil blinked. “What?”

But Scott had turned away and was talking quietly to the director.

Virgil caught a glimpse of something shiny out the corner of his eye and turned to find a single drop of deep brown gold suspended from the coffee dispenser.

Coffee!

Without thought he leapt for it.

Perhaps it was a good thing that Scott actually did think, because a yank on that grapple line probably prevented Virgil from being scalded.

“What the hell, Virg?!”

He blinked as he hung fully suspended by his brother’s grapple line, swinging slowly back and forth, one very unhappy commander glaring at him.

Umm, yeah, maybe that was taking it a step too far.

Scott’s words were firm. “Shed the suit and go and sit in the car.”

“Sco-“

“Now.” Blue fire lasered him where he hung.

Virgil gave in with a single nod.

Scott lowered him to the bench top and Virgil dropped the suit with a clatter. He stomped off in a huff as Sadie was called over the PA system to come and assist him.

He only wanted a decent coffee, for crying out loud.

After all, Gordon did get that massive hot dog the other day, and John had slept in his bagel, for goodness sake.

Why couldn’t he have his coffee?

It just wasn’t fair.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #crazy meta #meta crack #meta #nutty is nuts #he just wants coffee

83 notes · View notes

wavesmp3 · 4 years

Text

lie to me

pairing: chwe hansol x reader genre: soulmate au + angst warnings: drug usage + major character death wc: 3.2k

synopsis: in a world where the name of your soulmate is written like a tattoo on your wrist and you stop aging at 23 until you meet them a/n: a prequel to Room 18a and an extension of this prompt response from svtwritenight (i also listened to ribs by lorde on repeat while writing this and was inspired by I’ll Give You The Sun by Jandy Nelson in terms of writing style)

he sees you for the first time in the line of a coffee shop he’s never been to before. you sit alone. not on your phone. not doing anything. you stare into the abyss of your mug. yet you stare so intensely hansol thinks the mug must hold galaxies or the answer to all the mysteries to life or something insane and spectacular to hold your attention the way it does.

hansol wonders how the entire cafe doesn’t stop to stare at you staring at your mug cause hansol—well, he can’t take his eyes off you.

he inhales—

and by the time he exhales he’s seated in front of you with a cold cup of iced coffee in his hand. he’s not sure what possessed him to be so bold, to be so forward.

“um… hi?” you say to the boy who sits in front of you. (his clothes are odd. a too big tie dye shirt and a beanie. you’re taken aback by how pretty he is. too pretty. you sit a little more guarded)

hansol thinks your voice sounds like honey. he thinks your voice, just like the rest of you, is a trap luring him to his own demise. he couldn’t care less.

hansol chuckles awkwardly and shakes his head. “hi, um, what’s your- what’s your name?” he finally sputters out.

you tell him. and hansol’s eardrums burst from the name that leaves your lips except that it comes out as a small, incoherent sigh. he looks down at his hands. your name isn’t the one tattooed on his wrist. you are not the one he’s destined to be with. you are not the one he’ll grow old with. for as long as he knows you, he’ll stay stuck at 23. and he’s devastated. absolutely, completely crushed. like garlic under the side of a knife. like the remnants of a spice crushed in a mortar, stuck to the bottom of the pestle.

but then your arm drops, and your sleeve rises a little. and hansol can clearly see the letters of his name taking up the small space of your wrist. he looks back up at you.

“so then, what’s your name?” you ask as hansol comes to the soul crushing realization that he isn’t the only hansol in the world. and that he isn’t your hansol.

he decides he doesn’t want to get your hopes up.

“vernon,” he lies, “the name’s vernon.”

(hansol doesn’t catch the way you sigh in relief)

“well, this is kind of awkward,” he mutters, still looking at his hands. he chuckles again. it’s another lame attempt to fill the silence. it doesn’t work.

you tilt your head slightly. he can tell you’re still looking at him, and out of the corner of his eye he can tell you’re smiling. he has to stop himself from staring at the way your lips turn up. “why?”

he chuckles. awkwardly. again. he thinks you must be getting tired of the sound. (if he had asked, you would’ve said—well, you aren’t really sure what exactly you would’ve said, but you wouldn’t have been able to admit just how much you enjoyed the sound of his awkward chuckles)

“i, uh…”

“don’t get shy now, vernon.” you mutter into your mug. the fake name stings hansol’s ears.

“i sorta thought that you were my, uhm,” he hesitates, hiding his hands beneath the table, “my soulmate.”

you laugh. his face flushes.

“oh, you’re so cute,” you say harmlessly. he can feel the heat dance across his cheeks. you lean towards him.

and suddenly, hansol feels wrong. he feels like he’s done something terrible. he feels like he’s betraying his soulmate by being so attracted to you. he feels like a douche at how the words you’re so cute echoes in his head.

“i should go.” there’s no chuckle this time. he doesn’t like how easily you notice the change in his demeanor. hansol stands up abruptly, his eyes doing their best to stay trained on the floor beneath him. he almost doesn’t notice how you stand up with him. but when he does, hansol’s eyes betray him.

“or,” you pause, you’re eyes looking at the air around him, “you could stay.”

hansol turns his head. as if he’s looking for the camera on a prank show. “but we,” he motions between the two of you, “we aren’t soulmates.”

you shrug. “does that mean we can’t be friends?”

being your friend is the hardest thing hansol’s ever had to do.

and not because you’re hard to get along with.

no, but because hansol’s never quite gotten along with anyone the way he gets along with you.

it’s easy. too easy. the words flow like they’ve been cemented in history. like they’re passages and verses that have been repeated for ages. like they belong in the air between the two of you. he’s already memorized the way you scrunch your nose and tap your knees. and when you laugh at his jokes, he can already hear it playing infinitely in his mind. it feels as if he’s known you forever when you send him funny pictures and text him goodnight. you listen to him when he talks, and he feels more heard when you nod your head then he has his entire life. you dance. you’re not very good but you dance like you’re alive. hansol knows that you are. he’s never met anyone who’s company was so exhilarating yet comforting. someone who made him feel like the best version of himself. there was not a single bone or cell or vein in his body that did not belong with you.

but then you say his name. except you don’t say his name. you say vernon. and he swears every time you say the fake name he gave you the first day you met, his heart is being ripped from his chest. every. single. time.

he wants to forget about his soulmate. erase the name on his wrist and tattoo yours in the empty space. he wishes more than anything that he was the hansol that was destined for you. he wishes more than anything that he could be yours.

he’s not so sure he believes in soulmates anymore. after all, not everyone has a name on their wrist. but more importantly, no soulmate of his could ever compare to you.

“how old are you vernon?” you ask one day as he plays music from the car stereo. the two of you at your spot. hansol likes how you and him have a spot. it’s tucked away in a corner of your city. away from the madness. away from the insanity. and most notably, away from reality. it’s a lookout from the mountains. you can see the entire city from here. hansol feels on top of the world when you bring him here. but he knows it has nothing to do with the elevation.

“23”

you shove his arm playfully. he smiles shyly. “we’re all 23. how old are you actually?”

he waits a moment. “i am 23,” he repeats, you look away suddenly.

“fuck,” you whisper, except the curse doesn’t sound so vulgar coming from your mouth, “you’re so young.”

hansol feels small then. he realizes that despite how easy it’s been to become your friend, he still doesn’t really know you. he’s never seen your place. he doesn’t know what you do for a living. he doesn’t even know your last name. he’s doesn’t know the life you lived before him. hell, he doesn’t know the life you live apart from him. he only knows the ‘you’ you are with him.

“what’s your last name?”

“what?” and when you turn to him, confusion evident in your question, he doesn’t miss the pain evident in your brows. and he realizes another thing in that moment: hansol doesn’t know the hurt you’ve endured before him.

“are you o—“

“take me home.”

so he does.

you call him later that night.

“i’m sorry.” the words emerge from your mouth the second he picks up.

“don’t apologize.” he tells you. you sniffle and that’s when he can tell you’ve been crying. the sound or maybe the thought strikes him across the face. hard. “i’m sorry too.”

you don’t respond. he bites his lip til it bleeds.

“can i ask you something?” he finally asks after what feels like an eternity of silence.

“shoot”

“how old are you?”

you exhale. hansol can almost feel the exhaustion in your voice. “too old vernon, too old.”

he doesn’t ask you to elaborate any further and you don’t. but hansol can’t help the way the phrase ‘too old’ sticks to the side of his mind. he pushes it around, testing it out in the different parts of his head. like a piece of candy he’s still trying to determine the flavor of.

he decides he wants to keep the flavor a mystery.

(that night, he stays on the phone with you until you can’t remember why you were so sad to begin with. he makes you laugh like you’ve never laughed before. until your ribs are tough. until you can basically see his gummy smile. until you want to burn the image in the back of your brain)

hansol’s friends liked to call him hopeless. he isn’t sure why.

but when the words, “we’re just friends,” erupts from your lips like you’ve been holding them back. like they’re not just words. like they’re boundaries.

he understands how hopeless he really is.

hansol knew people could wear their hearts on their sleeves

but he didn’t know how heartbreak could explode from inside him no matter how concealed and hidden and bottled down he kept it. he didn’t know that heartbreak could splatter across his face and soak into his skin. he didn’t know that heartbreak could spill out of the neck of his shirt and slide down his sleeve. that it would trickle past his elbows and drip from his fingertips with a haunting, taunting drip drip drip. he didn’t know that it could pool beneath his feet and drench his socks. and then drip and pool beneath him some more until he was drowning in it.

he didn’t know until the moment it happened.

he didn’t know you would pretend to not hear the dripping.

hansol drowns a little more.

you call him vernon and he hears hopeless.

he doesn’t remember when he realized it but when he does, it changes everything.

you and hansol never hung out in groups. only alone at his place or at your spot above the city. only through the blue and green bubbles of a phone.

and somewhere between the silence of your conversations. he hears how lonely you are.

you’re almost as lonely as he is hopeless.

he doesn’t know how to fix it. he doesn’t know if he should.

it’s like you whisper i’m so alone but it gets lost through the phone lines and comes out as what movie did you watch.

it’s like hansol whispers back i know but it gets tangled between the cables and you hear before sunrise instead.

it’s like you have a whole conversation between the empty spaces. it’s like the two of you got lost in translation.

it’s like hansol doesn’t need to know every single detail about you and your past to know that he loves you and that the words i love you aren’t even close to enough to express just exactly how much he does.

the night you turn off your shoes and take off your phones. the night you want to play nintendo. is the night hansol peels a clementine and gives you half.

(you tell him how your aunt used to say if a boy gives you a clementine your love for him will multiply. he asks if it did. you laugh. the next day he brings you a crate full of clementines. you think he’s the only friend you need. and once he’s gone, you throw away every last clementine)

“what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

he thinks for a moment. “probably cocaine.”

“were you addicted?”

he doesn’t answer. “what about you? what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

“i’ve killed people vernon.” you say it gravely.

he laughs. you smile. “but what’s the actual worst thing?”

“it’s this liquid drug. it’s green. my friend jihoon makes it for me.”

hansol inhales, “what’s it feel like?”

you pause. “liquid lighting.”

somehow, he knows exactly what you mean.

then one night, hansol decides he’s had enough.

the two of you are drunk and at your spot. too drunk to drive home. so drunk you’ll have to sleep in the car.

he sits on the roof and you dance on hood. the kind of dance that makes you alive. hansol feels every nerve in his body ignite. by the time the song ends he doesn’t know if he’s laughing or crying.

“i can’t do this anymore.”

you stop dancing. “do what?”

“i can’t be your friend.”

you don’t say anything. but when you do, the question sounds like it comes from the back of throat and the bottom of a pit. you can’t meet his eyes. “did you meet your soulmate?”

he shakes his head. “i met you.” he stands up with you on the hood. getting to know you was like walking into a house he’s known his entire life. he knew all its secrets. he knew memories that weren’t his. he knew the color of every wall. and the feeling of the tile on the floor. he knew all its flaws. which faucets were leaking and which doors had broken locks. he knew what he’d find in the fridge without ever opening it. he knew which candle was lit. he knew the scent. he knew where you bought it. he knew you before he ever got the chance to speak to you. he knew you as if he’s been waiting for you his entire life. as if the essence of you was etched into his soul. he knew you. completely. through and fucking through. like he’s never known anyone else. he waits a beat. and not caring that he said it all in his head, he asks, “do you know me too?”

but really he’s asking do you love me too?

he finds the answer in the kiss you press to his lips.

and hansol knows it sounds cliche. he knows he sounds hopeless. but he swears on his life that fireworks have gone off somewhere in the distance. he swears on his life that he was meant to die in your arms because he swears there’s nowhere else he belongs more. he kisses you like his entire life has built up to this moment. he knows somewhere deep in his intestines that it has. he clings to you and holds onto you like he’ll never let go. he grabs at your body like it’s the only thing he knows. as if the image of you two in each other’s arms could be found in the sky.

(you know what this kiss means. somewhere deep inside you recognize the familiarity of his lips and the feeling in your fingertips. but you pretend you don’t. you hide the realization in the back of your throat)

the way he loved you made him want to be an artist of some sort. he wanted to carve out the image of his love from the depths of a stone and sculpt the contours of his fondness. he wanted to meet you over and over again with watercolors and oils. he wanted to fall in love through the disappearing ink of a pencil. he wanted to write words so powerful, so impactful that they could bring tsunamis to the eyes of a stranger.

the way he loved you made him absolutely positively mad and he loved it. he loved you.

“it drives you crazy,” you tell him, “getting old but not growing old.”

he listens faintly more concerned with tracing the lines on your palms until they create constellations. he kisses each individual star.

“are you listening to me?” you ask him retrieving your hand from inside his and using it to tousle his hair.

“no”

you sigh helplessly. he smiles.

“but,” he starts, “life’s a dream.”

“this dream isn’t so sweet,” you mutter.

“bittersweet?”

you take a long gulp from the vodka bottle. your entire face scrunches with the taste. “bitter.”

he’s not sure whether you’re talking to him or the alcohol.

on the last night, you take him to a club. he pulls out his ID for the bouncer.

(he doesn’t catch the way you stiffen when he does)

but once you’re inside the club, the music so loud hansol can’t hear himself think. you push him to a corner.

“why did you lie to me?” you have to yell to be heard. but the words only hit him like a soft blow. “vernon’s not your name is it?”

he hadn’t realized you saw his ID. he also doesn’t realize you’re crying in this dark light.

you show him your wrist. your tattooed one. “why didn’t you tell me your name is hansol?”

he can’t speak. he can’t move. he can’t take his eyes off you.

“I—“

you start fumbling for his wrist. he tries to keep it from you.

“no, listen. i’m the wrong hansol. i’m not your—“

but he’s too late, you’re already staring at his wrist. you’re already staring at the name printed on him. the name that isn’t yours.

“—soulmate”

hansol hears a familiar drip drip drip. but this time, it isn’t coming from him. the dripping is yours.

you drop his wrist and drop your head. it lands on his chest. he holds you as you shake and cry in the corner of the club. he doesn’t know when he starts crying himself.

but then suddenly you lift your head up and pull out your phone.

“what are you doing?”

“texting jihoon.” your thumb hovers above the keyboard for a moment.

“why?” you act like you don’t hear him.

you talk to someone behind the bar. you dance in the crowd. then you lead him to a room in the back.

he says let’s talk. you say let’s do heroin.

(he doesn’t know where you get the needle from)

he says no. you fall to your knees.

(you don’t try to hide how hard you’re sobbing)

he kneels next to you. you kiss him.

he almost doesn’t feel the needle penetrate his skin.

are you crazy he screams only it gets lost behind his gasping.

you position his head on your lap.

“i’m sorry hansol. i’m so sorry.” your tears drop onto his face and slide off his cheeks. he almost forgets the needle in his arm at the sound of you saying his name.

“what are you—“

you grab his wrist for the second time that night. “i lied to you.” you trace the letters of his soulmate’s name. “this,” you press on the tattoo, “this is my real name.” you meet his eyes. he begins to cry. “you were my soulmate this whole time.”

he can’t breathe. the only thing he can manage to say is—

“what are you doing.”

you take a shallow breath. “surviving.”

he repeats it

surviving.

(you press your lips to his and whisper i love you until his lungs deflate completely. until you hear him open the door. you compose yourself quickly.

“jihoon,” you say once he’s entirely inside the room, “took you long enough.”)

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xxx-cat-xxx · 4 years

Text

we’re collecting dust (but our love’s enough)

Have a little bittersweet Pepperony & Ironfam fic. As always, thanks to @whumphoarder for beta reading!

_________________

And here’s the thing about getting old: it’s marked by an ever-rising contrast between the good days and the bad days. On good days, Tony can still spend hours tinkering in the garage or playing ball with Peter’s eight-year-old son, Ben, down by the lake.

But on bad days, when phantom pain is hijacking all of his senses (despite the fact that two decades have passed now since that final battle), putting on the prosthesis is out of the question—as is getting down the stairs from the master bedroom.

And on the really bad days, his joints are so stiff that he’s barely able to lift his one remaining arm high enough to bring his migraine medication up to his lips.

“Pep?” Tony croaks, hating the weakness that’s echoing back at him. He’s not sure if she’s even close enough to hear him, but he trusts FRIDAY to relay the message that his wife is needed.

It takes her longer than it used to, but then Pepper is by his side, putting an arm behind his back in a practiced motion to help him sit up a little more. He bites back a groan when the change in elevation only increases the stabbing pain behind his right eye.

“Open your mouth,” she directs, firmly but warmly, before placing the pills on his tongue and bringing the water glass to his lips so he can take a sip. He loves her for the lack of pity in her eyes, for her focus on the practicalities of caring, for the calmness masking her worry― although none of that is surprising. Hell, they’ve been through far worse than the thunderstorms in his head.

Pepper adds a heating pad to the collection of pillows propping him up and pats it with an inviting gesture. Wincing, he lies back down, then curls onto his side, pulling his legs up to his stomach.

“Here, just in case.” Pepper puts a trash can next to the bed, freshly lined in order to avoid the smell making his nausea any worse. Tony really hopes he won’t throw up the pills he just took, but the possibility is definitely there.

“You’re the best, Miss Potts” he mumbles, and only then realises that this particular nickname is already a few decades too old.

“Get some sleep, Tony.” She brushes a kiss on his forehead and gently shuts his eyes with her palm. He opens them again the moment she’s left the room, unable to find rest just yet.

With difficulty, Tony turns onto his other side so that the photos on the nightstand come into view. Morgan and her girlfriend Riri with their surfboards at Malibu beach, the sunset bathing them in a warm, almost otherworldly light. Peter and Ben, who is sitting on Rhodey’s lap in the wheelchair and laughing at someone behind the camera. Happy and May, arm in arm and a little drunk on the evening of their tenth anniversary.

Tony keeps looking at the photos until the drugs kick in and they turn blurry in front of his eyes while he finally drifts off.

It’s early evening when he wakes again, his head still throbbing and his body tired, but feeling miles better than earlier. The house is quiet and Pepper is nowhere to be seen. Tony lies still for a moment, marvelling at the simple fact that he is able to form comprehensive thoughts without feeling like his brain is being eaten alive.

After a while, he’s able to sit up on his own and slowly make his way to the bathroom. He uses the toilet and brushes his teeth to get rid of the stale taste in his mouth. Then he has to hold on to the basin for a while because he starts to feel lightheaded from being on his feet for a phenomenal five full minutes. Finally it passes, and he washes his face with cold water to get his blood pressure back to a more reasonable level.

When he looks up, there’s an old man staring back at him from the mirror, rumpled grey hair and an even greyer beard. He bears a vague resemblance to Howard Stark―Howard Stark if someone had tried to melt away half of his face.

The snap has left a long-term toll, and not just in the gruesome scars all over his body. Tony had a stroke last summer, after which he’d temporarily lost the movement in his one remaining arm and was drooling for weeks, and he’s already on his second pacemaker this year. Not that he’s complaining―better to be old than dead, thank you very much―but some things really just suck. He stares at the mirror image a moment longer and then sticks out his tongue at it, content to see that this makes him stop looking like Howard.

“Tony?” He flinches when he hears Pepper’s voice from downstairs, though she doesn’t sound like Pepper at all. Her tone is scared, almost desperate. “Where are you?”

“Hon-” he stops to clear his scratchy throat and tries again. “Honey, I’m up here!”

Her footsteps run up the staircase and he turns around to see her enter, dressed in her favourite light blue summer dress, the long hair cascading down over her shoulders.

“Tony?” she asks again, breathing hard. Then she takes him in and relief blooms on her face. He registers the tears on her cheek and automatically raises his good hand to wipe them away.

“What happened?” he asks softly. But he already knows.

Closing her eyes, she leans into his touch. “I was in the garden,” she starts. “I was, I think I was watering the sunflowers, and then, for a second, I―I didn’t know. Where I was. Where everyone was.”

“Oh Pep,” he sighs, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close. It’s not the first time this has happened, but all the other times she’s been inside the house where FRIDAY could help her make sense of the situation and get back to reality quickly. “How long were you out there?”

“I don’t know,” Pepper mumbles. “I thought―I thought it was a park, maybe? That I was back at my parents’ place and went out for a walk. But then I saw Morgan’s little house and remembered.” She takes a shaky breath. “God, Tony, it’s all such a mess.”

“You’re alright,” he whispers, and then, knowing it’s not herself she is scared about, he adds, “I’m here. Morgan and Riri are flying around the world somewhere. Peter is in Queens—it’s his weekend with Ben. They might be visiting Happy and May just now. Rhodey is… I don’t actually know where Rhodey is right now, but he’s fine. Everyone’s doing okay.”

“I know,” she mumbles, pulling away. “Now I remember.”

“Good. That’s good, Pep. It was just―a glitch. A tiny glitch in your memory.” He forces a smile and shifts a bit of his weight against the doorframe, his legs suddenly feeling weak.

Pepper, of course, catches on to that. “How's your headache?” She seems to have caught herself, but he wonders whether she remembers his migraine or just guessed it from the situation. “Why are you up?”

“Had to pee. But I’m better, promise.” She looks at him critically, and he adds, “Just won't be up for anything demanding for the rest of the day.”

“That’s fine.” She runs her hands through her hair, combing it with her fingers before tying it up in a bun, her way of reasserting control. “You should go back to bed. I’ll fix us something light to eat.”

Tony doesn’t like the idea of leaving her alone right now, but making it down the stairs to the kitchen seems... challenging. But he’s already got a better idea. “Actually, I was thinking of taking a bath. Getting a little ripe,” he jokes. “Will you help me wash my hair?”

It's always good to give her something easy to do when the dementia is playing tricks on her, something to busy her hands and distract her mind.

“Uh-huh.” She looks right through him, then sighs a little. “Sure. Why not.”

There used to be a time after Afghanistan when Tony couldn’t have set foot in a bathtub if an army had forced him to. He avoided them the same way he avoided caves and, later, endless night skies or Sci-Fi movies with wormholes. It was only Peter’s immense disappointment over not being able to watch the fourth Star Trek movie together that finally pushed him into seeing the counsellor who helped him get a grip on some of this.

(Almost starving in space, Peter’s five-year disappearance and Pepper’s pregnancy might have also played a role, but hey, saying you started therapy to be able to watch Leonard Nimoy in a bathrobe saving whales makes for better dinner table jokes).

Either way, he’s glad that his bath-o-phobia is mostly cured now, because their lakehouse tub is plain amazing, and not having to stand to shower on days like these is a blessing.

The hot water and the essential oils Pepper added to it do wonders for Tony’s aching body. He breathes in the steam that reminds him of expensive spas on New York’s winter days. Pepper has turned her back towards him, organising the already neat collection of tubes and bottles on the counter. Unimpressed with the solemnity of the scene, he playfully splashes some water at her. She turns towards him and smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Tony could tell from a mile away that she’s still shaken.

Time for plan B.

“Will you join me, honey?” Drawing out the last word, he blinks his eyelashes up at her seductively, which finally makes her laugh for real.

“Well, Mr Stark, if you’re asking like that…” The dress slides down her shoulders and collects around her feet, and her undergarments quickly follow. She glides inside the tub more gracefully than should be legal for anyone over sixty, and, copying him, flicks some water onto his nose.

Ignoring the perfect opportunity for a water fight, Tony extends his arm and pulls her close to his chest, taking in her wrinkled skin and the roots of grey in her ginger hair where the dye has grown out. She intertwines her legs with his and lets her weight, minimised by the water, be borne fully by his body. Her cheek comes to rest on the soft spot between his collarbones. She is moving up and down in rhythm with his breaths, creating tiny ripples on the surface of the water, and he holds her tighter, ever tighter.

Pepper readjusts her position and runs her hand down from his neck, to his stomach, and back up again. He responds with a kiss to the top of her forehead and then starts tracing the outline of her breast with his index finger. She stops to look down at them critically. “Not really what they used to be.”

“Still better than what I have to offer,” he deadpans. At this point, his chest is basically one big scar tissue. “And personally, I’m still a fan of them. It. All of it.”

He can hear her smile in the way she lets her breath out through her nose.

They stay like that for a while, Tony feeling the tension bleed out of his body, the pounding of his temples ease a little, and his eyes slowly falling shut again.

“I was so scared,” Pepper suddenly admits into his collarbones. He feels drops of water trickle down his neck and knows she’s crying even before she sniffles quietly.

“I know,” he says quietly. “But it will be alright, love.”

“Will it, though?” she asks, ever-critically, ever-questioning. Too many of his promises have shattered before her eyes for her to blindly believe him now, so he doesn’t make her any new ones, doesn’t talk about the world-renowned team of scientists he already hired when the first symptoms showed themselves, about the devices he’s working on down in his garage. She already knows all of that. It’s not what she needs to hear right now.

Instead, he swallows hard and says, “Pep, listen. We’ll get through this too. And if… whatever will happen. I'll be there.” What he doesn’t say out loud is what she already knows from how tight he’s holding on to her:

I won’t give you up without a fight.

“I know,” she whispers. Then she takes a deep breath before untangling herself from his embrace. “So, are we going for the anti-dandruff shampoo or can I use something that won’t make you smell like coconut?”

Tony positively purrs while Pepper massages the shampoo into his scalp. “Close your eyes and mouth,” she commands when she tilts his head back before starting the shower. And a laugh bursts out of Tony, because this is the same tone she used to use on Morgan when washing her hair, and in response their daughter would screw her eyes shut and bite her lips so tight in such concentration that her whole face scrunched up with it.

“What’s so funny?” Pepper asks, so Tony, not one to admit to nostalgia, just twists the showerhead out of her grasp to point it back at her, finally getting himself that water fight.

After drying off and pulling on a fresh pair of pajamas, Tony is put back to bed with his tablet and a promise that Pepper will join after making pasta. He checks his email, then sets the tablet aside and gets back up to open the window. He lets his eyes wander to the garden and lake that are just visible in the last rays of daylight.

Sometimes, on bad days, he cynically wonders what will give out first: his broken body or Pepper’s battered mind. But on good days, that's not what counts. They might have months, or years; if things go great, they might even have another decade. Tony has long, long ago started to regard every additional day in his life as something he doesn’t have a right to, and sworn to himself to use them to the best of his ability. That’s what it comes down to, in the end. He and Pepper will do what they have always done―simply keep going as long as they can.

“Hey, old man.” Pepper is standing in the doorway, holding out a bowl of blueberries. “I picked them earlier in the garden―forgot all about them. You want some?”

“Sure.” He turns around to fully look at her. “I'd love to.”

_________________

I hope you liked it! Credit for the idea of Riri Williams and Morgan Stark getting together goes to @fuzzydeergirlart‘s wonderful art (or at least that’s where I go the idea from).

All my fics

#pepperony #old tony stark #old pepper potts #migraine #dementia #ironfam #dad peter parker #blueberries

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talkfastromance4 · 4 years

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Ashton snippet

Found this while perusing through old docs, it’s titled ‘Don’t Call Me Angel” and it ends abruptly because I never finished or I don’t know what happened. But here’s a snippet of a TA!Ashton as an art teacher.

Might have to add this to my list of WIPs to finish if it gets good reviews. Let me know what you think :)

Copyright talkfastromance4 © All works is intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved. Any redistribution or reproduction or any part or all contents in any form is prohibited. You may not, without written expression and consent from the author, distribute works amongst other social media platforms

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Masterlist

• • • •

Ashton has always felt things so deeply. He loves deeply, he rages deeply, he sympathizes deeply and he plays his drums with everything he’s got. He tries to keep his emotions in check but they change like the tides, even he finds it hard to keep up with them.

Ashton lives, breathes and sweats creativity. His passion is seen in his brush strokes, his despair is shown through the negative space of his photographs. Long hours spent in the dark room and sometimes endless nights painting on large canvases in his studio apartment has given him the cliché brooding artist look; dark circles under his eyes complete the look.

When he’s not in the dark room or his apartment he frequents the coffee shop that is the perfect halfway point between his familiar places. It’s called Java Bean and serve the best iced coffee Ashton has ever tasted to tell you the God honest truth and the shop is a literal godsend for being open twenty-four hours.

Ashton’s insides are made of caffeine, paint and a constant ebb and flow of pulsating thoughts and phrases that won’t leave his mind unless he writes them down in his sketchbook. That’s another thing Ashton can never leave the house without, his sketchbook.

It’s large, black and hard covered even though the spine has long since lost the potency of its glue causing it to lie open like a cracked crab. It’s filled with his thoughts, lyrics he can’t get out of his head, small sketches of flowers or images he sees late at night when he dreams (when he gets a chance to sleep).

The book is his vice and he would rather die than ever part with it for Ashton is a closed book with every person (aside from his three best friends) but he opens up fully between those pages.

For his last year at University he’s the TA for his favorite art professor, Miss Dooley who is the perfect amount of scatter-brained and genius. She calls every student ‘pet’ and always has incense or essential oils burning in her classroom.

It has been Ashton’s wish and dream to be an art teacher for high school students, to help those like him who want to stay in their shell reveal who they truly are on the inside.

“Hello, my pet,” Miss Dooley trills in her usual sing song voice as Ashton enters the large art classroom.

He inhales the acrylic paint, the fresh wood waiting to be turned into canvases and the waxy aroma from the oil pastels stowed away in a cupboard. It’s one of his favorite smells in the world, the mediums just waiting to be used and Ashton’s fingers twitch in anticipation to create.

“Hey, Miss D,” he grins making a beeline to her desk at the front of the room. Behind her on the charcoal colored chalkboard is her name in calligraphy with broad strokes of curves and flowers.

‘Advanced Art Multi-Medium’ is written in block letters below her name as well.

“Excited for this year?” she asks rolling around a small was of blue putty in her hands. She claims it keeps her fingers and joints from failing so she’ll always be able to make art.

“Yeah, does it look like we’ll have a good class this year?” he taps the pads of his fingers on the black resin tabletop, a habit he’s always had when he’s anxious.

“Oh, I think so,” she beams her robin’s egg eyes twinkle. “It’s a full class this year, which I have you to thank for my little chickadee.”

“Me? What do you mean?”

“You’ve been the best student for the past six years you’ve been here, my prized pupil and a very handsome fella if you don’t mind me saying.”

Ashton feels the back of his neck heat up from her sentence full of compliments. Surely he’s not the reason for a full class this year? That’s ridiculous.

“I don’t think—“

Before he could finish the double wooden doors swung open and a flood of college students entered and Ashton couldn’t help but judge the first few that came in. He recognized three of the girls in front who were in Delta Zeta which he knew the only amount of creativity in their body was decorating photo backdrops.

Apart from them the rest of the class he’s seen hanging around the art wing of the school and at some of the showings he was at. At the rear was one of his best friends, Michael Clifford who decided a month ago to dye his hair a deep purple again. Michael smirks at his friend as he takes a seat next to a petite girl opening up a small black notebook.

Ashton let out an exasperated breath through his nostrils at his friend who did not tell him he’d be taking this class.

“ . . . Twenty- three . . . and twenty-four. Excellent! We’re all here!” Miss Dooley claps her hands together and moves to the front of her desk to smile sweetly at her pupils. “I recognize some of your faces but welcome to Advanced Art! I am Miss Dooley and this young man next to me is Ashton Irwin who will be my aide for this year. Would you like to inform them what this year will consist of?”

Ashton clears his throat then steps forward to stand next to Miss Dooley but ends up leaning his back against the counter behind him. He wanted them to see he was relaxed.

“Hey everybody. This year will be about using different mediums and creating something great out of them and also finding your niche in your art. Every class you’ll have five sketches of a landscape or a self-portrait or anything else that catches your eye. If you don’t have a sketchbook I recommend getting on.”

Every eye is on him and he is making a point not to look anywhere near Michael in the back. He clears his throat again before continuing.

“Your final exam for the first semester will be the beginning of your portfolio which will show the progression of your ‘voice.’ When—“

“Our voice?” a platinum blond of the Delta Zeta trio asks with her hand in the air, a confused pout on her glossed lips.

Ashton folds his arms across his chest, the leather of his jacket squeaks from the motion.

“Each artist has a voice in their work, a certain style that is all their own. That’s why when you see the blurred colors of a lily pond you know it’s Monet or the small pointed brush strokes and vivid colors of Van Gogh. Art is a voice for when you don’t know what to say, you can convey so much emotion into it. By the end of the year I want to be able to tell who’s piece is who’s, that’s how prominent it needs to be.

“If you don’t think you have it in you or won’t rise up to the challenge of being vulnerable, then I suggest you drop the class. Some people really want to be here and create art, I don’t want you to be deprived of that.”

He stands there eyeing each and every person almost daring one of them to stand up and walk out. A motion of a hand raise catches his eye in the back, he thinks it’s Michael and is ready to kick his friend out if he makes a rude comment. But it’s not Michael, it’s the girl sitting next to him.

“Yes, pet?” Miss Dooley calls on her.

“How many pieces should be in our portfolio?” she asks in a gentle voice but with sureness behind it.

“However many it takes to find your voice,” Ashton answers her. She nods then bends over her notebook to write furiously on the page.

“Well, since no one has jumped ship, let’s start off with a little exercise. Turn to the person you share a table with, introduce yourself and sketch them while you get to know each other. You will be each other’s buddies for the semester. Begin, my pets,” Miss Dooley claps her hands together again and all the students shuffle around for pencils and paper.

» » » » »

It’s a Friday night and Ashton is sitting in his favorite booth at Java Bean with his sketchbook out and earphones in to block out the small chatter of other college students. His first week of class as a TA went really well, a lot of the students showed promise. To his amusement Michael’s first sketches were of the little succulents he has scattered about his apartment.

Ashton was pleased that they took him seriously and Miss Dooley always offered her help and guidance to those who had questions. None of the students had approached Ashton but he was fine with that, he’s still learning by watching Miss Dooley interact with them.

Ashton’s hazel eyes landed on Michael and Calum approaching his table as he sipped at his black coffee. He licks his lips watching them approach with shit eating grins on their faces and he reluctantly removes his earphones. He closes his sketchbook with a soft thump, slightly glaring at his friends. They know better than to interrupt him while he’s drinking coffee and immersed in his sketchbook.

“Hey teacher,” Michael snickers pulling up a chair from the next table over. He slumps down in it with his fingers twiddling in his lap while Calum spins the chair opposite Ashton around and straddles it.

Calum pulls his dark gray beanie down lower over his ears then rests his chin on his elbows.

“Can I help you with something?” Ashton sighs leaning back in his own chair.

“Luke’s throwing a party tonight,” Calum begins, “a back to school rager, if you will.”

“Good for him.”

“C’mon Ash,” Michael whines leaning forward on his knees. “Come party with us like old times.”

“You mean like when we were freshman and your head caught fire?” Ashton quirked his eyebrows up.

“We were young and dumb then,” Michael waves it off. “Come on, it’ll be great. The girl I sit next to in your class will be there.”

“And?”

“What girl?” Calum pipes up.

“And she’s cute,” Michael shrugs, “and it will be fun for you to get out of your little hermit hole you’ve set up here.”

“I dunno guys. I want to get up early tomorrow to take some photos of the waterfall. In my photography class I’m doing a series of different locations throughout the seasons, and I think the—“

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Calum interrupts holding his hand up. “Just . . . come hang out with us before you get neck deep in your work, yeah? Just for a few hours.”

Ashton rolls his eyes then sighs before giving in.

“All right, fine. I’ll come.”

“YES! The Ash Man is back!” Michael hollers clapping his friend on the back and the other customers turn to look over in irritation.

“You’ve never called me that,” Ashton says gathering his stuff in his shoulder bag, “and don’t start now.”

The party was like any other party Ashton has been to in his college career, granted it is a bit tamer than when they were all freshman and sophomores. For the most part everyone had their clothes on which relieved Ashton. He hated having to try and wrangle whoever it was to get their clothes back on.

The townhouse was stuffy with vape smoke making the air foggy, beer and liquor filled his nose and he felt the music course through his body.

“Hey, you brought him!” Luke exclaims with a large smile. His arms are raised bringing Ashton in for a tight hug. “Glad you’re here, buddy.”

“Thanks man,” Ashton says tousling the younger guy’s golden curls.

“Drinks are in the kitchen, but I think I hear a shot of fireball calling your name,” Luke wiggles his eyebrows dragging the guys into the kitchen.

“I haven’t had fireball since New Year’s two years ago,” Ashton chuckles.

“Ashton! Hey!”

His head snaps when he hears his name then wishes that he hadn’t. The voice belonged to Breanne Thomas, a girl he used to hook up with on and off a few years back. She was even the model for some of his photography assignments.

“Oh, hey, Breanne,” he nods politely then shuffles past her into the kitchen. He did not want to relive old times with her at the moment.

“Yikes, sorry, mate,” Calum says handing him a shot glass filled with the golden liquid.

“Whatever, let’s cheers to a new year,” he shakes it off holding his glass up in the air. They all clink and down the shots heartily. Ashton remembers the burn as it travels down his throat and into his stomach.

As the night progresses he becomes pleasantly buzzed and that’s when he knows to stop. He just stumbles out of the bathroom when he hears his name being called and looks up to see Michael waving him over near the back of the house to the backyard.

Ashton pushes through the bodies, waves of weed swirl around his head and it’s so strong he’s sure he’ll get a contact high from it. When Michael becomes more in view he notices the girl from his class standing next to him.

“This is Lennox Hastings,” Michael introduces with a loopy smile. “Lennox Hastings this is Ashton Irwin. Our teacher. My best friend.” A small hiccup escapes him.

“Hi,” she smiles shyly at Ashton, “And it’s just Lennox. You don’t have to use my last name Michael.”

“It’s a badass name, Lennox Hastings! I have to say it all. You should show him your notebook, he’s got one too. Oops, I’ve got to go. Bye!”

He skirts away into the crowd and Ashton shakes his head at his drunken friend then turns to Lennox who now looks oddly familiar now that he knows her name. Apart from seeing her in his class he swears he’s seen her somewhere else before, but where? Or did she have a twin?

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with him as a table partner,” Ashton apologizes and she laughs lightly.

“He’s not so bad. He’s fun to talk to when I’m not working.”

“How’re you liking the class so far?”

“It’s good, I’ve been looking forward to it since I got here, actually. I was in all advanced classes in my high school and I’ve heard how amazing Miss Dooley is.”

“Yeah, she’s great,” he smiles then glances around at their surroundings. There’s a couple making out against the fridge and Ashton realizes it’s Calum and some short blond haired girl. “You wanna step outside? Get some fresh air?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” she smiles opening the door.

Ashton picks up two water bottles from the bucket on the counter then follows her into the warm August night. The screen door swings shut behind him, he inhales deeply and sits on the gliding bench besides Lennox.

“Thanks,” she says taking the water bottle from him and takes a sip. “This isn’t weird, is it?”

“What isn’t weird?”

“Us being out here? You’re basically my teacher,” she laughs nervously.

“Nah, I’m just an aide. I’m not a teacher yet,” he grins at her.

Now that he’s not inside the house with loads of distractions all around, he can finally get a good look at her. She looks familiar for some reason now as he stares at her in the yellow porchlight. Her auburn hair is pulled up in a half ponytail with some fly aways clinging to her round cheeks. Her eyelashes are long atop her doe eyes and Ashton finds himself wishing to see what type of blue they are and if he could paint them.

“You’ll make a good one,” she says pulling him from his wandering mind.

“Ya think?” he leans back and rocks the glider back and forth slowly, it creaks and groans as he does.

“Yeah, you control the room well and I can tell how passionate you are about art.”

“Thanks,” he says sheepishly. He’s never been able to take compliments well, whether it’s about his art or himself. “How’re the rest of your classes going?”

“Okay so far, lots of work already in my poetry class and advanced art,” she gives him a sly smirk and nudges his ribs playfully with her elbow.

“You write?”

“Mhm. Wrote a lot this summer, great inspiration,” she says grimly.

“That’s good, right? I’ve heard writers block is shit.”

“It is.”

“So what inspired you?” he turns his body so he’s angled towards her more.

Lennox shakes her head, a piece of hair clings to her lip and Ashton desperately wants to pull it away.

“I don’t want to bore you with my heartbreak, Mr. Irwin,” she says.

“Please, call me Ashton,” he grimaces at the title. “I’m an artist, too, remember? Heartbreak makes the artist.”

“You already know it, though, the cliché story of girl meets boy. Girl falls for boy and they date and commit but then the boy gets a record deal and leaves girl behind.”

“Wait,” Ashton sits up straighter when he heard record deal. “You aren’t talking about Harry Styles, are you?”

“You know him, huh?” she says airily.

“Yeah, we don’t get along very well. At all, actually,” he chuckles.

“How come?”

“That’s not important right now. I’m sorry he hurt you.”

• • • •

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**if your url has a strike through it’s because your blog didn’t show up as a tag! :(

#ashton irwin imagine #ashton irwin au #TA!ashton #art ashton #ashton fic #ashton irwin fluff #ashton irwin writing #5sos writing #ashton 5sos

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tamakiamajikistentacles · 4 years

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Two Ghosts (part 2) {Dabi}

A/N: Please be sure to reblog, comment, review, and like if you enjoy! Feedback is what keeps me motivated! Click to read Part 1 and Part 3

Shoto Todoroki was observant—as a future pro hero, he would have to be.

He had observed the small idiosyncrasies of his classmates and committed them to memory for no other reason than to catalog his observations. That meant knowing of things like Ashido’s 3am laundry room trips with American pop music playing from her phone just slightly too loud for the time of night or Tokoyami’s habit of stirring his morning coffee three times to the left and then three times to the right despite drinking it black.

Above all, he prided himself on observing those he was against in battle, be it his classmates during training or villains determined to end his life.

During the attack on their training camp, he had his chance to observe the villains sent to retrieve Bakugo. He’d been able to give fairly detailed descriptions to the authorities and pros who had come to speak with the classes once the attack had ceased and his classmate had been taken. It had helped in identifying them he later learned, but there were two individuals whose names were never retrieved despite his information.

One was the tall, thin man with burn-scarred skin held together with staples and piercings around turquoise eyes and jet-black hair, his blue fire burning hotter than his own and even hotter still than Endeavor’s. The other was a woman who stood almost as tall as the burned man with her heeled boots, her golden eyes and facial piercings framed by long tendrils of dark, inky purple hair that floated around her when her wind quirk was in use.

He could remember being hesitant to look away from her eyes as she stood to the left of the burned man whose hand had been around Bakugo’s neck when the warpgate consumed them. She was pretty, but he stared because of the warmth that her eyes held, a warmth he couldn’t explain the familiarity of.

His brain had tried to justify that the color was similar to Kaminari’s and that’s where he was getting a sense of ‘I know that look’ but it wasn’t right. He felt that her eyes were almost misplaced in the rest of her appearance, like she should have looked… lighter? brighter? It didn’t make sense.

There were more glimpses of her warmth that revealed themselves as time went on, and each one served to confuse him further.

When they had gone to retrieve Bakugo, he had seen her there on the battlefield in Kamino, but she didn’t fight. Two of the villains, the black mist who opened the warpgates and the man with the blue flames, had been knocked out cold, and she wouldn’t leave the side of the burned man. The look in those golden eyes had been feral as they darted around protectively, her hands never leaving him. Even as Midoriya, Iida, and Kirishima had taken to the sky to put the plan in motion, she didn’t move.

“Who can do distance?!” one of the villains called out as Bakugo had reached their classmates, Kirishima’s hand tightly clasping his own.

“Kurogiri and Dabi, but they’re down!” another answered, casting a look back at them. “Kazane, you’re able to do distance with Dabi’s flames but can you do it on your own?”

“No,” she bit out, the wide neck of her shirt falling down her left shoulder to reveal a purple burn scar. “I can do ten meters on my own but they’re beyond that at this point. Even if they weren’t, I won’t leave Dabi.”

Another plan was formulated by the rest of the villains, and Shoto watched on until it was deemed safe enough for he and Yaoyorozu to make their exit. As they did, he mulled over the new information he had been granted.

The golden eyed woman was named Kazane, and the man with the blue fire was Dabi. They were a team, that much was obvious, but he wondered how far teamwork went in their partnership. Admittedly, he had no baseline with his parents for what a healthy, loving relationship looked like, but his instincts told him that in some odd way, that was what he had witnessed that night in Kamino when Kazane wouldn’t leave Dabi’s side to try and complete their mission to take Bakugo. She’d said it was because ten meters was her distance limit but compared to what he had seen at the training camp, her distance could easily reach three or four times that much.

More information was revealed by Bakugo when he had been questioned by police, his recounting of his time spent in the bar headquarters provided in hopes of tracking the League down once again.

Shoto overheard him talking about it with Kirishima and the rest of their small group of friends one night in the dorm common room as he made tea.

“The two goths were practically attached at the damn hip,” he growled. “The scarred motherfucker who took me through the warpgate at camp, Dabi, he was like a damn teenager puttin’ his hands all over the chick. Kazane, that was her name. Always fuckin’ touching each other and him pullin’ her into his lap. Gross.”

‘As I suspected,’ Shoto thought to himself. The partnership went far beyond working as a team on the battlefield.

But that confirmation was still not enough to sate his curiosity of the villains, golden eyes still haunting him whenever the subject was brought up. There were even times when he dreamt of training camp and either replayed what had happened or even imagined how a quirk confrontation would have gone down between them.

When he did dream of fighting them, no matter what he himself said in provocation, Dabi would only ever give one command—request?—to Kazane when they advanced on him, voice distorted as if he were underwater.

“Take him, Peach.”

He hated how familiar he became with the phrase in his dreams, and how familiar the soft words seemed even when the dream had been new.

Months passed with occasional distractions from the phrase and the dreams that held it; moving into the dorms, taking and failing his provisional license exam, enrolling in remedial courses with Bakugo to finally earn his license, another internship with Endeavor, and even an attempt by his father to rebuild their family after his misdeeds provided more to think of than golden eyes and blue flames.

Until Endeavor began moving Shoto, Natsuo, and Fuyumi into their own home away from the compound they had grown up in, he could almost say he had forgotten about the phrase the dreams had tried to sear into his mind.

He had been helping Fuyumi pack away the last of her things before they would take them to the new house when she turned to him from where she had been inspecting an old box that had been buried in her closet.

“Oh, Shoto, do you remember making these when you were little?” she asked, small, semi-smushed paper cranes in her palms. “You used to love coming in to make these with us when T- when we could get you away from training for a little while.”

He knelt down beside her and took a pale yellow one into his hand gently. “I knew you liked making them, but I don’t remember making them with Natsuo.”

“Natsuo never bothered with them really,” she said with a laugh. “It was usually what Raila and I would do to distract you when… well, when Touya would argue with Father and we didn’t want you to hear or see anything. You used to love when she would make them fly around, too. I might have a video of you giggling when she’d have them land on your head!”

“Who is Raila?” he asked, head cocked to the side as she scooped more cranes out of the box.

Fuyumi smiled wistfully, one orangey-pink crane delicately balanced in her palm. “Raila was Touya’s girlfriend from the time they were fourteen up until he passed. She was there when he did, but the heat and the smoke made her faint and by the time responders had arrived, she’d been burned and Touya was… gone.”

“Why don’t I know her?” Shoto asked hoarsely. It was rare that Touya was discussed, and rarer still that his death was spoken of. “Is she still here in the city?”

“A few weeks after Touya passed, she vanished. Some of her things were missing like she had run away but after about two days the police found evidence that she had committed suicide by jumping from one of the bridges closer to the countryside. That part of the river went right out to the ocean and they always expected to recover her body, but they never did. I think they said one or two of her things washed ashore after they declared her deceased, but it was so long ago that I can’t tell you for sure,” his sister explained sadly.

He hated that he couldn’t even conjure an image of this girl in his mind, someone who had apparently been in his life for nearly three years and had treated him to a type of normalcy he so rarely experienced as a child.

“Tell me more about her?” he requested softly. “More about her and Touya?”

“Well, like I said, they had been together since they were fourteen but had known one another since probably elementary school I think,” she said after a moment of careful hesitance, continuing to sift through the box’s contents. “Touya always said he couldn’t wait to be of age so that they could get married and move in together because Raila was the only girl he could ever see a future with since they worked so well together. She was the one who helped him keep his hair dyed properly which was good. The first time he ever let it grow out by accident he looked like he had a spiky Santa hat on from the white lining his scalp.”

Shoto cocked his head to the side. “He dyed his hair red? I… I can’t ever remember him with white hair.”

“He started dying it when you were probably about three and half, maybe four. Once he did, he looked like a small version of Father but with Mother’s face. You two always favored Mother’s features, really.”

“Why did he dye it when he disagreed with Father so much?”

Fuyumi frowned. “He had wanted to tame his fire on his own and was attempting to convince Father to train him again instead of you. The dye was so that he could make himself look more like Father and establish an image that, if chosen to train again, meant he could be marketed as Endeavor’s successor in every sense as he took over All Might’s number one ranking. It’s what they usually fought about that would lead to Raila bringing you in here with me to make cranes. There’s a few pictures in here if you want to see them.”

He nodded, not trusting his own voice at the revelation that his oldest brother had torn himself apart in so many ways just to protect him. It had cost him his life, and what did he have to show for it other than maybe a few pictures hidden in the depths of the house and rarely spoken stories of his short seventeen years?

Pulling the box closer to himself, he saw the small pile of pictures amongst a few more smashed and half-unfolded paper cranes and several other cheap trinkets. Taking the pictures into his hand he noticed that he was trembling slightly, this glimpse into the past something he was wholly unprepared to do. He pushed himself, though, and began looking through the photos.

The first was of himself, young and bright-eyed with no scar painted over his left eye, only smooth baby skin that was crinkled in delight from the pastel blue crane sitting atop his head. It was strange to see himself unblemished and so happy, the wide smile on his face looking foreign. It stirred within him an odd sense of nostalgia for the moments he didn’t remember experiencing.

In the next picture, Fuyumi was sitting cross-legged on the same floor they currently occupied and the tiny version of him was sat on her lap, little brows furrowed in concentration as he focused down on the paper he was folding. Fuyumi’s hands hovered near his as if ready to jump in if he asked for help and she had a content look on her face. Shoto wished that she had that expression more often, and he hoped that this move would make that happen.

Flipping to the next picture, he became confused at the blurry, low quality. He could make out part of Fuyumi’s face which may have been laughing, and a pinkish blob next to her that was half cut-off by the photo’s edge. If anything, the floor was taking up more of the picture.

“What was this kept for?” he asked his sister, holding it out to face her.

She laughed. “You took that, Shoto. It’s the first picture you ever took so I kept it to look back on, I guess. That pink blob is supposed to be Raila.”

He glanced at the picture again before moving to the next. That one was another of him, his arms extended out as he stood in the middle of the room amongst floating paper cranes, the wonder in his eyes and chubbiness of his cheeks from smiling was twisting his heart painfully. He wished that this sort of thing was more prominent in his memories of childhood. He looked so happy, and while he was working on experiencing that feeling more often thanks to his friends at UA, he never should have lost that feeling as he grew up.

With a sigh he brought out the last picture and looked it over, finally seeing what Raila looked like. She was sat on the floor too, her hands cupped in front of her green sweater-clad chest as one crane floated above them. Her peachy-pink hair was cut short and reminded him of Uraraka’s but without the longer pieces on either side of her smiling face. The one thing he spent the most time observing in the picture, though, were her eyes. Her warm, gold eyes.

The golden eyes that had haunted him for over half a year were looking back at him from a decade old photo taken in the very room he was sitting in. He really had known those eyes, he just didn’t remember until he was holding the evidence in his hand. Raila was warmth and safety when he was with her, he knew that just from hearing about her from Fuyumi and seeing the joy she had helped to bring him when he was small. She was buried so far down in his memories, but now that he knew who to picture, he remembered more.

“Take him, Peach.”

Touya had told her that once, when he confronted their father in the training room. Did he mean take him to Fuyumi to make these paper cranes? He had to, of course he had to.

But it wasn’t Touya who had spoken those words in his countless dreams of battle with two villains, it was Dabi.

Dabi, who was tall and thin and burned and able to produce flames so much hotter than even Endeavor’s and had those blue eyes that looked just like his father’s and his left one. Dabi, who was unable to be identified along with Kazane even with all of the details given by both Shoto and Bakugo. Dabi, who was fretted over by Kazane who he now knew was truly Raila and shared a burn scar that looked identical to all of his.

It was Dabi, who had to be Touya.

“Fuyumi, what was Raila’s quirk?”

He had to be sure.

“It was called Whirlwind. She could manipulate wind in a cylindrical pattern that could mimic a tornado or a hurricane, but on a smaller scale. She didn’t have much precision in the movements, but I always thought she would’ve made a great hero if that was what she wanted.”

Or one hell of a villain.

A/N: Please be sure to reblog, comment, review, and like if you enjoy! Feedback is what keeps me motivated! Click here to read Part 1 and Part 3

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noonawriter · 3 years

Text

Delicious Rendezvous

WORD COUNT: 4638

WARNINGS: flashbacks to torture, shameless flirting, over-worked and stressed main character

DELICIOUS RENDEZVOUS

Chapter 4

“Bad news,” Siwon said as soon as he was in earshot of Heechul. “Our contact in 223 has been transferred and is locked out of the local system here.” He bit his lip, a rare slip of control. “As I’m sure you know, we’re cutting it too close to develop a new one just yet.” His first creation walked up to him with a look of hesitation on his face.

No mystery as to why.

Back when the terror of it was fresh, Siwon informed Heechul of a raid that had occurred a decade ago and how badly it had ended. The whole thing played like a movie reel of memories and fears. It wasn’t the sex work that sank them that time - no one runs that kind of operation without a contingency plan. No, it was who was doing it that led to tragedy.

Several of the employees ended up in a specialized prison only to be slowly tortured to death because supernatural creatures weren’t known then... And groups of humans have the capacity to do terrible things when they’re afraid of the unknown. Ingenuity, put to exactly the wrong purpose. What little inside data could be gleaned was... It was... Unspeakable, to this day.

Heechul considered giving him a moment of comforting touch, but it would be crass to make it so very evident that his right-hand man’s thoughts were left entirely unlocked. They sure as hell didn’t have time for a fight, either.

Not a creature anywhere didn’t hear about that disaster. The Council exploited those fears, the prejudices borne of it, but for the rest of the community, lacking that level of power... Whatever there was where Heechul’s stomach used to be turned just the same way at being bombarded with it all over again, shrunk into a few nauseating seconds. If his hair could still stand on end, it would. Even the humans that supported that establishment had been fined so heavily that they were out on the streets, and then... disappeared. Maybe to the same place. Who knows? Siwon visibly winced at that last thought, but forced that idea to the side. There were days that his confidence that his master would never let anyone harm him or their brethren was all that allowed the leader to make it happen.

Yet, sometimes, Heechul really wished Siwon had more magic potential. This was one of the rare moments where he’d very much like to be able to not hear these thoughts. Keeping his hands from ripping his own hair out was as much as he could manage here, arms stiff at his sides. Was he even capable of crying anymore? Did he have what it would take to stop a repeat of such horrors between his very own walls?

It was all too much. Too much. Heechul had to set it all aside too. Rather than comfort, he ended up having to tap Siwon’s cheek just to bring him back to the present.

“Sorry,” he mumbled with a shake of his head. ”I remembered it again.” That raid was the last time Siwon tried working for anyone else, is the only other thing he would say about it out loud. He broadcast the rest louder than an echo in a cave, though, he just didn’t know he was - right to Heechul like an open book, at least. Not a hint of a side gig since.

The grass only looks greener, as it were.

Finally, that portion of mental agony was over, tucked away back in its box. Upon realizing the massive amount of work that their contact being pulled out from under them meant, Heechul’s shoulders slumped. There was too much weight upon them.

However, he only allowed himself those two seconds of self-pity before squaring them back up. “Shit. That means there’ll still be a raid tomorrow night.” He checked, unwittingly holding his breath, but couldn’t get much detail. “That only gives us about a day and a half.” He counted off on his fingers as he called out instructions. “We need to put up glamour and force barriers on the rooms, make excuses, reschedule appointments, make sure all my kids have somewhere to stay for the night..."

A groan slipped out. But only one. How he dreaded this last part. “I’ll have to handle the backstage regulars. They would feel slighted if informed through an intermediary.”

While he was appreciative of his higher-paying customers in that they kept the show running, literally and otherwise, they always looked down their noses at him when complications came up. Fuck, he felt a headache coming on already. He pinched the spot just above the bridge of his nose. He’d have to add on the promises of a free service to make sure they kept silent about where they went and who ran the show - and he hated burdening his kids like that.

Hated it with everything in him, but the alternative was worse. He’s not risking any kind of prison cell for anyone.

“Of course, Master. I’ll initiate the protocol and distribute the workload immediately.” A floating schedule appeared next to Siwon, its constituent lines made of light if light could be smoke.

“Thank you. Time for me to get to my part of the work as well.” Heechul watches as Siwon carefully inspects the list and moves to assign each task. He stretches his arms out wide, a satisfying crack sounding in response, as he rotates his neck and searches his mind for where Alyssa is and what she’s doing. He needs her now more than ever.

While her training had, of course, been intended to prepare her for bigger and better things, he needed that untapped power she was sitting on to pull this off on such short notice. It felt as though he had more to hide this time, more at stake, when in reality, the only new addition to the club was his little witch. A flush took over his cheeks quickly. He’d not felt the need to protect anyone quite so strongly since he’d made Siwon. “Stupid sex magic. Everything is amplified.”

He tried to sound mad about it, but inside, even if only to himself, he had to admit that he was more amazed at just how much change the ritual had wrought in the first place. He also decided then and there that he would not perform any sex magic with another person, ever.

Definitely not if it turned out like this. He didn’t want this with anyone else.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No better way to learn, Heechul had insisted, than throwing you in to help with glamouring the back rooms to look like cramped offices and storage space. Everything was tightly coordinated - regimented, even, which was surprising to see in a place usually so loosely and chaotically run. Time constraints would do that, you supposed.

He rattled off instructions and even showed you exactly what you needed to do and say, but your brain was foggy with all the veins of magic flowing through the club. There was an anxiety running through the employees that you couldn’t help but soak up to some extent. “Let’s add empath to the list of things to deal with. That’ll be fun,” you said under your breath, none too pleased with the discovery. Your eyes rolled, but you continued with the task, pride not allowing you to step back and admit defeat.

Maybe even that little voice inside that was happy that Heechul was the one who needed you, for once, instead of the other way around. Just the thought made your ears burn.

Putting up the glamours was the easy part, though. Imbuing them with enough power to stay up for two entire days left you sweating and ravenous. You huffed, taking a second to wipe the sweat off your forehead and sip from the water bottle Mi had brought you hours ago, tossing it on his way past with a small smile and a congenial nod.

When all this work was done, you for sure had to get him to show you that one shade of purple again so you could try to find a matching dye. His hair had only held it for a second earlier.

You were getting distracted again. And you finally noticed that your hands were shaking, too. The strain was getting to you.

“Fucking hell. This shit is for the birds.” Your voice was tired and wavering. Hands on your hips, you stood there admiring the iridescent sheen from the last barrier you put into place. “God damn, I should have eaten first.”

“Such dirty words coming from such a pretty little mouth.” Of course, when you’re a sweaty mess, that’s when Heechul shows up to inspect your work. On his face blooms his signature smirk; after holding your attention on it for a second, he adds, “I like it,” with a ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows.

Damned if it didn’t make you want to kiss him again. You whimpered at the thought and immediately flushed, thinking that while he was still there.

As usual, though, he was gone before you could give the thought any weight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were carefully not thinking about the absurdity of taking a coffee break in a... house of pleasure where your magic training is happening, the legitimate front half of the building notwithstanding. Even after all the upheaval, there was something sort of amazing about creatures of all sorts here milling about, living their ordinary lives and being themselves. The comfortable atmosphere in this room left you feeling bold enough to lean back against the counter near where the siren was, the dull gray microwave buzzing on the other side of him. You were protected now, right? And his boyfriend was really friendly with you, so that’s gotta count for something.

"Hey," you said, wiggling your fingers in a sheepish wave. He acknowledged you with a sideways glance, but nothing more. After hours working quietly side by side, following his occasional directions about images and dimensions, that didn’t seem odd anymore. "Look, you can tell me if this is out of line, but I'm really curious about something."

"Hmm?" Ryeowook answered absentmindedly, watching Henry and Donghae play-fighting across the room with a fond half-smile. You may have even heard a faint, tuneless humming; couldn’t be sure, but you felt a little bolder, a little more free either way.

"Does the, uh, backstage work affect you at home?" This was so embarrassing to ask about, but you'd been dying of curiosity and this seemed like your best bet to get some answers. Usually, it was your training regimen that left you too drained to make conversation. To be honest, you were still kinda drained; it was hard to tell whether your thoughts made sense, your brain-to-mouth filter just about gone.

When Ryeowook turned to you, though, his brow was furrowed in confusion. "Why would I do work at home? Heechul’s wards and security are far better than anywhere else, even clubs supposedly owned by the very wealthy,” he pointed out, crossing his arms. “I only do work here."

"No, I mean, um," you blushed as your composure slipped further, not wanting to have to spell it out, "you know, you do-" You waved towards the hallway of back rooms. "You do this for work, so does it, uh, when you're at home, does it get in the way of, wait, no, does that cause any problems for you with," you were definitely red as a tomato now, your entire face aflame, "making love?"

But Ryeowook only blinked twice. "If he wanted to, we could."

"Oh! Oh, sorry, I didn't think- Sorry. I shouldn't have assumed. You probably think I'm a jerk now, huh," you admitted clumsily, pursing your lips. I sound like an idiot! This was such a bad idea.

But he only hummed nonchalantly, turning away once more. "Hmm. Well, you wouldn't be the first to assume, only the first to apologize for it," he said offhandedly, taking a sip from his mug. "But it doesn’t matter to me. I suppose I take after my mother that way," he continued in a wistful voice, a touch of sorrow coloring his features. "Keeping my mate safe and happy is my heart's greatest desire."

"That's so sweet!" You cooed, genuinely touched by the sentiment, only to be met with an icy stare as he whirled around to face you.

"Don't know why I'm telling you all this," Ryeowook said while he pushed off from the counter, his tone acrid and sharp as though the words were meant to cut to the bone, his eyebrows drawing together in anger, startling you when he slammed his mug down on the hard surface. "I don’t care if you’re Heechul’s newest, shiniest project. If that's your power,” one peak of his upper lip curled up towards his nose in contempt, “let's not do this again. I need to get back to work."

"But wait, I didn't-" He'd crossed the short distance to the doorway in three quick strides and left before you could finish your sentence. "-do anything," you finished dejectedly, dropping your raised hand. Not that you knew what you were going to do with it anyway. You muttered under to yourself, “‘Make friends,’ he said. Do this, do that, blah blah blah.” Wait a second. Newest project?

What happened to the others?

“Don’t take it too personally,” a genial voice said next to you, cutting off your train of thought. Guess your muttering was louder than you’d realized. “He takes a while to warm up to most people.”

You turned to- not the butler. Mi. Seriously, still not a butler, you hastily reminded yourself. More of a jack of all trades? Maybe it was better not to call a shapeshifter that, so you went with, “You really think it’ll be okay? I feel like I screwed up pretty bad.”

“Welllll, maybe warm up isn’t the right word. But he’ll probably stop being an ass.”

“Probably?” Despite yourself, you laughed, smiling back at Mi’s toothy grin. He patted your shoulder in a friendly way before saying, “Excuse me, I need some tea,” his hair color and the shape of his arms changing three or four times between the microwave and what you’d come to call caffeine central more towards the back of the room.

Still, after the- intimacy you and Heechul had shared so far, the idea that you were one in a long line of projects, to be set aside whenever he decided he’d had his fun, rubbed you the wrong way.

Which not only lingered through your meal, but grew. And grew. And grew bigger still.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You stomped down the extravagantly decorated hall, footsteps echoing off the marble tiles that probably set him back more than you cared to think about. A red haze settled in your mind as you mulled over the words Ryeowook spat to you. Hands curled into tight fists, you didn’t bother knocking before making entrance into his office. Hopefully, whatever sights awaited you wouldn’t be something you’d regret seeing, because you were way past caring now.

"So I'm your latest project, am I?" You flung the words at Heechul the very second you walked into the room.

"Feisty today, aren't you."

You wanted to slap him. Something. Anything. Instead you settled on a seethed, "What happened to the others?!"

Heechul laughed. "What happened?" He asked condescendingly, moving his upturned palm in a horizontal arc, his eyes following before landing back on you. "Look around you, darling."

"Argh!" You clenched your fists. Eyes rolling as you wanted to tear your hair out. "Can't you just say what you goddamn mean for once?!"

But Heechul only sighed. "Really, you could stand to learn to read between the lines. Can't always rely on your power, you know." But as you glared, he seemed to relent a bit, his smile turning amused, his eyes a touch fond. "Haven't you noticed? Those who sincerely come to me for aid... I don't take that lightly. Why, I develop them to the fullest of their talents. How else could I build all this?"

Silence enveloped the room as you looked deep into his unwavering sight. Dammit, you sighed under your breath. He was being honest - well, his version of it anyway. Relenting yourself, you breathed out a long exhale. "...That's it?"

"Yes, that's 'it'. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement. My favorite kind," he finished with a smirk, alluding to extremely pleasant memories of the 'arrangement' already between the two of you.

You took a moment to gather what you wanted to say. His aura gave you a reason to pause. Your words needed to be chosen carefully. You gestured your hands between the two of you. “This? Us? Just me scratching your back and you scratching mine, I’ll assume?”

“We both know what assume means, sweetheart. Let’s not do that.” He turned to walk out, but before he made it through the doorway, he called out over his shoulder, “Good job out there. You’re doing better than I expected.”

Might’ve been better that he looked away before you could flip him off. You tried sending it mentally anyway, pleased to faintly hear his distinctive laugh. At that point, you didn’t know if the warmth in your heart that you felt a moment later was his or your own.

He kept getting you all mixed up like that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Donghae was speaking in hushed tones with Heechul when you rounded the corner. He noticed you coming in and moved to intercept you as the man you wanted made his smooth escape, right back into the office you’d just vacated. Damnit. “Come on, Alyssa, follow me. You need to let off some steam.” Objecting, you pointed towards the doorway where you were trying to go, because Heechul kept escaping conversation like some sort of extremely beautiful eel, but Donghae wrapped his hand firmly around your wrist, steering you in a completely different direction. “Your work is done for now. The boss has some things to tend to. He asked me to help you get some frustration out.”

Before he crossed the threshold to a room new to you, he looked at you, waggling his eyebrows. “I’m more than happy to help, Lys.” He giggled at your huffed response as he pulled you out a side door and a few buildings over into what looked like a gym at a country club, just on a smaller scale. Taking in the sights before you, your brain reeled at the possibilities of what Heechul was going to have you working on now.

“It’s not like I’m not appreciative for a break, but is physical fitness really important to my training? I’m fit enough, but…” Donghae shushed you with a finger to your lips.

Eyebrow raised, he explained. “This isn’t just gym class. Boss asked me to evaluate your skills. See where you are so we’ll know where to start.” You wondered what he was talking about. Surely you wouldn’t be stranded without your powers? He grinned as though he knew exactly what you were thinking. “Come on, just think of it as a bit of stress relief. Let me show you what I want you to be able to do.” He proceeded to throw a few punches, one sequence after another. A minute became more as he got more focused.

You allowed your eyes to roam his form as he continued his session. The thick, corded muscles from his biceps down his back, his ass just as shapely as his chest was, even to his hips as they tightened and flexed as he danced around the hanging heavy bag. A small sheen of sweat coated his forehead as he threw hit after hit. You even noticed how his tongue was situated between his teeth at the corner of his mouth. It was cute, but then, you took his figure in again in its very nice entirety.

If anything, you were getting more frustrated, though certainly not the way he’d intended.

You weren’t blind. Donghae was fit. That was the simplest way to put it. But the way he moved around the bag gracefully almost had you forgetting he was a supernatural creature. His eyes had a dangerous focus blazing in them, and you shuddered to think of those who would be on the receiving end of an angry version of this barrage. You couldn’t help but find it attractive, mentally thanking Heechul for suggesting this break; truth be told, you didn’t even try to stop your gaze from going wherever it was drawn to. Oh, the things you could imagine...

He stopped at hearing a whine from you, his eyebrow raised high. For a second, you were irrationally terrified that he could read your thoughts too. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were staring, hard.” He looked none too surprised by that - amused, if anything.

Fuck. At least he couldn’t see what I was thinking. You stuttered out some nonsense, words failing you at the fact that he’d caught you drooling over him.

Eyes shut in embarrassment, you didn’t notice him move, which is why you ended up jumping in surprise when you heard his voice in your ear. “This is delicious. Thanks for the free meal.”

“I...” Damn this anxiety. “Hey wait, I didn’t tell you that you could do that!” He rolled his eyes, and, really, you could tell you needed to concentrate so you could get done and leave. For your sanity’s sake. You stepped to the bag and looked at him, wide-eyed and ready for his instruction without any further distractions. Hopefully.

He chuckled. “Let’s see what you got. Give me a few good sequences and we’ll call it a day. And I promise I won’t tell Heechul that you were eyeing me like a piece of meat. Besides, it’s my job to do the ogling around here.” He winked, making you feel a bit weak in the knees.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“As I mentioned, we unfortunately have a highly contagious bout of illness, and thus, those facilities are unavailable for a couple of nights. We can reschedule your appointment if you would just come this way.”

“You’re a goddamned liar! Lemme back there!” Regular though this man may be, at the moment, he seemed to be doing his best to make the saying that hell is other people a reality. Heechul’s temper reached its last frayed thread.

“You, sir, need to calm the hell down. You’re at a fifteen and I need you at, like, a seven,” Heechul snidely commented as the regular patron threw every excuse in the book at him as to why he should be allowed inside even if no one else is there. The growl that rumbled at the back of his throat was deep and raspy, full of rage as the patron tried to push his way from the front waiting room onto the main floor. Heechul called out in a dead language - and suddenly, the snarling long-time customer was frozen on the spot.

The thread snapped.

No longer willing to hold back, Heechul took a deep sigh of relief as he got right in front of the now confused man. “I told you, countless times,” he emphasized as he bared his teeth, “we are closed for the next couple of nights. I can see that you refuse to take my words seriously, not even attempting to cooperate.” His hand glided up to the patron’s face as his nail traced his red, splotchy cheek. “What you fail to realize is just who,” Heechul took that same nail and raked it from the patron’s temple to his lips, leaving a deep, seeping wound behind, “I am.” Taking the customer’s chin in his other hand, he jerks the man’s head in the direction of the floor.

Seconds later, Heechul had drawn a crude symbol on the marble. “You will never step foot in this establishment again. Should you even try, I will know. I will hunt you down and tear you limb from limb. And I will enjoy every single second of it,” he hissed, face contorting in unbridled rage. Then he stood, straightening to his full height as the doors flew open.

As Heechul walked towards the doors, the man who was still immobile was moved to the opening. His body seemed to fly as he let out a terrified scream.

“I don’t ever want to see you here again.” Heechul turned on his heel to walk away. He tilted his head a few degrees towards the sound when he heard Mi’s firm “Sir”, but didn’t falter in his step, as he had more important things to deal with. His favorite shapeshifter could handle the situation however he saw fit. Trash disposed of, Heechul added the area to be monitored more closely in addition to his typical security alert set, along with making a mental note to check his crew for potential teleporting capability or an ability to learn quickly so he could evaluate offering security training and shifts. There were plenty enough to rotate at the front and connecting doors, but in the back rooms...

That’s where danger turned on a dime.

Breathing slowly, Heechul ran his hand over the back of his neck. Problem after problem continued to appear. If he couldn’t entice some of the other customers to fill in those appointments, cover the disruption, it’d be two months at most before he had to evaluate dipping into the stash. The guilt of it ate at him whenever he couldn’t keep it entirely at bay. The ex-noble’s possessions were Heechul’s by right, but he hated exercising that option; Siwon was loyal, and good at his job, and would never turn down the request.

That it benefitted his safety as well as everyone in his employ was not as comforting as it should have been. Taking from it, even with permission, still felt like stealing. I need a drink.

No time. Back to work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The static took over your vision as you saw bits and pieces of something happening. Grainy images and darkened tones did not help. Even as your eyes closed, you squeezed them tighter and found you could see through someone else at the moment, someone tall and weighed down by something. Equipment? What could- You could hear a sinister cackle to your right but the current head you were occupying wouldn’t turn so you could see who it was. Though, if your memory served you well enough, it sounded like Claude and he was headed somewhere with a mission.

You studied the surroundings of the overly dressed-up group of men you were envisioning. Sidewalks, street lamps, old brick. “Shit!” You yelled out, gasping for breath as your feet began to move without you willing them to. You couldn’t be bothered to apologize for knocking into the others as you dashed to where Heechul’s magic was emanating strongest.

The doorway to his office was shut with a supernatural energy, but somehow, your inner self anticipated it. Without breaking stride, your palm came up and a small glow emanated from it. Light enveloped the door, causing its edges to hum, opening to you silently but swiftly.

“They’re coming.” Your eyes darted around the room, taking in the sights of Heechul’s closest and most trusted. Gulping, feeling like you couldn’t get enough oxygen, you panted, “It’s happening early. The...” A boom against the barred doors down at the end of the hallway sounded throughout the club. “The raid. Claude got- someone to bump up the time frame.” Heechul was by your side in an instant as the rest of the crew flew out of the room, knowing exactly what they needed to do.

Author’s note: mad props to @thesirenandtheking. An amazing sounding board, wonderful aesthetic maker when it comes to setting, and SUJU knowledge!!! Couldn’t do this without you.

#super junior #super junior fic #Super Junior Heechul #Super Junior Heechul fic #heechul fic #suju fic #kpop fic #supernatural kpop

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