#I still stand by that scene in the hospital being a hot and heavy make out | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gigglemugger · 27 days

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Mandy Goes to Med School.

Fandom: “Saw” Franchise

Pairing: None.

Synopsis: Amanda Young had no idea she'd have to become a surrogate cancer doctor, but then again she had no idea she'd start killing people for a living either.

Basically a character study of Amanda, my own take on her, through snippets of scenes from the movies all the way to Saw III.

Word Count: 4,127 (used to be less but I added a few things after a reading pass, lol, nothing major).

CW: All canon typical violence PLUS the horrors of being Amanda Young. So it's a bit heavy on the depression, self-harm, even a little bit of OCD.

AO3 link.

Notes: So not to sound totally pretentious but remember when Joan Didion said that she wrote Play It As it Lays to be a complete blank space of a novel? This fanfic is sort of like that. It's a bunch of snippets like the synopsis says and what Amanda might have been thinking during them. Title is from the Dresden Dolls song where they perform back alley abortions and while Amanda and Lawrence don't go around doing that in this fic, man did I think about writing that too. The timeline was borrowed from the wiki but boy is the Saw timeline complicated. Also things are not completely faithful. I hope you have a good time anyway!

When Amanda decided to join Jigsaw in his ‘business affairs,’ she didn't know that she would double as a medical orderly, but in retrospect she should have known better by the looks of everything.

She was presently standing in the middle of hers and John's shared working space, looking at him as he put one piece after another together in their newest contraption. He wanted to make a chair that twisted the limbs of the person sitting on it. It was still a long way away, this being more of a prototype at this point, and he was working meticulously at it, but all Amanda could see was how washed out he seemed.

John didn't seem that sick when he met her at her apartment, all those months ago, but now, it was too plain to see that things weren't so hot. He'd cough more often. He'd also walk slower. Sometimes, he'd need longer time to breathe from one project to another.

When they were preparing the bathroom game, dragging bodies, making sure everything was right and John told her he wanted to be in the center, she remembered being worried about him simply because he was, well, older. Nowadays though, she thought that if he did lay down in another bathroom for hours, he'd probably never get up.

So, the decision to talk to Lawrence came from her.

“I see,” John said, briefly looking up from his work, but focusing back on it again soon enough.

Amanda went from one foot to the other.

“Maybe it could help.”

“I'm dying, Amanda,” he said, slowly. “Nothing can help.”

“I know. But you don't have to suffer just because of that.”

In the background, in the many televisions John and Amanda had in their space, people screamed while having their limbs torn out.

...

John decided to let her talk to Lawrence, so he knew she was coming. She sat there on a chair at Saint Eustace Hospital, and could see the nurses passing her by, making sure other patients were okay. It reminded her a lot of the Homeward Bound clinic Jill used to run and her arm started to itch.

“Amanda?” A nurse asked. She looked up at a kinder face than hers. “The doctor is free for you now.”

“Thanks,” she said, getting up. No one knew she was Jigsaw, or at least an apprentice Jigsaw, but that didn't make it easier. As she walked, it was as if they knew. She wasn't, obviously, ashamed of it, or at least not as much as her rational brain told her she should be. That being said, the brain is weird, she would know.

Besides, if all the apprentice Jigsaws in this hospital were discovered, Lawrence would probably be in way deeper shit than a former drug addicted felon would be. That brought her some level of comfort.

“Amanda,” Lawrence greeted from his desk when she showed up. He pointed at the chair. “Close the door, will you?”

“Yeah,” she said, doing just that, before making way towards him. She didn't wanna sit down, not yet. “I'm assuming John told you why I'm here.”

“You want to make sure he's OK.” It was a statement. She nodded. “You understand that people go to medical school for years before they can do this stuff right?”

“You're saying I'm not capable of it?” Obviously not. Why are you challenging him? He's a doctor. He would know. Maybe this is stupid.

“No,” Lawrence said, cutting her thoughts. “I'm simply saying that I can't exactly teach you how to operate on someone. Not on the spaces we have,” and she knew he meant “we” as a team here, not “we” as the hospital he worked at “Not with the resources we have. The most I can do is give you books, talk you through treatments John was already going through that ended up interrupted because of his… Well. New status.”

“Yeah. I'd like that.” Lawrence never stopped looking at her. She thought she knew why.

“Alright. I'll see what I can do. I'll gather some resources, I'll… Steal some medicine.” She looked at him up and down, in that expensive suit, the expensive office, the job. The only thing out of the ordinary was the divorce, but then again how really out of the ordinary was it for a man of his age to be divorced from his first wife? Almost perfect or too perfect. And he's was gonna steal meds for her.

Apprentices come in all shapes and sizes.

“Thanks, Lawrence,” she said, and turned around.

“Wait…” Slowly, Amanda did an about face. She knew her hair was getting longer, but her clothes were still, alternative enough. So she could guess at what he was thinking, or remembering.

“It's ok, you know. I suppose it's not easy to look at the person who kidnapped you and put you in a bathroom for hours. But if this is about him, he didn't suffer. Not really.” You know, apart from the three days of complete starvation.

Lawrence looked relieved. Amanda always thought she probably reminded him of Adam. Well… Who knows what he really thought of her or of Adam. Neither she, nor John actually knew what went through Lawrence's head about that. He hadn't even recovered completely when she went back down to the bathroom to kill him, considering Lawrence had been battling general infection and dehydration at the time. However, the first thing he asked about was him, and when John told him he was dead, he never asked again. Whenever they saw each other, she felt like he wanted to, though. They barely talked, so no chance. Not without John hearing.

Amanda nodded and left the room, with no more words, but still thinking. John wasn't dangerous. Not really. Still, it was better if he didn't know that Lawrence was still hooked on Adam. Probably. Again, who knew what went through Lawrence's head. Amanda thought he probably caught feelings and snorted through her nose a little bit at a middle aged man's gay awakening being in a kidnapping situation. She'd plead insanity if she hadn't heard him in his sleep before, one time when John let him stay the night. Apparently he had problems with his wife, no new apartment yet, all of that. Amanda had slept with her arms on top of the workbench, her head against the cold metal, all of which helped to keep her sane, so the pain didn't matter.

He, Mr. Perfect, had slept on the couch, another dent in his façade.

Lawrence was lucky John wasn't around when he murmured Adam's name. Amanda was, though, half asleep. She wondered if Adam knew that he haunted not one, but two apprentices’ nightmares. That's gotta be worth something. Who knows, maybe he even haunted that little asshole friend of his, Scott whatever, who tried to harass her that one time. John didn't let her make a trap for him, because it would be a waste, but Amanda was increasingly of the opinion that people like Scott are a waste.

...

Lawrence kept good on his word. He came by the workshop while she was alone. She did point a gun at him, though. It had been a lonely day at that particular workshop. The cop, Hoffmann, was nowhere to be found, and John had to take a break, so Amanda was antsy and stressed by a number of things, John's new treatment one of them. She even forgot she went up to the hospital until she saw him, a ghost with blonde hair and pale skin, almost too perfect to be there in the fifth and rust.

“Shit. Sorry,” she put the gun down, scratching her arm idly, going from one foot to the other, noticing how Lawrence didn't even flinch. She didn't see the usual fear in his eyes, the one she was used to.

“It's ok,” he said, and approached her, cane hitting the floor with each step, handing her a bag full of things: Books, pills, syringes. “How was the game?”

“Eventful,” she said, shrugging. “Joan survived.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Lawrence said, sounding sincere. She gave him half a smile, before turning around and dumping everything on the metal table with a distinctive loud sound. Both were unimpressed. “Where's John?”

“He's at home.” She stopped herself. How much can I tell this guy? “He's uh… Doing research about a thing, preparing to go to Mexico.”

“Mexico?” Lawrence repeated. “Why?” Amanda shrugged.

“It's a new medical thing. Cause John wants to find other ways to treat his cancer. It's… I just let him do it. It can't hurt. He wants to live, even if these people don't.” Amanda saw that Joan survived, yes. But people like her were an increasing improbability.

She looked down at everything on the table, the books, the pills and wondered if she was gonna need all of that. If John came back cured from Mexico, or whatever, there might be no need. That would be a relief. She wanted John to live. Still, how much hope could she really put into an experimental treatment?

“We survived,” Lawrence spoke, making her turn her head. “We wanted to live.” Amanda snorted.

“Yeah well, great stuff.” The corpse of Adam might as well have been between them.

“As John's doctor,” Lawrence began, despite the stench of rotting flesh, “I have to say I cannot recommend any alternative treatments…”

“Last time you said that, he put you in a trap,” Amanda said, opening a particularly thick volume. “Maybe it's best if you stay in your lane.” She didn't mean for it to sound like a threat, but increasingly she found that most things she said did. It's better than the desperate, lost tone she had before, she guessed. Lawrence chuckled.

“Yes, maybe.” He then approached the table and Amanda looked up. “Let me teach you how to use some of this stuff anyway. Just in case.”

...

“Just in case” turned out handy, as John's bogus treatment turned out, well, bogus and their trip to Mexico was way worse and much more nerve wracking than Amanda could have anticipated. She was silent looking out the window down to the world below. She wondered how many people in those houses deserved to die.

“Amanda,” John called, and she turned to look. “Did you speak to Dr. Gordon recently?”

“Right before our trip, yeah,” she answered. John stopped for a second, pondering.

“You were right about asking for help,” he finally said, looking at her. “Thank you.”

She nodded and he went back into silent thinking while she turned her face towards the window once more, trying not to cry.

Amanda really, really, didn't want him to die.

...

John's fate sealed, Amanda watched as he prepared instructions and tapes for a lot of tests to come after he was gone. The tapes were supposedly for her and the cop. He seemed to be around more and more.

“Do you like that guy?” Lawrence asked one day. They both looked at an unconscious Michael Marks on the table. He was supposedly that fuckass Matthews’ informant. She was happy to kidnap him, to put him in a slab, to make him suffer just a little bit. She wished that he was conscious for his procedure, but John thought differently. In any case, Amanda was there simply to learn how to administer the drugs John needed, how to hook him to a machine, anything that she could while Lawrence was away on a trip with his daughter, which would last a while.

She was also aware she was on tape, but she knew her body and face were concealed from the camera lenses, considering she helped install the thing.

“What? Who, the cop?” Amanda asked, disgusted. Lawrence smiled.

“I guess not,” he said, threading the needle one final time, before he observed his handy work.

“Good job,” she said, strained, in lieu of anything else.

“Thank you,” Lawrence said, dignified. She looked at him the same way someone would look at a particularly intimidating teacher. “So, shall we?”

...

Amanda is sitting at the Wilson Steel Plant, looking down at her hands, shaking. John's supposed to welcome the cops in a few hours. She's panicking, slightly.

“Is this comfortable?” Lawrence asked, still there for this last checkup.

“As much as it can be. Thank you.” Lawrence took a last look at the bags and made sure he had enough oxygen in his tank, before nodding.

“Alright. Guess I'm going now.”

“Yes, go spend time with your daughter.” John said, somewhat painfully. Amanda raised her head to look at them both. “These are precious moments you have with her.”

These are precious moments… The sentence was precisely what she had in mind too. Precious. She needed so much to get up and leave the room for a second, and it didn't matter if John followed her with his eyes all the way outside or if she felt so tired she could barely push the door.

Lawrence met her at the hallway.

“Amanda. It is my understanding that you're going to participate in this next game.” John didn't tell Lawrence everything, just the basics. She nodded anyway.

“Yeah. I'm supposed to make sure this kid is ok. And to make sure everybody knows the rules.”

“A valuable addition,” Lawrence gracefully added. “Who's gonna take care of John while you're gone?”

“No one,” Amanda said. “He's gonna be alone for a while. I trust him, though,” she said this, but looked down. Where she comes from, that was an admittance of guilt.

“I see.” Lawrence said, knowing she was hiding something. “Well, good luck.”

...

Fuck fuck fuck!

“What happened to him?” Hoffmann asked Amanda as she brought a seriously injured John in.

“That animal Detective Matthews," she shouted at him, vitriol in every word, face horribly contorted. "Or should I say your fucking partner?!” Amanda asked, while Hoffmann helped her with John. “He fucking did this!”

“Amanda…” John murmured. “Don't.” She looked at him, feeling her eyes water, feeling herself to be ridiculous for this. Her only consolation was that Eric Matthews was gonna die. He couldn't survive what she did to him.

“Where is he?” Hoffmann asked.

“I left him in the bathroom, like you said,” she lied, making sure to hook John into the IV, making sure to look for the right pills.

It's not heroin, but it might take the edge off. It's not heroin, but it might take the edge off. It's not heroin, but it might take the edge off.

“Here,” she said, bringing the pills back instead of taking them, one by one until she was full. “Give these ones to John, it'll numb the pain. Then we'll hook him on morphine.”

Morphine, morphine, morphine…

“Are you telling me the truth?” Hoffmann asked. Amanda looked up again.

“What are you implying?” She asked, this time the threat being real. As insane as making an unlikely friend in a man you helped tie to a pole, Hoffmann was different. She had no idea why John let him stay for as long as he did. Why did he trust him so much? He smelled like a rat.

“Nothing,” Hoffmann said with a half smile, and Amanda went back to making sure John not only stayed with them for now, but took some damned painkillers.

...

Hoffmann disappeared somewhere, thankfully, and Amanda stayed to watch over John. She made sure to count the pills, the few bottles Lawrence brought, plus the stuff they already had, and she made sure to brush up on some reading. Turns out cancer wasn't as complicated as everyone made it seem. Didn't make it easier on anyone's body though, and John being as old as he was and as advanced as he was…

There's not much time.

That was the crux of the matter. She bit onto a very sensitive skin on her lip until it bled and tasted it. She wondered where Lawrence was, if he and Diana were having fun. He was so removed from all of this, with his little suit and his little medical practice.

Maybe in another life she could have had a Diana. Not that she felt particularly motherly. Cecil was the last man she fucked and he wasn't really a fatherly type, either. She wondered how it would be to fuck Lawrence and laughed a little at herself, a little secretive silent laugh, while reading the same sentence over and over. It would be like fucking a very specific type of white concrete wall. It would probably suck too. She wondered if he'd cry. Nothing wrong with it, she cried on most days now.

There was no way she could have a relationship like this. John coughed on the slab, and when she looked up his vital signs were stable. It's just a cough to indicate he's dying. No big deal.

...

Gordon is back from his trip just in time. Amanda was working on her own trap, the Angel Trap as she called it. It was supposed to rip a person to shreds unless they could get the key in a minute. It was poetic in a way, somewhat beautiful. John approved of it. What he doesn't know, he can't feel.

She kept working at it so she didn't have to hear the coughing, so it was incessant work by now.

“Amanda.” Lawrence said behind her, and she didn't point a gun this time. Instead, she just turned around.

“Hi.”

“Your hair grew.”

“Yeah,” she said, touching it reflexively. He looked somewhat sad. I look less like him by the day, huh? “How was your trip?”

“Good. Diana was particularly fond of the beach.” She smiled and turned back to her work.

“I liked the beach when I was younger.”

“You went with your dad too?” Amanda stopped.

“No, not really.” She retrieved a screwdriver from the table. “John wants to talk to you. He's in his office.” There was a pause.

“I see. Thank you.”

She watched as he made his way towards the door and went back to her work. Her dad really didn't do much good. It was useless to try to talk about him or even think too much . She looked at the office and could see they were talking through the window, wondering what it was about.

“So that's it?” Lawrence was crossing the room. He stopped to answer her.

“I'm supposed to come back for another stitching procedure.”

“I see.” Amanda stretched her back. “Is he OK?” His expression softens.

“Yes. He's alright.”

What a lie.

...

Troy's trap is set. He will not survive. Amanda is giddy, but tries to hide it, when everything goes as planned.

“What a waste,” John says, looking at the footage. He's sicker. More frail. She checks the bottles every day. She makes sure he has enough supplies, enough rest, food, water…

“Yeah,” she agrees vaguely, pushing John, now in a fucking wheelchair. Everything has been hectic lately. John's worsening, Hoffmann being around more, the cops closing in, the kidnappings increasing. All of that. A Lynn Denlon is supposed to be around next, Lawrence suggested her. Amanda didn't get why, but John told her she's a neurosurgeon. The best.

How convenient, a neurosurgeon who happens to be great at what she does and who is also throwing her life away.

Amanda's thinking all of this while reading and looking at her trap from time to time, just to make sure it's still there, as if it would disappear. Turns out the cop is useful after all. He helps her put that bitch Kerry into it and she is elated to see as her creation finally takes her ribcage apart, revealing everything about her, good and bad.

John is wrong about killing. This can't be bad if it feels so cathartic. Some people just deserve to die.

Did you?

The illustrations in her medical books are beyond accurate.

...

Lawrence comes back, sews Art and some other guy's eyes shut. Amanda helps. She also helps Hoffmann kidnap a bunch of other people. John says they're human beings, but truthfully she can't remember who is who. She likes when Hoffmann gets a snide comment though. She doesn't like when Jill comes to see them. She can only remember the baby.

Hoffmann is looking at her weird, but Amanda is finishing yet another book, the last one Lawrence brought her. What was it, five books? She read some multiple times. She checked the bottles again.

“Amanda,” John's weak voice awoke her from her counting trance. “Are you resting?”

“I'm alright.”

“I don't think so. I think you should have a good night of sleep.”

“How can I sleep when you're here?” She asked, distraught. His vital signs were so weak. She couldn't even fool herself about it.

“You have to accept what you can't control.”

“But I can't…” Amanda said, knowing her voice came out as a weak murmur.

“Counting bottles won't keep me from dying, but it will keep you from doing an acceptable job tomorrow. You must rest.”

But the letter was waiting for her. And her knives.

She cried the whole night through.

...

Everything smelled like a hospital. It was just a matter of time. John was laid down, at his likely final resting place. Hoffmann's letter kept ringing through her head.

Kill Lynn Denlon. Kill Lynn Denlon. Kill Lynn Denlon.

“You did a good job,” Lawrence said after checking John's heartbeat. Amanda’s wet eyes went to his face. He had a firm smile. “You could have been a good medical student.”

“Amanda is very bright,” John interceded. “She has a bright future ahead of her.” Lawrence nodded.

“I have no doubt about that.”

...

An hour later Amanda is screaming at a doctor about drugs and having a collapse. The room is somehow green, somehow closing on her and she wondered if these were symptoms of anything at all before coming back to reality.

Too many medical books.

“He needs surgery,” Lynn keeps repeating but honestly she needs to shut the fuck up before Amanda puts a hole through her head.

She grabs and pulls hair, she cuts, she bleeds, nothing seems to be really enough. Everything is coming down. John is dying in a room, people are dying in the game and Lynn Denlon needs to die too.

Will John even survive? Why would I do what he says when he won't have time to tell him?

Because she wanted to kill Lynn. Why did he keep smiling at her? Why did he choose her? She was the best, right? That couldn't be it. That was one of the reasons, he said.

Then why? Was she special?

Amanda went out to get more drugs. Lynn wouldn't be stupid enough to try to escape. She was a smart type, a pretty doctor. Just like Lawrence, but even more put together. She had brains and even more. Lawrence didn't even look like himself halfway through his game, but Lynn was holding up fairly well. It was sort of impressive. She herself would be a pile of nerves.

In fact, she couldn't even put the key in the ignition. Could she run to Saint Eustace? That would be stupid.

She tried again. And again.

“Jesus fucking christ!”

Amanda, get a fucking grip. Now! John's gonna die! Get your shit together!

She drove to the hospital and back in record time, even if people screamed at her from their cars. Fuck them.

...

Lynn cut John's head open like she was cutting meat for dinner. Amanda had been lucky that Lawrence was on duty. Lynn couldn't even suspect he put her through this.

“How is she?” Lawrence had asked. Amanda shrugged.

“We'll see.”

The machines were beeping. They were so loud. Oh my God. John.

“Amanda, I need your help!” Lynn screamed and her eyes were alert again.

...

Getting shot was as intense as she thought it might be by the looks of everyone else. Not that she had time to think about it as she collapsed to the floor, a relief considering the last few months or even years. Amanda wondered when was the last time she stopped thinking. John kept telling her things. She had failed. She looked up at the counter, at the bottles she had counted. She looked at him, she looked at Lynn. She couldn't see through the tears and she felt the warm blood gushing through her wound, through her fingers. It was her own this time.

She thought about Lawrence. She thought about her dad. She thought about Adam.

You're dying, Amanda. She looked at John one last time. Maybe he would forgive her before she went.

“Game over.”

Yeah. It surely seemed that way.

#saw fanfic #I never did this on my blog #so hi!#saw fandom #amanda young #saw franchise #saw #saw II #saw III #lawrence gordon #john kramer #mark hoffmann #fanfic

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notnctu · 4 years

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switchin’ lanes - l.jn | ridin’ club

━ welcome to the ridin’ club smut series

genre ➠ slow burn, smut, pwp???, fluff (if u squint) wordcount ➠ 8.3k details ➠ fem!reader, streetracer!jeno, badboy!jeno, college!au, ━ where you and jeno are in a relationship, but not with each other. warnings ➠ explicit language, cheating, flirty banter, alcohol consumption, drugs, yall at a party, physical fighting (not with you), mentions of cuts/bruises, hickeys, drunk public dry humping, thigh riding, fingering, oral (f/receiving) synopsis ➠ If your boyfriend didn’t decide to join such a stupid unofficial club, then maybe you wouldn’t be in such a sticky situation where Lee Jeno is literally knuckles deep in your sticky situation as he drives you home. Or maybe if your boyfriend actually touched you, then you wouldn’t be seeking it from someone else, who can’t keep his hands off of you. taglist ➠ @rabbit-doyochi ; @darkneogotmyback ; @im-lame-irl ; @p-mini ; @niniluvsmarkhyuck ; @saniahmichael ; @jaehy9ngs ; @danyxthirstae01 ; @jaehyunoos ; @pikijaemin ; @suhweo ; @dearlyminhyung

a/n ➠ hi yall its author doie❀!! i hope you enjoy the series pls leave me feedback lmaoo ill literally take anything. we also hit a milestone for followers and honestly its so crazy to know how quickly this tiny sideblog has grown! we’re so thankful that yall follow us, thank u for lovin us and we will try our best to put out more content!! also through the lens hit 1k notes how is that even possible like wow im speechless thank u for everyone who left such kind comments i treasure every form of feedback :)

The heavy double doors of the classroom stare tauntingly at you. The evening setting in, painting the sky with strokes of orange and pink. You managed to remain complaint free the entire day, until your forgetful boyfriend canceled on you because of a club meeting. A meeting for an unofficial club on campus because it is illegal to street race. A club consists of delinquents that are obsessed with cars and steal your boyfriend away from you.

This is the fifth time this week that your boyfriend stood you up or coincidentally forgot your dates. You can’t remember the last time he physically stood in front of you and not through a phone screen. However, it is not completely the stupid club’s fault that your boyfriend has neglected you.

He truly is the worst boyfriend ever. He blames everything on his bad memory and does not prioritize you in his life. He loves one thing --- his car. You could be lying in a hospital bed, and he wouldn’t care to check up on you.

So why did you stay with him? Because you’re scared of being alone? Possibly, but it is a can of worms that you did not want to open just yet. Sex is definitely not the reason you stay with him. He hasn’t touched you sexually since the first and now, last time you two slept together.

You try your best, to only be waved off with a yawn. He doesn’t compliment you. He doesn’t look at you lovingly. He doesn’t even kiss you for longer than two seconds. You are a toppling tower, ready to crumble at any given moment.

The anger in your body fuels you as you pull the door open to reveal several men in leather jackets chatting away with each other. One by one, they all begin to lay their eyes on who abruptly interrupted their joyous conversations. Your eyes scan the room full of intimidating men, whose auras cause a shiver to run down your spine.

Your boyfriend is nowhere in sight, given that there are plenty enough guys who have the ability to cover him. You walk into the open space and the entire mood of the room shifts.

Heavy cologne and a deafening silence fill the air. One particular male, who has been eyeing you the entire time, gets up and walks towards you.

“Are you lost, baby?” Scoffs and chuckles sparsely cover the corners of the room. The unknown male has a jarring cut on his eyebrow, matching a small bruise on his upper cheekbone.

“I’m looking for my boyfriend…” Your weak voice trails off from the sudden attractive male intimidation. The tall man peers around the room, crossing his arms.

“If you are this beautiful woman’s boyfriend, please fucking come out now. It’s very rude to keep your girl waiting for you!” Initially, his low throaty shout startles you. A heavy heat falls on your cheeks when you register his choice of adjectives.

The whole room falls silent once more, before your pitiful boyfriend steps out from between two bulkier men. “Hey babe, what are you doing here?” His eyes nervously bounce around the room, a shaky laughter erupting from his gut.

“Sorry, Jeno. I didn’t mean to cause such a scene. I didn’t even see her come in.”

Like a trigger, you remember your intentions for storming in uninvited. Jeno gauges your flaming reaction to your boyfriend’s apologetic words. He nods, not out of acceptance of the apology, but out of disbelief.

He pulls your boyfriend by the collar of his white shirt and your eye widens at the condescending tone that causes your boyfriend to cower, “I’m not the one to apologize to.” With a careless toss, your boyfriend ends up shaking in front of you.

“Jeno is not the only one you should be scared of.” You whisper angrily to him as the rest of the room continues on with their previous chatter.

Your boyfriend rolls his eyes, “listen, Jeno’s been arrested before. You don’t want to get on that man’s bad side.”

Your eyes wander behind your boyfriend’s hunching shoulders, catching Jeno steal peeks at you too. There is no interest in the other rambling male that stands in front of him. He just wants to check you out a bit more.

He is the hottest person you’ve ever gotten the attention of. You feel flustered, and a bit flattered at his lingering gaze. His brown hair is slicked back messily, giving you more to admire. Jeno is an absolute cliche from a bad boy fanfiction. He is unreal, and the odd chance that he can’t keep his eyes off of you, is also unreal.

But with a light nudge from a blue haired fellow, Jeno’s eyes peel away from your’s. They exchange a few words, which then propels Jeno to hurriedly put on his slightly tattered leather jacket.

You lick your lips to the sight of his body lines as he stands up to follow his friend, but not without another look back at you. Noticing your stare still on him, he bids you a tiny wave goodbye with a smirk to die for. And like that, he’s gone.

“Are you listening to me?” Your boyfriend’s voice finally reaches your reality. Your focus shifts to the obviously irritated expression on his face.

“I guess, I’m not. Don’t fucking stand me up again or I will key your car.” You aren’t actually those kinds of girls, but your boyfriend didn’t take a threat seriously unless it involves his highly treasured car.

And like Jeno, you also make your exit out of the steamy room. The chilly night brush against your unknowingly hot cheeks. Then, you take yourself to the only unhealthy coping mechanism you can think of: a place of free alcohol and no boyfriend.

It takes you a few months to completely stop caring about your dying relationship. You figure how easy it is for your boyfriend to do it, so you make the same decision.

He spends his nights with his friends he made from his club, and has totally become a self proclaimed car enthusiast. You lose yourself in copious amounts of cheap alcohol at your local parties and it’s almost like you stop sulking over a man who kisses his car goodnight.

While being alone did not bother you as much as you had been dreading, the sexual frustration is a completely different issue. You are absolutely drooling whenever your eyes find Jeno in the crowds of sweaty bodies.

If there is one good thing that came out of your boyfriend’s membership in that club, it had to be Lee Jeno and a few other notable people who attended the same parties as you.

He became a very close acquaintance, and you had learned some very important names associated with the Ridin’ Club. Na Jaemin, Lee Haechan, and Huang Renjun. But the three could not compare to the kindhearted Jeno that makes butterflies stir in your lower abdomen.

Over the months, you also had learned rather quickly that your sexually clouded mind had tricked you previously into thinking that Jeno’s stares were full of lust for you. His girlfriend makes it clear that it isn’t the case.

Although you have caught the couple making out several times when trying to use the bathroom, your feverish, impure attraction toward Jeno never calmed down.

“You’re looking very tempting tonight, baby.” Jeno’s beaming eye smile greets you, even after completely undressing you with his gaze. His arms are wide open to embrace your warm body.

The parties are always too hot to wear a fully clothed outfit. You often settle for a cute tank top and a short skirt to prevent your legs from collecting extra moisture. Jeno, without a fail, shows up in black jeans that clad his lower half, tucked with a simple white shirt. His tattoos and toned arms being on full display for you to admire.

“Better make sure your actual baby doesn’t hear that.” The loud beats of the music make Jeno’s chuckle almost inaudible, but his expression remains cheerful, as per usual. “Did you get into another fight?”

The fresh wound cut through his smooth complexion, which will eventually join the rest of his collection of fading scars. He mindlessly grazes over the new bandaging and dramatically winces. Clearly concerned, you grab his hand away from the injury. “Don’t touch it, stupid.”

His smile curves into a sly smirk, as he intertwines your fingers and kisses the back of your hand. “It doesn’t hurt at all.” His chest heaves into a fit of giggles, “just wanted to see you care for me.”

Groaning, you shake his massive hand off of your’s. “Very funny. I should start charging you for my attention.”

“Name your price, I got all the money in the world for you.” He winks, while lightly pinching your cheek. You are lying to yourself if you thought you could ever stay away from him. Jeno stirs up a part of you that craves the cheesy nicknames, flirty comments and the undivided attention.

He motions you to follow him into the mess of people. Almost as if he’s a god, the crowd parts for you two to walk through without unnecessary extra bodies. The fear that settles in many individuals’ chest is understandable.

Like your first impression, Jeno is a complete walking fanfiction trope. He negotiates better with his fists, usually with good reason. The guns of the Ridin’ Club, though, his friends are very much to be feared as well. They will not hesitate to run someone over, if given the heated situation to do so. And most definitely, you can count them to be backing up their fighter, Jeno.

You had not been mindful before of the chatter that regarded the secret Ridin’ Club. They are notorious for fast paced very illegal races in the middle of nowhere destinations and tempers that aren’t meant to be provoked. Besides their intimidating aura, it melts away after getting to know them.

Lee Haechan, the most annoying brat, but has the strongest, the most loyal bond to his boys. He’s also notably funny, often making you laugh with an exchange of banter.

Huang Renjun, the whiniest and initially quiet boy, but grows to be one of the loudest and will chew you out if anyone dares try engaging in verbal combat.

Na Jaemin, the flirty playboy who always has a swarm of girls, but the gentlest man with a soft spot for cute things.

And finally, Lee Jeno, the owner of your nights. He is the friendliest of them all, despite him being the toughest one. While his stare can kill, melting away his layers reveal the warmest heart. Not that Jeno is the only one to show initial interest in you, but he is the most considerate to the people he holds close to him.

He has taken care of you for many drunk nights and watched protectively over your intoxicated figure in the crowds. He makes you feel safe and seen, which are some of the many reasons you are entirely attracted to him.

“(Y/N)!” Jaemin’s scream pierce your ears the moment the blueberry catches your eye. He excitedly nudges the other two boys, who are busy pouring drinks into red cups.

“You’re going to make me spill it, idiot!” Renjun grumbles, but looks up to see your dazzling smile and tremendous excitement. His own smile grows, “so the life of the party finally decided to say hi.”

“Hi, my fanclub. I appreciate the long awaited greeting.” Your over the top, sarcasm causes all of them to chime loudly. Haechan hands you a cup and wraps his arm around your shoulders.

Jeno joins you at your side and the five of you clink your drinks to the ceiling. A fit of yells over the music and a competition of who can finish first. As per usual, you set your cup down after draining the entirety. The others are still chugging the burning liquid down their throats.

Haechan coughs after dropping his cup onto the counter. His face is twisted with the most disgusted contour, “I don’t know how you do it, (Y/N).”

“I already drank more than you guys, so it just tastes like water now.” You scream over the loud music. Jeno, Jaemin and Renjun toss their empty cups into the sink.

At this rate, you are completely blindsided by the effects of the alcohol as your legs give out to gravity. Jeno catches you quickly, holding your elbows and your head is placed on his shoulder. Jaemin chuckles lovingly, before helping Jeno balance you against the island. Your head feels heavy on your shoulders, as the room spins in front of you.

“You good?” Haechan pats your head gently, whispering close to you.

“I---” You try catching your breath after being winded. “--It’s hitting me now.”

Jeno wraps his arm around your lower waist to draw you close to him, “want to go sit down?” He mumbles into your hair. You nod, Jeno and Renjun supporting your limp body to walk over to the couch.

The dark living room is lit up only by colorful led lights, but it is not enough to make out much of anything. Everyone is in their own world, dancing and socializing within their own selves. The two men set you down on the cushion, but your impulse catches onto Jeno’s wrist before he leaves. Renjun is already lost in the crowd.

“Can I sit on your lap?” You pout cutely, all the shame in your body has been displaced with courage. Jeno’s eyes soften at your sudden request, and kisses the top of your forehead.

“The throne is all yours.” He says as he sits at your side and pulls you on top of his thick thighs. His arm is loosely dangling around your waist, resting on top of your thighs.

The intimate position causes your mind to wander into dark thoughts. His strong, sturdy legs feel delicious against your clothed core. While you’ve been in this position once before, you could never forget how protected, yet very horny it makes you feel.

“What’s on your mind, (y/n)?” Jeno’s deep voice brushes against your bare shoulder and you feel his chest press against your back. “You’ve been pretty silent tonight.”

You turn slightly to face him, “if I told you, I’m scared it would ruin things between us.”

“There’s nothing in the world that can hold me back from you.” He is always so quick to spill such alluring words. His soft lips graze lightly on your skin as his sparkling eyes look up at your expression.

All it takes is one more tiny kiss on your arm to get you grabbing his face, drawing him into a steamy, long awaited kiss. Surprisingly, he kisses you back, open mouth and tongue lapping with your’s. His hands reposition your legs to where you straddle him. Your faces dive deeper into each other’s as the kiss continues to intensify.

Jeno’s lips still have a hint of alcohol, but he mostly tastes like mint gum. And they are comparable to a cloud, the softest lips you have ever made out with. It is like kissing pure heaven, completely different from your boyfriend’s two second pecks. Jeno devours you in a needy way, like he’s been waiting to explore the wonders of your lips.

However, you pull away when you feel the vibration of his phone against your inner thigh, almost like a wake up call. As if all the liquid courage disappeared, you blink back in shock at Jeno’s plump wet lips. The thought of his girlfriend crosses your mind, and maybe slight guilt for your own boyfriend fills your system.

You quickly start getting up from his hot body, “fuck, I’m so sorry..” But his hands pull you back onto him, your legs finding their way open above his thighs again.

“Don’t be, I’ve always wondered what your lips would taste like.” A smirk, then a hearty chuckle relaxes your contracting nerves at the potential of a ruined friendship.

“But, your girlfriend..” Your tiny voice trails off and Jeno picks up your chin. His fingers rubbing along your jawline.

His eyes do another lap around your features. He admires your averting shy eyes, your beautiful lips, and how they all come together to make a stunning you.

There is no doubt in Jeno’s mind that he is very attracted to you. He knew it the moment you barged into the club meeting. You are his type of woman, a good mixture of confident and timidness. You like to have some fun, and aren't afraid to be bold. Not to mention, that you are incredibly hot and every time you flirt back just makes him melt inside.

“She won’t care. She hooks up with people all the time.” It puzzles you, all this time you had been holding yourself back from Jeno because he has a girlfriend. All to find out that the relationship isn’t as serious as you thought it to be.

“I know, it doesn’t make sense. But we aren’t two people to be tied down, but at the same time, we like each other enough to want to stay together.”

Your confused expression causes Jeno to laugh and ask, “what’s the dilemma with your boyfriend?”

Rolling your eyes at the mention of your boyfriend, you sigh, “it’s like we’re still together, but we aren’t at the same time. We’ve abandoned the relationship unknowingly.”

Jeno runs a warm hand up and down your thigh, while he listens intently to you. He nods, grabbing your waist to pull you over his groin. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No, he’s a shitty person and an even shittier boyfriend. We literally haven’t fucked for the past year. I’m practically a virgin again.” His hand automatically gives your thigh a light squeeze.

Jeno’s eyes light up as you quickly cover your mouth out of embarrassment. A devilish smirk raises his cheekbone, and lust clouds his mind. Gauging his reaction, your cheeks turn hot.

“We’ll have to change that, don’t we? My baby must be all kinds of frustrated. Tell me, do you like when I touch you then?” Jeno drops in tempo, usually when he wants to be more intimidating with a deeper voice.

You clear your throat intending to speak, but you can only nod your head in response. “C’mon, (Y/N). Use your words, like a big girl.” Even with the loud music and continuous chatter, you can hear Jeno‘s taunting whisper.

His words tickle your collarbone as he runs his lips against your neck. Your heart is pumping rapidly at the turn of events, as if the possibility of having something beyond a kiss from Jeno is more than possible at this rate.

Jeno enjoys your small whimpers as he marks your neck with purple love bites. Right in the center of the crowded room, Lee Jeno is just casually giving you hickeys.

“Yes, I love that you can’t keep your hands off of me.”

Almost immediately, you can feel his lips curve into a smile on your skin. Pop! Jeno marvels the darkness against your skin in the mood lighting. A small part of him hopes you do end up seeing your boyfriend sometime soon, so he can see who you really belong to.

“How about we try touching like this?” Jeno pushes you down hard against his pelvis, the veins on his hands becoming evident from the grip and the tiny drawings permanently staining his fingers.

You gasp the moment you feel Jeno’s hip begin to move underneath you to the beat of the song. He rolls your hips rhythmically to match his speed. His clothed hard on can be felt through the only barrier you have on --- your panties.

The thin fabric is soon drenched in your juices after the continuous friction up and down his length. You throw your head back to every bump against your clit, the electrifying feeling enact more of your wetness to puddle.

You can’t believe you were grinding against Jeno in the middle of a full party, as if his friends aren’t a few feet away. It is a good thing that your skirt pools around both of your waists to conceal the dirty deed underneath.

Jeno’s lip escapes under his top row of teeth as he rubs his clothed length against your barely covered pussy. He can feel his jeans dampening from your wetness and his eyes roll to the back of his head from how the feeling of wanting you consumes his body. He really becomes uncontrollable when it comes to you.

This is the most sexual activity you have had with another person for over a year. Jeno just looks absolutely heavenly intoxicated with lust, and your mouth waters at how big his cock must be. You can feel his length the harder Jeno rolls against you, and it is definitely bigger than your boyfriend’s.

You are trying so hard to stay quiet and unnoticeable, but the pleasure seeps out every crevice. Jeno is trained on you as your hand reaches up to cover your mouth, the muffled whimpers escaping your lips uncontrollably.

“I’m so close.” You admit, your body jolting every time his jean button grazes against your sensitive bud.

Jeno moves you over his thigh, forgetting his incredibly hard dick straining in his jeans. As long as you are satisfied, he can care less about his own pleasure. A low scream erupts from your throat when he flexes against you.

His thigh is much more stable, with more control for consistency. You quickly notice the dark, wet spot on his jeans and you blush even harder. Your underwear clings onto you from the excessive moisture, but Jeno continues to help you finish.

The strands of hair cover your face, but Jeno needs to see your fucked out expression. He is taken aback when you start riding his thigh faster, grinding harder without the aid of his hands.

His mouth hangs slightly open in awe at your neediness, he truly did not know the extent of your sexual frustrations. Oh, but how he is incredibly turned on by you getting off on him.

“I want you to cum for me, you deserve it.” Jeno brings you in for another passionate kiss. The mixture of his tongue sucking harshly on yours, and the friction on your clit are more than enough to reach your climax.

Your legs clenched tightly around Jeno’s thigh. The small knot in your stomach that built, drops like the beat playing in the background. The feeling of white is familiar, but it is more intense than when you would touch yourself. You are finally receiving the pleasure from someone else’s touch, someone who wants you to unravel for him.

Jeno pulls away from your lips, kissing down your neck and collarbones as your chest heaves for air. His palm soothes your shaking legs as your climax subsides. You fall into his arms, and he laughs. The reality that you two just did that publicly registers in both of your minds.

Digging your shy face further into Jeno’s shoulder, he whispers lovingly, “let me drive you home.”

“Are you still drunk?” The muffled question tickles Jeno’s neck.

“I think you beautifully cumming on my thigh sobered me up.” He jokes and you quickly cover his mouth. Your heart practically stops and you hope no one else heard him.

It is silly that you are now self conscious, as if the whole room didn’t just watch you and Jeno grind on the couch. But, the feeling of embarrassment and regret lingers in your stomach. You mentally thank the dark room for concealing both of your identities.

“I’m sorry for your jeans.” A pout begs for forgiveness as you stare at Jeno’s beaming smile. He takes your hand off of his mouth, not forgetting to give your fingertips a lingering kiss.

“I’m sorry for your boyfriend. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.” Jeno parts your hair from your neck, admiring the marks he left on you. A small sense of pride builds inside of him, accompanied by a tiny bundle of possessiveness.

“Let me say goodbye to the boys and I’ll take you home.”

Nodding, Jeno carefully lifts you off of him and onto the cushion. He leans over to kiss your cheek. As he gets up, you see the darker shades on his jeans from your doing. However, Jeno is completely unbothered and continues to find his friends.

Now that you are alone, you feel a bit nervous that someone would come up to you and talk about what they saw. Checking your phone, your screen blinds you with absolutely no notifications from your boyfriend. Going on social media is worse, as you scroll to see that your boyfriend posted a photo.

It is a photo of his hot, red polished car. He obnoxiously posed squatting next to the front wheel, his lips puckered up and kissing the rims. With a caption that makes every regret in your body disappear, “with my one and only.”

The phone is tossed somewhere else, wishing to delete the image from your memory. Your eyes wander around the room, when they spot a suspicious man sneakily dropping a small pill in an unattended drink. He, then, looks up and catches your stare. Caught red handed.

But the male smugly smirks, “you’re going to pretend you didn’t see that, like how half of this room pretended to not see you grinding on Jeno.”

“You’re complete scum, I can’t believe you just roofied someone’s drink.” You yell in utter disbelief at the unwavering man. His disgusting smirk changes into a menacing smile.

He approaches you, his height allowing him to tower above. You gulp, scared at how he can easily overpower you at any second.

“And what are you going to do about it? What? Jeno didn’t loosen you up enough?” His revolting hot breath beating down your nose, invading every corner of your personal space.

Before you can find any insult to speak back, his figure goes flying sideways and out of your face. It’d be a lie to not admit your heart skipping a beat at the sight of Jeno’s clenched fists and locked jaw. His sharp gaze watches as the stranger gets up from the ground, inflammation already growing on his left cheek.

“Dude, what the fuck!” He shouts angrily, holding his cheekbone as he winces at the pain. Immediately, the conversations are replaced with gasps, and small whispers at the sight. People gather around the living room to see the commotion. Even you are unsure how to react to the sudden fight.

The other man lunges at Jeno with full force, but Jeno stops him by grabbing the man’s collar, “this,” Jeno punches his lip, busting it open, “is for dropping a roofie in someone’s drink.”

The stranger groans at the impact, but still gets up with a fist straight for Jeno’s gut. Watching Jeno take a blow is much more difficult than you had been expecting.

He crouches over from the punch, but quickly regains his composure to put the man in a headlock. A few more gasps erupt and wonder if you should stop him before he does something unnecessarily stupid.

“This,” the man squirms to try to get out of Jeno’s iron grip, “is for disrespecting my babygirl.” And with a shift snap, the male falls limp and unconscious.

A surprised intake of air and Jeno peers up at your scared expression. He calmly walks over to you, ignoring the swarm of people that had gathered around the scene. He can only see one thing — you. Jeno’s wandering eyes try to read your expression, but all he sees is a terrified girl.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, are you okay, (Y/N)?”

Blinking blankly for a few moments, you are mortified at the laying body, “what did you do to him?”

Jeno looks back at the stranger casually, “I put him to sleep for a bit. He’ll wake up in about 20 minutes.”

A rush of reassurance washes over you knowing that he is alive and Jeno didn’t just kill someone in front of you. You exhale all the anxiousness and nerves,

“thank you for stepping in.”

“I don’t fight without a good reason. You are more than a perfect reason to fight for.” He pinches your cheek cutely, and his tough exterior fades away yet again.

His famous eye smile that warms your insides is back as if the scary, intimidating expression didn’t exist a few seconds ago. Jeno’s good sides only appear with you. Nevertheless, you are happy to know how special you are to see them.

“Violence is never the answer.” He nods, only taking it for a grain of salt. “Are you okay? It looked like stringbean knocked some wind out of your gut.”

The teddy bear thrusts himself forward into a fit of laughter, his head resting on your lap. His melody lights every dark corner inside of you. “He did get a good punch in there, didn’t he?”

His rumbling laughter stops, and he peers up at you. “I can’t believe you were still worried about a complete asshole.”

Scoffing, you break the shared gaze. “I’m a compassionate human being.” Jeno stands up, extending his hand for you to take.

“I know, you’re the best kind of person.” He genuinely means it with the way his tone remains quite stern, eye contact unwavering. He is revealing more of his intimate parts, and in return, you wish for him to see your’s.

Silence drowns out all the commotion between you two. Jeno grows shy at the way the galaxies reflect in your stare. “I--” Never once, did you think you would witness Lee Jeno stammer over his words. “I-I, let’s-- I want to take you for a drive.”

To Jeno, a drive to him is equivalent to your hand in marriage. Even his own girlfriend has never been on a drive with him. It is a big part of his personality, given that he is a crucial member of the Ridin’ Club. However, out of all of them, he is the last one to flaunt his hobby. It is special, almost sacred to his entire being.

“Me?” It is the dumbest question to ask, but you really want to clarify his intentions. Before this night, you two were barely considered friends. You two never saw each other outside of the late night parties.

But now, Lee Jeno wants to take you on a drive. It makes you wonder if the desire of companionship is mutual, that he too pines to further your relationship.

“I’m not looking at anyone else,” Jeno still waiting for your hand and holding an intense eye contact. His heart lays exposed for you, just right on his sleeve. An innocence paints his usual intimidating aura, “let me show my special girl, what is special to me.”

He must possess some magic because he knows every way to make you swoon. And like that, your palm meets his and he locks his fingers between yours.

The moment you enter Jeno’s striking, eye catching car, you automatically relax into the leather seats. His pristine car matches his personality --- simple, but captivating. Your boyfriend’s car is the exact opposite, which is why you never enjoy sitting in it.

Jeno has pieces of himself that scatter his car, like an adorable small plushie that watches out the back window. A beaded lanyard dangles from his rear view mirror. It even matches his scent of a deep ocean breeze.

Unlike your boyfriend’s obnoxious details, Jeno did not have a light up stereo that flashed annoyingly to every beat drop in a song. Instead, a sweet lilac color illuminates at your feet, along with his.

“You like what you see?” Jeno catches you astonish at the tiny aspects of the interior.

“Of course, it’s yours. It’s exactly like how I would imagine it to be.” Jeno is proud, hearing you praise his car. Even he can admit, it is a bit weird to be so connected to an inanimate object.

Nevertheless, his car, racing, driving became a huge part of his life. And unlike his friends, he feels rather shy and slightly embarrassed for being such a geek.

But hearing you actually appreciating the small details of his car when you probably hate every aspect of racing due to your boyfriend’s doing, it makes him feel very happy.

Maybe happy is an understatement, more like overjoy at how you freely can recognize the things that make him content. You respect him, and are mindful that as mundane as a car is, you know that it is something important to him.

Silence becomes the majority of the ride out of the quiet, suburban neighborhood. While Jeno’s eyes remain focused on the road ahead, you are concentrated on him.

He drives with one hand on the wheel as he rests his elbow on the middle console. His eyebrow creases here and there. It is the most normal, mundane activity anyone can do --- drive. That is all he is doing, yet the effect it suddenly has on you can not go unnoticed.

Abruptly, with the rev of the engine and a press on the gas, the car practically flies on the empty freeway. It catches you off guard, causing you to hold onto the grab handle. Jeno peeks over at your shocked figure, and smiles to himself.

“Relax, (Y/N).” He calls your name, reaching over to rub your thigh as a way to calm your anxiousness. Automatically, your hand grips onto his for support and the other one drops from the handle.

Exhaling, your eyes are trained ahead. The car is moving so fast that you can’t even make out anything around you. Everything becomes nothing, but colorful streaks against a dark background. The gravity against your chest feels crushing.

“How-- How fast are you going?”

Jeno glances at the speedometer and intertwines your fingers into his own. “I don’t think I should tell you that, you might actually have a heart attack.”

The window rolls down and you are hit with rumbling wind, “I know you’re scared right now, so stick your head out the window and take a deep breath.”

You look at him in pure fear, “what?! I can’t even move, let alone stick my head out the window!”

Jeno shakes his head, “trust me. Please, trust me.” He needs you to experience the same thrill he does. His own adrenaline is through the roof, out the entire atmosphere of the vehicle. The amount of joy he is experiencing became tenfold now that you are sitting beside him.

You trust him and very meticulously, go against the wind. Your hair crazily dances along with the rush and your eyes water from being dried out. Adjusting to the pressure, you also stick your hand out the window. It whips backward, but you feel the wind slip between your fingers.

The rise in heartbeat and excitement pump through your veins. The beauty in the white streaks that create a runway, it is nothing but you and the open space. There is no other way to explore it, except at a high pace. You understand why Jeno loved it so much.

Jeno bounces between the road and half of your figure out his window. Your eyes are closed initially, before you barely squint open. Tears fly by with strands of your hair, but you start to move your hand to physically feel the thrill pass between your fingers.

Then he sees it in the side mirror: the sweet curve in your lips he loves the most and the wideness of life in your eyes. It only makes him press the gas harder.

“That was incredible! You should take me riding with you more.” You marvel at him as he starts the route to your place. It is complete playfulness that hints in your tone because you are aware of how sacred these are to him. Nevertheless, a part of you still hopes he agrees to do so.

Jeno nods, “only because I like you,” He pauses, gauging your reaction with his side eye gaze, “a lot.”

Your heart sinks to an unsettling place in your stomach. Jeno could not possibly be serious, however, his tone no longer matches the playfulness of your own. It almost seems like he is telling the truth. But you didn’t want to believe that.

Your eyes make a full circle before settling at the disappearing sidewalks, “stay in your lane, Jeno.” It is to keep the mood still light, you and Jeno aren’t ones to be serious.

His hand has been on your thigh for the whole night, whether it be out of habit or comfort. His touch is always welcoming and warm, but suddenly, you feel the small squeeze on your flesh. Turning your attention on his face, you can see how a smirk has grown.

“But yours seems much more fun.” Immediately, your stomach leaps with somersaults. Your throat gets dry and tight, not anticipating that response.

“Beside, you can’t act like we both haven’t swerved. It was barely moments ago that you were cum---”

“---No need to further explain.”

“And I’d proudly do it again.” His voice drops several decibels and his hand slowly snakes it’s way up your thigh. All the while, his eyes still on the road ahead.

You gulp as every heartbeat constricts your throat. Lifting the ends of your skirt higher to expose more, you secretly want Jeno to cause your legs to shake again. “D-Do what again?”

Jeno perks up to the sweetness of curiosity in your tone. He pulls up to a red stoplight, being able to finally look over to your innocent face and needy hands gripping the cute, thin fabric. He stares deeply into your eyes, “make my baby cum.”

Similarly to the stoplight, you give Jeno the green light to pull your panties to the side. You spread your legs wide as his finger massages your pussy lips. He gets dangerously close to your erect clit, barely skimming over it.

A needy, yet delicate moan escapes your lips and Jeno’s jaw tightens. He’s more upset that he’s missing the view of your legs spread, open mouth in ecstasy, half lid eyes all in the passenger seat of his car. He hopes for another red light, just so he can peek over at your delicious figure.

“Jeno, please touch me.” Your voice is airy and desperate. He hummed in response, completely withdrawing his hand from your core. However, you catch his wrist and bring it to rest on your inner thigh. “Please.”

The distinct beg in your tone drives him crazy. As he dips his finger into your sudden wetness, a shiver runs up your spine. Right when he applies minimal pressure on your bundle of nerves, you jolt and close your thighs around his hand.

One touch already feels too good to be true, that finally someone, Lee fucking Jeno, is actually touching your nakedness. Peering down, Jeno’s arm is flexing in between your legs. His veins popping ever so slightly and his tattoos paint his smooth skin.

“Open your legs, babe.” His low devilish chuckle rumbles in your lower abdomen. “Let me give you the lovin’ you’ve been deprived of.”

You shudder at his cadence and slowly pry open your legs. Jeno stops at a red light and gets to see your reaction as he rubs you in a fast rhythmic pace. A soft cry yelps from your throat and you have to grip the handle to keep yourself from spazzing out any further.

Almost like a trance, he doesn’t notice that the light turns green. He’s locked into the sight of your contorting body. Your hips have a mind of its own, yet again, as Jeno feels you rolling deeper into his touch.

“Poor baby, you’re so touch starved that you can’t control yourself.”

“It feels better when you do it.” You whine, your lip being bruised from your biting. But your eyes notice the green illumination and you blink over at Jeno.

He is practically drooling at the sight of you, his eyes are trained at your needy hips and dripping wet core that soaks his fingers. You stop every urge to steal more kisses from him.

Jeno briefly recovers from the trance and steps on the gas. He takes this opportunity to ease a finger into the core, causing you to exclaim and squeeze around his digit. “Oh fuck, you’re so tight.”

“More, Jeno.” The way his name rolls off of your tongue makes his heart flutter and his dick to raise in his jeans. Without much hesitation, he slowly slips in another finger and you moan at the stretch. Pumping and curling, he ensures that you are enjoying every action.

His fingers curl against your plushy flesh and your legs spread wider for him to go deeper. You’re a moaning mess when he curls up to your sweet spot, rubbing his fingertips quickly. The familiar queasy feeling builds in your lower regions, and Jeno becomes merciless with his fingers.

He guides them in and out of you, feeling your tightness release and invite him back in. The sloppy wet noises fill the car and drown out the engine. Your half lidded eyes bounce at Jeno’s unbothered figure and the entire scene seems absolutely unbelievable to you.

One hand on the wheel. The other knuckles deep in your pussy. Eyes focus on the road ahead. A comfortable man spread. His hair is messy from the long night.

It is all too unbelievable, that Jeno’s already giving you a second climax of the night when you could barely get one in a year before. And he loves touching you as much as he loves driving.

However, the guilty raises as fast as the ball of tension in your gut. You two pull up in front of your apartment building, while Jeno’s tugging his fingers against your flesh aggressively. In a split second, you hold onto his wrist to stop him.

He shifts into park when the car settles into a spot and peers over to you. A curious expression daunts onto him, rather concern that he might have been too much. “I’m starting to feel guilty.”

Jeno nods, and retrieves his fingers out of your dripping core. The feeling of emptiness causes all the built up pressure to dissipate.

“I understand,” he begins, but pauses at the sight of your sticky juices glistening on his fingers. Your eyes widen as he licks them clean, a soft moan escaping from the back of his throat.

The small action spikes your heart rate and you rub your legs together. With a pop! Jeno hums delightfully, “baby, you taste so good. I’m a little sad I won’t be tasting more, especially directly from the source.” His lustful eyes glance down at your thighs and back to your profile.

“I’ll walk you up to your apartment.” He says way too casually, unbuckling his seat belt. A mixture of emotions are running through your head. There is guilt, but lust is too powerful to ignore, especially when it’s Lee Jeno. The damage is already done, right? It’s not like it wasn’t moments ago that you humped him in the middle of a party.

“Wait,” your hands find themselves gripping onto his leather jacket tightly. Jeno gently reaches over to release your strong grip and replaces the leather with his hand.

“Yes, babygirl?” Jeno’s round, friendly eyes meet yours. The lust clouded darkness is no longer there. His hand feels hot and somewhat rough.

“I’m going to break up with my boyfriend, so promise me, you’re not going to dip out of my life afterwards… I don’t need you to be anything more than a friend. I just can’t lose you too.”

He turns around in his seat to face you comfortably. “I don’t think you’ve noticed, but I can’t stay away from you, let alone have the ability to leave you.” He reassures you with a soothing and calm tone. His thumb draws circles around your knuckles. “I’m always going to be your friend, whether or not I know how you taste.”

“Do you still want to try it … you know, from the source?” You shyly ask, an innocence embodying your gaze and voice cadence.

Jeno raises an eyebrow, a smirk on his lips. “I’d love to, only if you let me.”

Instantly, you shift to get on your lower back. Jeno watches as you excitedly position yourself open for him and actually finds your eagerness quite adorable. Your left leg bends behind the driver’s seat and your right rests on the dashboard.

He hooks his arms underneath your thighs to pull you forward towards him and your whole body slides against the leather. With a slow lift, your skirt reveals your drenched panties. Rolling them off and tossing them to the back seat, he lays eyes on your still dripping pussy. Jeno takes a second to admire your flower, this being his first time he’s seen such a private part of you.

“You’re beautiful, you know that right?” He chuckles deeply, before his tongue licks a long strip up to your clit. You exclaim out of the tingling pleasure that seized your insides.

He flattens his tongue against your bundle of nerves, flicking and circling. His finger enters your pussy again, curling up to rub at the same pace he is licking. The pure sight of Jeno’s head in between your legs is enough for butterflies to explode.

His sole motive is to make you feel good. There is nothing else in the world that he wants at this moment beside pleasure to overtake your body. Jeno eats you out like he hasn’t had a meal in months. His mouth wraps around your clit. The mixture of his flicks and sucks cause electric bolts to run down your legs.

You get more wet as Jeno pumps his finger in and out of your hole. Your juices are practically dripping onto the interior of the car, but Jeno doesn’t care.

He fucking loves it. He loves the taste of you lingering on his tongue. Your breathless moans. Your waterfall dripping on uncontrollably. The view of you unwinding because of him. Nothing can be more perfect.

Running your hands through his messy locks, you press him closer into you. A devilish smile draws on his face as he flicks his tongue side to side. “Oh, fuck! I’m.. so c--close.”

Your back arches upward into Jeno’s mouth, feeling his muscle lick harder and faster on your throbbing clit. He adds a second finger, and the simultaneous stimulation practically throws you into another dimension. The pleasure overtakes your entire lower half, your legs trembling from pure ecstasy as you approach your orgasm.

“Don’t stop, I’m going to---” Then, Jeno pulls away and shoves his tongue into your warmth. A gasp hits the air as he also continues to rub circles on your sensitive nerves. His tongue fucked your pussy incredibly skillfully and deliciously. With this switch, your legs violently shake and try clamping together.

However, his strength holds you wide and open for display. A low grunt follows suit as his dark eyes zone in on your contoured facial expressions. Then, the white light blind you once again and the ball of tension unravels itself on Jeno’s tongue. Squirming and screaming, your hips buck forward on their own.

It is close to being too catastrophic, this being the most intense orgasm you’ve had after a whole year. Nevertheless, the satisfaction is right on the tips of your toes and you greedily indulge in the euphoric moment. Jeno feels your walls squeeze around his muscle as he laps every last bit of you up.

He is absolutely addicted to your juices, making sure he catches every drop. Finally pulling away, he wipes the extra drip on the back of his hand. Jeno blinks at your raising chest and limp legs. Chuckling, his warm hand massages feeling back into your body.

“Do you want me to carry you back up?” His hoarse, raspy voice wakes you from your post orgasm daydream. You flutter your lashes at him fondly and happily nod at his offer.

Getting out of the car, Jeno walks over to the passenger side and your arms rest nicely around his neck. His palms support your butt, but also smoothing your skirt over to cover your decency. A poke against your outer thigh makes you realize that Jeno is strained against his jeans.

“I can take care of you too.” You pout cutely at Jeno, but he shakes his head.

“It’s not about me tonight. It’s about you.” Leaving a soft kiss on your cheek, his eyes turn into moon crescents from his lovable smile. The kind, friendliness makes an appearance again.

Or so you think! In a sheer second, Jeno’s deep voice rumbles your stomach and his hooded eyes pierce your soul, “next time though, I’m fucking you real good, babe.”

You hum in response. Saliva collects in your mouth, already looking forward to more of Jeno. But a chilly draft brushes up your exposed area as Jeno carries you up the flight of stairs.

“Wait, Jeno… I don’t have my underwear on.” The ‘Level 3’ sign is in view as Jeno turns to walk.

He only laughs and shrugs nonchalantly, “it’s better that way anyways.” Without another word, he continues upward to your floor and you playfully punch his solid chest. In all honesty, that’s not going to be the only time you leave behind your panties in his beloved car.

Your hatred for the notorious Ridin’ Club subside after such a wild night. If anything, you owe it all to your shitty ex-boyfriend for joining such a ridiculous club. Without him and the club’s existence, who knows if Lee Jeno would’ve still swerve into your lane.

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koobunno · 3 years

Note

Hi, I really loved the second part of you JK two-shot!! By any chance, will you add a drabble about the fam? Like when their baby girl's hospitalized or any scene like that...You can if you want but no pressure hehe,,

-- okay i'm astonished bc this is my first ask hehehe

this drabble is flooded with fluff and a bit of smut if u squint

thank u anon for the idea, had to re-read the drabble to understand,,i'm dumb hehe

“What the fuck!” you threw sharp glares at Jungkook who is caressing your child before he goes to shower, not that you hate lewd words but you both agreed to not curse in front of your daughter or anywhere she can hear. Returning to work on your case study for the conference the day after tomorrow, Jungkook then again disturbed you with so much panic in his voice, “Y/N!! She’s burning hot, what the heck!” Not even a second passed, you immediately turned your head to where they were, Jungkook carrying her while draping a palm simultaneously over her forehead, cheeks, and neck. “Keep her warm, Kook.” You reminded him and of course he obliged as the loving and caring father he is.

This isn’t the first time you’ve encountered situations like this, you see children experiencing things like this almost every day. But damn it, the pounding in your chest has never been this vigorous. As you aim for the first aid kit, taking out the thermometer, and went back to the bed where Jungkook and your more than a year old child are. You saw her wrapped in a swaddle blanket already, knowing that Jungkook specialized the skill even before she was born because of the classes you both took. Your husband changed into his sweatpants and a sweater with his car keys on hand. You propped the thermometer and for fuck’s sake, you never wanted to run this fast. A forty degree fever for a one year old is never something to be complacent for. You grabbed your phone, your pouch, and a coat, not even budging to change your pyjamas.

“You sit at the back babe, I forgot where I put the keys of the car where her car seat is.” Jungkook told you and it is evident that he is trying to be calm but is failing. He handed you your sleeping hot child as you nodded.

Hugging her while fishing for the phone in your pocket as you sit at the passenger seat and Jungkook buckling his seatbelt, he starts the engine while you type the hotlines of the hospital’s emergency center, notifying them that you’ll arrive any minute. You also called a driver and a househelp to prepare some necessities for your daughter and some for you and Jungkook. It has been long forgotten because of the panic earlier and they’re already in their headquarters by the time it happened.

Jungkook halted at the facade of the emergency center where some nurses and the doctor on duty were standing, anticipating your arrival. You went down the car as Jungkook handed the car keys to the valet chauffeur. The attendings performed the necessary tests on your daughter while you fill up the required forms for admission and such things, Jungkook standing at the back of the technicians, cooing his crying daughter by making funny faces.

“Mr. Jeon?” you heard a nurse calling for Jungkook as you opened your eyes from sleeping on your husband’s shoulder, devoid of sleep you didn’t relent on resting your head on Jungkook. You felt him putting his index finger against his lips, not knowing you’re awake already. “The admission process is done already, sir. May I know who is your preferred physician for Y/D/N?” The nurse politely asked and even before Jungkook opened his mouth to speak, “Me, put my name on it.” You said exasperatedly. Jungkook looked at you gently, “Are you sure, baby?” he asked. “Yes, bun. I can handle it.”

Jungkook is slightly worried since you have important errands and loads of work to do, he knows you can endorse this to your colleagues but he didn’t say anything even if he knows you’ll beat the shit out of you for your daughter, though he knows he will too.

After some papers, you arrived at the VIP ward of the hospital. Your daughter is still sleeping and your husband is preparing the things that your house helpers brought earlier. They also proposed to take charge of accompanying your child but you and Jungkook refused, being the paranoid parents you two are.

A resident doctor along with an intern knocked on the door of the room and bowed to you to show their respects. You can’t suppress the giggle when you saw the intern’s mouth slightly agape when Jungkook went out of the bathroom wiping his beautiful hands with tissue, you can’t blame her, really. “It’s Influenza, Doc.” The resident told you while handing you the results of the tests. You nodded and you felt your husband’s arms snaking your waist and the other on his while greeting the people in front.”Okay, check if we have stocks of Tamiflu from the pharm and also isotonic IV bags.” Jungkook, not relating to the terms you’re blabbing, went to your daughter’s bed because she woke up and threw her tantrums because of the tubes on her small chubby feet.

“What does my muffin want, hmm?” he sweetly talked to her and the baby’s expression changed in no second, being the daddy’s girl she is. After the doctors went out of the room you saw the two of them playing and watching on your baby girl’s iPad.

A day passed and you needed to attend a conference, you wanted to ditch it but you cannot because no one’s available to do proxy for you. With heavy feet, you approached Jungkook, who took a week of work leave and brought all his work to the hospital room. “Bun, are you sure you can handle being alone with her?” you asked him for the nth time, making him giggle. “Babe, yes, I can, you’ll be back before dinner time, right?” he replied while signing a mass of papers on the bed table where he sits and your daughter between his arms, nibbling on her frozen fruits. “Okay, okay. Call me every hour, no, every 30 minutes, understand?” you demanded as you leaned to kiss your daughter and your lips met your husband’s cheeks. “No kisses for the bub, momma.” he said while slightly laughing at you. “Mhmmm, I forgot.” you chuckled. “How about for her hot dad?” you teased him. You turned to him and saw his pointer finger on his luscious lips, you gave him a peck and left after.

Jungkook kept on his task of calling you every 30 minutes and it is the 4th call since you left. “Babe, I swear you should focus on that damn conference, she’s sleeping already.” Jungkook said as you keep your phone in your purse to politely hide it as you talk to your husband. “Okay, fine, Mr. Jeon.” you teasingly replied, knowing that the title gives him a ring in every possible way. “What the heck, babe?” he gasped scandalously and it made you laugh a bit. “I’ll be definitely asking for the keys of your office, woman.:” he added, knowing that the management will give it to him without a second thought. “So insufferable, eh?” you hitched “See you later, Mr. Jeon!” and before he could even reply you ended the call and prepared to make a speech for the conference while of course, anticipating the office scene later.

After three days, you’re now processing the discharge letters for your daughter. She had some light problems because some of her lab tests results came so low or some came too high. You were frustrated, yes. Jungkook noticed that because it is undeniably noticeable. You saw him taking a nap with all the bags packed beside him. You went to his sleeping figure and hugged him, he was awakened by the gesture but hugged you back. “Thank you, Jungkook.” you told him, teary eyed. “Hey why are you crying?” he said, alarmed, “Don’t tell me you’re pregnant again, babe.” you glared at him for his lousy joke. He tightened the hug and said, “Just kidding, thank you, Y/N, always remember I appreciate you.” He went to the bed where your daughter is sleeping and grabbed her. “We appreciate you okay? We’re grateful for you.” you nodded as you wiped the tears that escaped. Grabbed the bags and got ready to go home.

#bts smut #jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook parents #jungkook x y/n #jeon jungkoooook bts #angst #bts fluff #bts imagines #ceo jungkook #doctor oc #bts drabble

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talatomaz · 3 years

Text

defenceless | jj x fem!teen!reader

a/n: i’ve been rewatching criminal minds and i can’t believe it’s been a year since i last wrote for jj. and i have no idea where this came from.

(feedback/positive comments are appreciated)

warnings: major references to blood/being stabbed. mentions of assault

word count: 2.7k

masterlist | request list | request rules

r is jj’s 19 year old adopted daughter and gets victimised after stopping an unsub from assaulting someone

i do not give you permission to repost or translate my fics on any platform - likes/reblogs are okay and are much appreciated

“Morning, baby.”

You smiled when your Mum came up behind you and softly kissed your head.

“Morning, Mum. I made you some breakfast.”

You said, pouring coffee into the seasoned profiler’s ‘No.1 Mom’ mug that you’d gotten for her several years ago.

You’d gifted it to her on the first Mother’s Day you had with her after she adopted you. And she used it that morning and every morning since.

“God, what’d I do to deserve a daughter like you?”

JJ said proudly as she dug into her breakfast, happily munching on a piece of toast as she looked through her case file. Whatever dark, horrific crime she and her team were investigating simplified down to a few pages in that brown file.

“Busy day?” You asked, leaning against the kitchen counter, staring across at her.

“You have no idea. I’ve been up for a few hours trying to compile some notes on this case we’re working. Young, relatively low-risk, women are being raped in alleyways and there are no witnesses.”

She explained as she continued to eat whilst scribbling shorthand notes on a notepad.

“Any ideas on who you’re looking for yet?”

She hummed in answer. Swallowing her food, she replied, “Yeah, I think we have a preliminary profile that we want to release to the public later today.”

Pouring the rest of her coffee into a travel cup, she put her files in her bag and placed it on the counter you were resting against.

“You got class today?”

You were studying criminology, wanting to follow in your mother’s footsteps and become a profiler.

Nodding, you answered, “Yeah, then some of my friends and I are gonna head to the mall. And yes, I’ll message you constantly, so you know.”

You added when your mother opened her mouth to presumably ask that very question.

“Thanks, sweetie. Whoever our unsub is, he’s targeting women your age and considering he’s probably here right now, I need to know you’re safe.”

“I know, Mum. Now go, you don’t want to be late for work. Hotch only lets you be late once, you know.” You smirked.

“Yes, I know. Bye, y/n. I love you.” Your mother mirrored your expression and kissed your cheek.

“I love you too.” You replied, handing your Mum her keys and you watched her leave as the white door closed gently behind her.

***

“Maybe just call him out on it and see what he says?”

You suggested to your friend, Kerri, after she explained her boyfriend troubles to you and your other friend, Ally.

“I mean, the worst that could happen is-”

You stopped mid-sentence when you heard a muffled scream. Furrowing your brows, you walked closer to where the sound came from; an alleyway behind an old warehouse.

Remembering your mother’s earlier profile, you whispered to your friends, “Stay behind me.”

“Y/N, what is it?”

“Not sure.”

Inching around the corner, you saw two figures behind a dumpster. The smaller figure, who appeared to be a blonde female, was struggling against the male standing over her.

“Hey! Get away from her!”

Shouting, you ran up to the two and watched as the man’s head whipped around to face you before he darted off, jumping over a fence.

Approaching the woman, you saw she was half naked and had blood seeping from her nose.

“Oh god. Call 911, she’s been assaulted.” You said quickly to your friends who stood behind you, shocked at what they had just witnessed.

Hearing Kerri following your instructions, you took off the jacket you were wearing and wrapped it around the exposed girl.

“H-He tried to r-r-”

Unable to form the words, the girl started to sob at her ordeal.

“I know. It’s okay, honey. What’s your name?” You asked, speaking quietly to try to calm her as if she was a spooked animal.

“A-Annie.” She choked out as she tugged your jacket closer around her.

“Annie, you’re safe now. He can’t hurt you.”

The former began to sob harder and fell against your chest. Wrapping one arm around her, you used the other to take out your phone to call your Mum.

“Shh, it’s okay, Annie. You’re okay.” You said, soothing the distraught girl who was currently crying her heart out against you.

“Hey, y/n, what’s up?”

After quickly explaining what had just transpired, JJ told you and your friends to remain where you were since you were all witnesses and that she’d be there soon.

“You did good, babygirl.”

Morgan said, handing you a cup of coffee.

You were currently sitting at your mother’s desk at the BAU, having already given your statement to both local police and your Mum’s team at the crime scene. Emily and Spencer had driven your friends home whilst you came with your Mum to her work - she refused to leave you alone, even though you’d argued that it was still daylight and you’d be fine.

You didn’t reply, deciding to sip the hot drink, wincing when it burned your tongue.

“He’s right, y/n. Most people probably wouldn’t have heard anything.”

You glanced up at your Mum who stood above you, her hand resting on your shoulder.

“What will happen now? To the unsub, I mean. I interrupted him so he never managed to rape Annie.”

“He’ll probably try to hurt someone else.”

You turned to face Hotch as he approached you and the rest of his team.

“I just got off the phone with the hospital. They’ve discharged Annie into the care of her parents. She wanted me to tell you ‘thank you’.”

“I’m glad she’s okay. Physically anyways. So, you think he’ll get sloppy? Since he never got to...finish, he’s probably going to be antsy right? He might make a mistake?” You asked, hopeful that your Mum would catch him soon.

“More than likely. He’s definitely going to be angry, especially since we’ve just released the profile along with the sketch you helped us with, y/n.” Hotch answered, a gleam of pride in his eyes.

“Anything I could do to help,” you replied.

Standing up, you faced your Mum, “I think I’m going to go home. I’m kind of exhausted.”

“I’ll drive you h-”

“It’s okay,” you interrupted your Mum, “you’re busy here and you’ve got a lot of work to do. Besides, it’s only mid-afternoon so I’ll be fine. I-I just need some air.” You said, your voice faltering when you felt tears forming.

Clearing your throat, you held back your emotions and kissed your Mum on her cheek, “I’ll message you when I get home.”

“Okay, baby. I’m proud of you.”

The tall blonde hugged you close to her which you returned with as much ferocity, her hands stroking your hair as she cradled your head against her.

Bidding your goodbyes to the rest of the team, you left the federal building.

“JJ, you okay?” Morgan asked.

JJ had heard the emotion in your voice and though she was proud to have seen you comforting the most recent victim, it had hurt her heart to see what came after the ambulance drove away with an injured Annie in the back.

Once you’d given your statement and described the unsub to her and her team, she’d followed you to her old vacant office from her media liason days where you’d broken down.

She had watched you hold yourself together by a thread all throughout the questioning but had known that the adrenaline high would crash soon. And you quite literally did crash. In her arms, the moment she had closed the door behind her.

She had fought back her own tears as she gathered you into her arms, soothing you as you did earlier with Annie.

She’d tried as hard as she could to keep you away from her world.

She didn’t want you to be exposed to any more darkness than you’d already experienced when you were younger, before you’d met her.

“JJ?”

The blonde blinked, breaking away from her thoughts to stare back at the rest of the team.

“She did good, JJ.” Morgan repeated as JJ simply nodded, not knowing what to say.

***

Taking out your phone, you sent a message to your group chat with Kerri and Ally, wanting to make sure they were okay.

After receiving replies from the both of them confirming that they were fine and just a bit shaken up, you placed your phone back in your pocket.

Sighing, you continued walking down the relatively empty street; the majority of people either at work or school, unaware of what had happened just a few hours earlier.

You thought about Annie and later crying in your Mum’s arms. You didn’t even know why you did. Spencer probably would have given you some fact about adrenaline crashes but you shook your head, feeling self-conscious.

There was no need for you to break down like that.

All it achieved was your Mum being worried about you which was the last thing you wanted because it meant she’d be distracted from doing her job. Catching this asshole.

Hands in your pockets, you felt the bright sun shine down on your face.

Stopping for a brief moment, you glanced up at the sky, and allowed yourself to breathe.

As you were about to carry on walking, you felt a harsh grip on your arm pull you into an abandoned parking lot.

You thrashed against the strong hold, the self-defence skills your Mum taught you kicking in.

Stomping on the large figure’s foot, you smirked at the grunt of pain that fell from his lips. Then you elbowed them in their stomach and threw your head back into theirs. Hearing more shouts of pain, you started to run before you were roughly pushed against a brick wall.

Your breaths came out in heavy pants and your eyes widened as you stared into familiar eyes.

It was the unsub.

He held himself tight against you, pulling a switchblade from his pocket and into your view. Your eyes flickered from the sharp blade to his eyes. They were filled with fury as blood dripped from his nose - from when you’d head butted him.

“Good. So you recognise me.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d swallowed a bunch of nails.

“What do you want?” You spat out, refusing to show any indication of fear to him.

“You ruined the other girl for me. But you seem like a challenge. I like that.”

Pressing the knife against your neck, he used his free hand to undo his belt.

You barely controlled the terror that threatened to rise through your body. Instead, you tried to focus on the pressure of his weapon, waiting for a slight reprieve where you could make your move to escape.

That moment came when he unzipped his trousers.

The pressure lightened for a few seconds which was all you needed.

Grabbing his wrist, you twisted the knife away from you and kneed him in the groin. Pushing him away, you stumbled, trying to escape.

But he was quick on his feet.

He swiftly picked up the knife that had fallen to the floor and thrust it into your stomach.

You groaned, the pain unlike anything you had ever experienced before. Your hand instinctively went to your stomach as blood started to coat your clothing.

You slumped down the wall as the unsub crouched down, sneering at you, “Bitch.”

Tapping the ground behind you, you felt a piece of broken glass in your fingers. Gripping it tightly, you gathered all your strength and plunged it into his neck.

He yelled out, his hand going to the glass that was still in his flesh.

Recognising what he was about to do, you clambered to your feet and watched as he pulled the shard, of what appeared to be from a broken beer bottle, out of his skin. Blood splatted all over the wall that you had been against, just moments before.

Blood continued to seep out from your wound.

You took off your jacket - the one you had previously wrapped around Annie - and pressed it against your skin. You groaned at the white hot pain that seared through your skin.

Knowing you were only down the street from the Quantico building, you took out your phone and called your Mum as you walked, as well as you could in your condition, back to the federal building.

“You home already?”

“M-Mum, c-come outside. I-I need you.” You choked out, trying to steady your breathing.

“Y/N? Are you okay?”

You could hear her shouting to the rest of her team before she continued to talk into the phone.

You made it to the entrance of the federal building but you were too overcome with exhaustion and you felt yourself drop to the floor.

You could hear shouts from the people around you as they watched blood pool around you.

“Oh my god. Y/N!”

You heard your Mum yell as she fell to your side, pressing her hands heavily against your wound.

You barely heard as Hotch called 911, stating his name and rank and urged for an ambulance to be sent immediately.

You struggled to keep your eyes open as you looked up at your Mum.

“Come on, baby. Stay awake for me.” JJ begged, tears carelessly running down her face.

“It hurts, Mum.”

“I know, baby. I know. But you’re strong. Stay with me. How’d this happen?”

JJ knew the only way to keep you awake was to continue talking so your brain could still remain active.

“H-He’s dead. He attacked me. I-In a car park. Down there.”

You weakly raised your hand and pointed towards the direction you had come from.

“Good girl. Just stay with me. You’re going to be okay. Y/N? Y/N!”

JJ screamed when she watched your eyes flutter closed as you lost consciousness.

***

“Woah, y/n. It’s just me.”

JJ said quickly when you jumped as she came up behind you to kiss your head.

It had been a few weeks since you’d been stabbed.

You’d woken up in a hospital, hooked up to all sorts of machines monitoring your heart rate. Your eyes had fallen on your mother who, once she saw you were awake, started to cry and hug you close to her. That then made you start crying and the two of you were just a pile of tears as you clung to each other.

After the tears had stopped and the doctors had checked up on you, JJ had told you that they’d found the unsub in a parking lot a few blocks from the BAU.

A couple of days after, you’d been discharged from the hospital. Your mother had stayed by your side up until this week when you had urged her to go back to work.

That had led you to now. She’d just arrived home from work and you hated that you were still on edge after your attack, despite your Mum telling you it was normal.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, honey.” JJ said softly as she came to sit beside you on the sofa.

You both sat in silence for a few moments before you spoke, your voice coming out in a whisper.

“I’m scared, Mum.”

You felt her eyes on you as she spoke, “Scared? He’s dead, y/n. He can’t hurt you.”

“I know, I just-In that moment when I fought him, I was so defenceless. And I’m scared of what will happen the next time I can’t defend myself.”

You continued, tears welling in your eyes as you stared ahead, unable to face your mother.

“Y/N,” JJ gently turned your face so she could look into your eyes.

“Am I defenceless?”

You blinked, having not expected that question. “What? No.”

“Exactly. I’m not. But I felt like it after I was kidnapped and tortured a few years ago. It’s normal to feel like that, y/n. But it’ll pass. I can promise you that.”

“It’s like I can feel him stabbing me over and over again.” You choked out, failing to force your tears back down.

“Oh, baby.”

JJ gently pulled you to her as she wrapped her arms around your body. She cradled your head against her chest as you clung to her arms, now sobbing.

“I got you, y/n. You’re safe. I got you.” She repeated, soothing you as you continued to cry.

Still hugging you against her, she kissed your head,

“As long as you have me, you’ll never be defenceless.”

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mrs-gucci · 3 years

Note

There seems to be a darker, more violent take on Clyde floating around right now and I LOVE it!! I’m working on one for him too!

Since you say open for darker requests, I’d love to hear your take on a more violent Clyde! He could be saving you from a stalker. Clyde can show him what a real bad ass can do and then show you how well he can treat you too lol! He could be protecting you from someone at the bar. He could be showing you his special forces skills after some gets aggressive. You name it lol!

Secrets of the Blood Moon {werewolf!Clyde x Reader darkfic}

author's notes: helloooo! my friend shannon, thank you for this request!! I am also a fan of the darker take on Clyde and I hope I did it some justice!! I worked really, really hard on this one, and I’m super pleased with how it turned out.

**PLEASE HEED THE DARKFIC WARNING!! THIS FIC INVOLVES SEVERAL VERY HEAVY AND VERY DARK THEMES, SO PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION!**

warnings: angst. smut. hurt/comfort. a minor car crash. mentions of alcohol consumption. rut. knotting. breeding kink. werewolf stuff. attempted mating bite. murder coverup. clyde feels guilty.

tw's: noncon touching (not by clyde). involuntary attempted sexual assault (werewolf clyde pins her down & dry humps w/o consent, but human clyde doesn’t know he did it nor would ever intend to do it). blood & gore. graphic depictions of murder and violence. human-hunting. depictions of human body consumption (is it cannibalism if he’s technically a wolf when it happens?). werewolf sex.

**this is a work of FICTION. the author does not attempt to condone the actions/behaviors of the characters written.**

word count: 5.9k

my taglist peeps: @frank-and-honey @shygirl268 @icarusinthesea @gildedstarlight (if you’d like to be added to or removed from my taglist, the link to the google form is HERE or on the top of my masterlist.)

Last Night

Stepping out of your car, you’re instantly suffocated by the thick humidity of the West Virginia evening. The sun paints cotton candy across the sky as it sets behind the trees on the mountainous horizon, the almost full moon hot on its tail, slowly rising on the other side of the sky.

The blood moon comes tomorrow, and from the old folk tales your mom used to tell about the deep West Virginia countryside, some weird shit goes down under the crimson moon. You never really believed her. What all could happen in lil ol’ Boone County, anyway?

The moment you step into the refreshing, air-conditioned Duck Tape, you’re immediately greeted by a loud call of your name.

“Y/N!” You smile and wave at Jimmy.

Clyde looks up and smiles at you as you come and sit down at the bar next to Jimmy. He serves the customer before coming over to talk with you and the eldest Logan.

You lean over the bar to give him a kiss, earning a couple hoots and hollers from the bar crowd, which made you both laugh as you pull away.

“How was work, buttercup?” He asks, wiping off some glasses. “Weren’t ya doin’ that one presentation today? How’d that go?”

You’re always so flattered that Clyde actually pays attention when you talk about work stuff. Most guys just smile and nod, but Clyde actually listens and remembers. He even remembered your one year anniversary at the company you currently work for, sending you takeout from your favorite place along with some flowers.

“Yeah, it was alright. Boring as hell, but the partners seemed pleased, so that’s all I can really ask for at this point.”

Both he a Jimmy give a small chuckle, nodding before Clyde mixes your favorite drink, setting it down in front of you a few minutes later. You thank him, and the three-way conversation continues before the bar door swings open.

Something about the man’s entrance makes you look over, already smelling trouble as he steps over the threshold. His eyes are glued on you, a smug smirk etched on his expression.

A hush falls over the patrons for a few seconds, all eyes on the leather-clad man. Clyde’s hackles are immediately up, body tense as the mystery man saunters over, plopping himself down onto the vacant stool next to yours.

Things on the floor continue as normal, the chatter picking back up, and you subtly scoot a little closer to Jimmy.

“Bartender?” A thick New York accent calls.

Clyde walks over, plastering a fake smile on his face, seemingly the epitome of southern hospitality.

“What can I getcha, sir?”

The man gives Clyde a once-over and snickers. “No, seriously, where’s the bartender? I’d like a drink.”

Your grip clenches around your glass. You absolutely hated it when people were dicks about Clyde’s hand.

“Seriously, I am the bartender.” He states firmly. “So, what can I get ya?”

His tone sends a chill down your spine. Normally, Clyde just shuts down whenever someone starts poking fun at his missing hand, but tonight, there was a certain air of frustration, of dominance.

You just thought he’d finally cracked, after years of dealing with this bullshit. But as you would learn, there was an alternate explanation for his sudden outwardly alpha-like behavior.

The guy seems to back off a little bit, just asking for a cold Coors straight from the bottle. You startle a bit when Clyde slams the bottle down on the counter in front of him, and you could swear his eyes turn a light grey for a second before returning to the dark brown pools you’re familiar with.

Everything’s quiet for a little while, the man sipping his beer in silence, before he turns to you. He doesn’t say anything at first, simply allowing his eyes to drink in your seated figure.

“What’s your name, baby girl?” The beer smell of his breath is strong as he leans in. “You lookin’ for someone to keep you company tonight?”

You roll your eyes. Douchebag. “Nope. I’m perfectly content just sitting here, thanks.”

Clyde’s watching the interaction like a hawk as he makes someone’s drink. It’s a wonder he can concentrate on the drink when his thoughts and eyes are glued to you.

His slimy hand touches down on your bare thigh, just above your knee, and you jump in your seat. He grins, trailing it up as he leans in even closer.

“Are you sure? I could show you a real good time...”

Glass shatters from behind the bar and then, Clyde’s grabbing the man by his biker jacket, tossing him onto the floor with an almost superhuman strength. You stand up, appalled, as the man on the hardwood scrambles to get up.

An icy grey begins to frost over his sweet chocolate irises as Clyde clenches his fists by his side.

“Don’t ya dare touch ma girl, ye pervert.” He growls, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “Someone ought to show ya what respect looks like.”

The bar has fallen pin-drop silent, all sets of eyes focused in on the developing scene. He cocks his fist above his head, snarling as he readies to pounce on the helpless man.

It’s then that Jimmy hops up and puts himself between the two men, holding his hands up in front of Clyde. “Don’t do this t’ yerself. Ye know what’ll happen if ya do.”

This seems to bring him back, the warmness flooding back to his irises. His shoulders slump as he huffs softly, pushing past his older brother angrily, storming into his office and slamming the door behind him.

Shakily, the man stands and puts a twenty down on the table before running out of the bar, bell jingling against the wooden door as it eases shut after him.

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The rare blood moon hangs in its place against the pitch black sky as you pull up to the Logan’s trailer home. There aren’t any stars in the clear night’s sky, despite it being the dead of summer, but you don’t think much of it as you approach the shadowed porch.

Moths flutter around the dimly flickering porch light while you peek through the windows, which were as black as the night. Not a single light was on.

Odd. The Pontiac’s parked in its normal spot outside.

You flip the threadbare ‘welcome’ mat up, revealing the rusting gold key beneath. Sticking it in the lock, you turn until the door pops open, an eerie creak accompanying it.

"Clyde?” You say, looking around the trailer’s living room as you flip the living room lights on.

You call for him again. Maybe he’s just taking a nap. “Clyde?”

Still no response.

Now, you’re getting worried. There’s no note, nothing noticeably out of place; in fact, it’s almost all too still. It gives you the creeps, how still and quiet it is in here.

The scent of suspicion thickens the air around you, and you just get the most awful feeling in your gut that something bad is happening or is about to happen.

Adrenaline begins to pump through your veins as you quickly walk around, peeking in the kitchen, and in the spare room. The air seems to thicken again the closer to draw to Clyde’s room, and you push the door open with bated breath.

You’re absolutely mortified at the sight before you.

Shreds of carpet, fabric, and mattress stuffing is scattered the floor, and giant claw marks have torn straight through the drywall. The blankets and comforter, at least the remains of them, are disheveled where they lay across the clawed-up mattress.

His vanity mirror is almost fully shattered, and the products that once sat atop are now tossed across the floor. The chilly summer’s night air flutters the curtains on the opened window above the bed.

The first thought that comes to mind is a bear attack of some kind. Now fully freaking out, you’re wondering how in the world a bear got into the trailer, and why it only seemed to attack Clyde’s room. You scramble to grab your phone from your purse with shaky hands, dialing Jimmy’s number in haste.

Was this one of the blood moon enigmas mom warned about? No, no, bear attacks are pretty common around here.

It takes a few rings before he picks up.

“Y/N?” He sounds out of breath, exhausted.

“Jimmy, hey. Do you know where Clyde is? I’m at the trailer, and--”

Something that sounds like a growl rips through the speaker, followed by a woman’s voice.

“Is everything oka--”

“Mellie, I can’t help ya right now! I’ll be there in a second!” He yells in the background. “Sorry Y/N, you were sayin’ somethin’?”

“No, it’s alright. I’m just at the trailer, and I peeked into Clyde’s room...”

“Ya didn’t touch anything, did ya?” His voice is rushed.

You shake your head, eyebrows furrowed. “Uh, no, but--”

The growl comes again, louder this time, and it almost sounds like it’s...a voice. A very deep and very animalistic one, but a voice nonetheless. And it was saying something, although you couldn’t really hear clearly enough.

“Jimmy, do you know where Clyde is?” You’re getting a little impatient.

“Don’t worry ‘bout Clyde, he’s okay, he’s, uhh, here with us.”

“Oh, uh, o-okay.”

But tonight was supposed to be your special night together.

“Y/N? Listen real close, now. I need ya to get outta the trailer and go home, right now. Don’t linger, and refrain from touchin’ anything in the trailer. Lock all yer doors n’ close all the windows when ya get back home, okay? ‘N don’t go outside for the rest’a the night.”

Okay, now you’re starting to get fearful. “What--”

“Jimmy!” Mellie’s panicked voice comes through the phone speaker again, this time a bit clearer. He curses under his breath.

Her cries clearly rattled the eldest Logan, and he quickly tells you to just do what he said and then hangs up in a frantic state.

You’re frozen for a moment, but then you quickly scurry outside to your car, frantically looking around as you scramble to fit the key in the driver’s side door. By some miracle, you hold your hand steady enough to unlock it, quickly shutting the door and turning on the engine, peeling out of there like a madwoman.

Suddenly, as you go to pull out of the driveway, a strange apparition appears at the edge of the wood across the street. You squint, trying to figure out what the hell it is. Whatever it is, though, it’s panting heavily and looks...inhuman.

It’s standing on two legs, but its large, probably almost seven feet tall if you had to guess, and must’ve had some type of black fur or skin since it almost blends in with the darkened forest.

The reddish light of the moon is the only light that reflects upon this mystery creature, before it seems to notice your car idling in the driveway. The crisp light grey pupils seemingly glimpse into your soul as the creature looks upon you.

Clearly, now, you can decipher what exactly it is, although you’re in utter shock and skeptical to think it real: A werewolf.

You quickly put the car in reverse, slamming down on the gas, flying backwards for a few seconds before colliding with the trailer’s tin wall. Your head slams forward onto the steering wheel, trickles of blood dribble down your forehead and nose as your consciousness is lost.

When you come to, only a few minutes later, you groan as the welt forms on your forehead. You look around, groggily, seeing that your car is in drive but isn’t moving. Surely when you’d passed out, your foot would’ve come off the brake and you would’ve rolled away...

Stepping out carefully, you find that some bricks have been placed in front of all four tires, effectively keeping the car at a dead standstill.

Who in the world did this?

Then, you turn your head and walk slowly around to the front of your car, seeing the remnants of sharp teeth marks on your bumper. You’re frozen, a lump slowly crawling up your throat as the realization hits.

A low growl comes from behind you, and your worst fears have suddenly been realized. You slowly, carefully spin around on your heels, afraid that one wrong move may make you tonight’s surprise entree.

Your eyes meet the soul-piercing grey’s of the werewolf, the one you’d seen at the edge of the forest minutes earlier. The one that seemingly saved your life, but...how did a werewolf know what to do?

As you continue to gaze at the large being before you, you’re struck with a sense of familiarity, almost as if you’d met them before. Strange, because you can’t recall ever encountering a werewolf. Hell, you’ve never even seen a wolf before, other than in pictures. Surely you’d remember coming into contact with a seemingly impossible biological phenomenon such as this one.

His presence is scarily comforting, and you find yourself briefly wondering what it’d feel like to be enveloped in his woolen arms. Well, arm, technically speaking. This particular werewolf seems to be missing the lower half of his left paw.

Then, your mind connects the dots, and you’re shocked to your very core. It wasn’t a bear that attacked Clyde’s room, it was Clyde. This werewolf that’s standing before you is Clyde. That’s why Jimmy and Mellie sounded so frantic and breathless on the phone; they must’ve been trying to keep him contained.

But why? Werewolves usually recognize the important people in their human lives...right? That’s why he’d saved you from rolling off...

Your headlights’ reflection was speared by your figure, creating a shadow that covered most of Clyde’s form, except for the very tips of his paws, which had enormous claws emerging from beneath the thick layer of fur.

“Clyde?” You whisper, and he seems to soften for a moment, falling down on all threes.

Just as you swallow the lump in your throat and begin to cautiously approach the creature, hand outstretched to allow him to smell you, his eyes suddenly darken, the once snowy grey now more like the color of storm clouds.

He snarls, white teeth shining in the moon’s moody crimson-tinted reflection, and you immediately backtrack. Oh god, I’m fucked.

Your bottom collides with the front of your car, the engine thrumming lowly as it idles happily, grille warm from the machine inside. The headlights are now fully shining on the creature, fur shining under the bright lights as he approaches, lines of drool strung between his sharp fangs.

“C-Clyde, please,” You plead with the creature. “It’s m-me, Y/N, your g-girlfriend. You know m-me, you don’t w-wanna do t-this...”

It doesn’t seem to do much to dissuade him, the animal within now overshadowing the kind, gentle man you know and love. No, this creature is something else. This isn’t your Clyde.

The wolf stops short of the hood, where you’ve crawled up onto and are laying back, raising his nose up in the air, sniffing. You’re perplexed by this action, but it becomes evident when his ear prick and he says, in that same deep, animalistic voice that was in the background of your call with Jimmy,

“Mate.”

And then, he’s pouncing, trapping your hands above your head with his one arm while his legs scramble to find a good grip on the metallic surface of the car, hips rutting frantically.

His muzzle dips down, wet nose running along your jawline and neck, teeth scraping dangerously against your thin skin. He quickly settles on a spot behind your ear, growling as his pink tongue darts out to begin lapping at the spot.

You’re completely still, both physically restrained and unable to bring yourself to even try to move as the creature drags his fangs across the skin behind your ear. Your car is rocking back and forth with his hips’ violent movements, dragging his enormous cock against your lower stomach.

He pants into your ear, breath hot as he prepares to sink his sharp fangs into your tender skin, marking you as his forever...

“CLYDE!”

Jimmy’s voice pierces through the still of the night. Crickets stop chirping for a moment, and Clyde’s body stills. His head whips around, snarling at his brother.

Mellie’s right behind him, and she peers around him, trying to look at you. “Y/N, are ya alright?”

“YYYeah,” You manage, somehow. “I-I’m o-okay.”

Clyde hops down, all three feet planted on the ground, hackles up as Jimmy takes a step forward. “Mate.”

“She ain’t yer mate.” Jimmy says, calmly. He points to you. “Look at whatcha done to ‘er, Clyde. Would a mate look like that, huh? Look at ‘er, Clyde, she’s all beat up and scared outta her damn mind.”

The wolf visibly stands down, slowly turning his head to look back at you, seeing the scratches on your wrists and the marks on your neck. He sees the bit of wetness on your shirt and shorts, from his slick.

He hangs his head and begins to cry, whimpering and whining as he sprints off, surprisingly agile and quick for a wolf with three paws, across the road and back into the woods.

His blood’s boiling, he’s angry that he couldn’t defend you against Jimmy, mad that his alpha instincts had failed him. Even as a werewolf, one of the most powerful beings in the forest, he was still weaker than and overshadowed by his showboat older brother.

Loud barks of anger rip through him as he masterfully maneuvers through the forest, weaving through the trees, dodging thorns, leaping over the fallen tree trunks.

The sky suddenly begins to empty down onto Earth, the cool summer night’s rain a welcomed refreshment on Clyde’s fur. He looks up at the blood moon, huffing softly as he silently curses the orb for bringing this condition to him each full moon, as he did every single moon before this, and will continue to do with every one after.

He reaches his cave a few minutes later, stopping dead in his tracks when he smells smoke coming from inside. He’s on high alert, now, as he moves to peek into the cavern.

There, he finds a lone man sitting by a very small fire, rubbing his hands together over the heat. He’s clad in head-to-toe tree camo with a shotgun laying just out of arms reach.

This man’s scent feels awfully familiar, Clyde thinks, but it takes him a minute to figure out why. And, when he does remember, Clyde is suddenly not so sympathetic for the unwanted visitor in his cave.

The wolf’s mind falls to a certain memory from last night at Duck Tape. This is the jackass that thought he could get away with feelin’ you up. The one that poked plenty ‘a fun at his missing hand.

Clyde’s still-hard cock presses up against his furry stomach in excitement, tongue licking over his razor-sharp fangs. He couldn’t protect or avenge you last night, again due to Jimmy, but maybe he can now.

Jimmy ain’t gonna get in my way this time ‘round.

He can’t just come running into the entrance, no, that allows him too much time to grab the gun. He thinks, and thinks, until he remembers the connecting cave that he’d recently found on the last full moon. He bets he can get in there and creep up behind the man, do a sneak attack.

He’s salivating in anticipation as he bounds down to the opposite side of the cave, paws padding lightly against the soft gravelly dirt floor, trotting along carefully.

The man is none the wiser to the wolf’s presence, and the hum of the loud rain certainly wasn’t hurting. A loud crack of thunder suddenly rips through the forest, vibrating the ground. Clyde freezes briefly as the young man curls up further, chin resting in the gap between his knees.

Predatory instincts pumping through his veins at an all-time high, he crouches down as he stalks closer and closer to the unsuspecting body by the small fire. The anticipation is almost too much to bear, now right behind the man, moving in slow motion so as to not alert his victim.

When the time is right, just as the next clap of thunder rumbles the rocks, Clyde pounces. He grabs the man’s shirt, dragging him out of the cave with an unprecedented swiftness. The fire is extinguished with the tussle, leaving the cave shrouded in darkness, the shotgun laid abandoned on the ground where he’d put it.

He struggles against the wolf’s grip, fabric ripping violently the further his body’s dragged along. Clyde throws him out onto the forest floor, pawing at the ground like a wild stallion as the disheveled man scrambles to his feet.

His hands are shaky as he holds them up in front of him, as if trying to calm the creature like a domesticated dog. “E-Easy, easy.”

If he could, Clyde would’ve rolled his eyes at the man’s pathetic attempt to talk down at him. He snarls, watching in amusement at the way he startles and stumbles back.

Clyde’s got the man backed against the trunk of an old oak within seconds, and he stands up on two legs, glaring at the much smaller figure. He bares his teeth, a wolf’s version of a devilish grin.

“Run.”

It seems like the man is caught in between being shocked that this wolf just spoke English and being chilled to the core by his word. He sputters for a moment, brain smoking as it churns on overdrive, before his legs carry him as quickly as they can down the mountainside.

The wolf casually trots along after him, in very little rush to catch him. He’s throbbing hard now, the excitement translating into pure arousal. Clyde knows these woods like the back of his hand; there’s no where for this man to hide from his inevitable fate as the wolf-man’s next meal.

His head continuously whips around, meeting the grayish-white orbs tucked behind a thick coat of jet black fur. In a frenzy, he tucks himself behind a large tree, catching his breath.

Twigs snap in seemingly all directions, his breath heavy as his eyes flicker all around the dark, damp wood, the only light coming from the crimson-tinted orb above. He reaches back and wraps his arms around the tree’s trunk, panicked.

A low growl rattles his eardrums and he looks to the side, seeing the black creature right at his side. Clyde’s head snaps to the side, looking directly at his victim.

Crying out in fear, the man leaps forward to make a run for it, but is quickly taken to the dirt by the wolfish creature. The man squirms and screams out for mercy, for God, and Clyde knows what he has to do now.

He quickly sinks his teeth into the back of the mans neck repeatedly, effectively severing the spinal cord, leaving the man completely limp and defenseless. A quick and effective manner of disabling a victim, he’s learned through hunting animals, but keeps him just alive enough to see what’s being done to him.

Clyde flips the limp form over, now on his back, and his eyes are wide as he watches the wolf above him, black fur now stained red around the mouth, stare down at him with a hungry gaze.

His mouth opens, probably to beg for his life, but it’s too late. Fangs sink through his shirt and into the flesh of his chest, just above where his rapidly beating heart lay.

The thump-thump rhythm slows, then stops, the life leaving his body. Sweet copper tang coats the wolf’s tongue as the body is drained of its remaining energy.

There is little feeling better than watching the life slowly and steadily drain from the eyes of a victim, and suddenly, Clyde’s throbbing arousal has reached an almost unmanageable point.

But, he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to devour his freshly-caught prey, especially while it’s still warm. So he digs in immediately, carving further into the hole over the heart he’d already created, ripping out the vital organ.

He holds it triumphantly between his teeth for a moment before setting it aside. His craving is more for the meat, he’s never been much of a fan of organs, so he gets to work separating the good meat from the corpse.

Once he’s done, he lifts his nose in the air, howling loudly. He’s never been this hard before, he swears it, and there’s only one person that can satisfy this urge:

You.

For a wolf on three legs, he reaches your house in record time. He can already feel the wolf-ness fading steadily, the human beginning to peek through the cracks. But, his rut doesn’t give at all, and he bounds up the steps and scratches at your door.

You’re startled by the noise, already a gut feeling you know who it is. When you open the door, Clyde’s wolf figure is sitting politely on your doormat. Should you let him in?

He pushes past, whimpering as he does so, before you can make a decision. You shut the door slowly before turning around to face the creature. He seems a bit different than when you saw him earlier, seeming a bit more human.

You stand against the door, back pressed up against it, looking down at the wolf in your living room.

“Y/N.” He breathes, huskily, attempting to ignore the hardness pressing up against his wooly stomach. “N-Need you. Please.”

He’s ashamed as he stands up on his hind legs, wrapping a clawed hand around his oozing cock, jutting his hips out as if to show off for you. The alpha in him needs to show you how suitable of a mate he is, what strong pups he can give you.

“It hhhhurts, b-buttercup.”

The battle going on inside him, animal versus human, is painfully evident on his expression. Your hearts been ripped in half as you watch him struggle with himself, the human trying to overpower the animal, and the animal trying to fight off the human. He doesn’t even know what he did to you earlier.

“What do you need from me, Clyde? I’m here to help you, honey, I’ll do whatever you need.”

His eyes widen in surprise, but its quickly replaced by a look of what can only be described as pure, primal hunger.

“Floor. A-All fours.” The wolf-man manages, desperately humping his hand to offer some relief. “G-Get the lube, ffffuuuck, I mmuhhmight hurt ya without it.”

You rush to get the lube, placing the tube next to you as you pull your leggings down, exposing your bare cunt. Clyde watches with an eager anticipation as you spread yourself for him.

As soon as you’re into position, he practically falls over on top of you, hips rutting uncontrollably as he smoothes lube over his drooling cock and lines up with your entrance.

“B-Buttercup, I...I’m sssorry ‘bout what’s ggon’ happen. This ain’t me, ppuhpplease remember that, mmkay?”

You nod, tearing up at the pure agony in his voice. “I w-will, Clyde.”

His hips shove forward, a choked howl escaping his lips, balls tightening. You cry out, the burn of your walls stretching to accommodate his girthy length more prominent than usual.

Veins bulge out of his neck, jaw clenched as he begins moving, mercilessly plowing into you from behind. He plants his clawed hand next to yours, loud and desperate scratching noises accompanying the wet squelch of your joined torsos.

The carpet is shredded, hardwood floor scratched permanently by his feet as he humps you with a desperation unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. This really wasn’t Clyde, but you soon realized that you exactly mind this side of Clyde, this primal instinct, this roughness. It was arousing, bittersweetly so.

When you look over your shoulder at the wooly mass moving behind you, your eyes widen. You didn’t notice the shiny substance from a distance, but now that he’s up close, you see that it coats his snout and has even dripped down onto his breast.

A gripping fear bubbles in your stomach. But then, you rationalize immediately, before you find yourself too deep down in this rabbit hole of worry. He probably just hunted a deer or a rabbit or something. He’s a fucking wolf, remember?

You almost sigh out loud in relief, but you keep it in, instead moaning along with each of his thrusts.

“D-Did ya like muhmmahhmm--ma w-wolf cock?” He asks.

You nod. “Y-Yeah, ohhh god, I liked it.”

“Gonna gguh-give ya real nice p-pups.” His muzzle rubs over the spot behind your ear, the same one that he’d been after earlier, smearing some of the crimson across your skin. He licks it with as much consistency as possible, considering the speed and intensity of his hips. “F-Fill ya u-up, knot ya gggood ‘n deep.”

You’re almost positive he’s talking pretty much nonsense at this point, his rut brain having completely taken over. You know you’re not gonna cum, but it doesn’t really matter; you’re doing this for him, after all.

“Oh g-god, I’m cummin’, I’m gonna--”

He pauses his hips, howling softly as he cums. But this time, something else begins to swell, and you cry out as it does so.

“M-Ma k-knot,” Clyde breathes in explanation. “Keeps it a-all inside y-ya.”

You nod, not really knowing what all he’s talking about but not really caring for an explanation right now.

“‘m gonna h-havta stay inside y-ya fer a lil while. S-Should be ‘b-bout 30 minutes or so.”

His tongue begins moving over your cheeks and neck, something that makes you smile, that helps you remember that your beloved boyfriend’s in there somewhere.

The half hour waiting period passes, and as much as you’ve loved snuggling with your boyfriend (who’s wolf counterpart is relatively cuddly, despite previous reservations), you’re happy to have him off you.

After wishing you a final goodbye, citing the need to ‘clean up his cave a bit’, he trotted back out the door and galloped like a madman (wolf?) back out into the shadowed wood, leaving you alone once more.

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It’s all over the news when you flip on the TV a couple days later. Hunter Found Slain in Boone County Woods, Bear Attack Suspected.

You have this awful, sick-to-your-stomach feeling that what happened the other night, when Clyde came to your house still in wolf form with a snout and chest covered in blood, had something to do with this.

When the picture of the victim came up on the screen, you audibly gasp, recognizing the face. It’s the guy that was feeling you up at a few nights ago at Duck Tape.

Oh god, no.

Suddenly, the door flies open, and Clyde’s panting as he rushes in and shuts it behind him. He looks pained, bottom lip trembling. “Have ya s-seen the ne--”

“...Police are still investigating the scene...foul play has not yet been ruled out...”

His entire demeanor falls, and the tears fill his eyes. He’s visibly shaking. You stand up and rush over to him just as he collapses on the floor.

You’re freaking out, trying to confirm what it is you’re pretty sure you already know.

“C-Clyde, did you...?”

He looks up at you from where his head now rests in your lap. “I c-can’t quite remember, b-but I think...I think I m-might’ve.”

Sobs wrack through his body as he cries hoarsely. You’re in shock, somehow hearing the words makes the reality suddenly hit like a damn semi-truck. You run your hands through Clyde’s slightly matted mane, soothing him as best you can.

“Clyde, it’s okay, baby. It’s alright, it’s not your fault.” You whisper.

“Y-Yeah it i-is, though. I k-killed ‘im.”

You try to stay strong, for Clyde’s sake, but the tears are swelling in your eyes at an uncontrollably fast rate. “But you d-didn’t do it o-on purpose, h-honey.”

His face seems to drop even more when he sees that you’re about to cry. He sits up shakily, pulling you into a big ol’ bear hug.

“Oh, buttercup, oh god, ‘m sorry. I didn’t m-mean to drag y-ya into all ‘a t-this.”

You sob into his shirt, wrapping your arms around him, holding him close. It’s hard to believe that this man, this kind, gentle man, could’ve done something like this on purpose. Clyde would never hurt a fly.

From what he’s told you, which granted is very little, the line between werewolf and human for him is quite a blurry one. He seems to only be able to remember parts of what happened, and his subconscious is only there for part of the time.

Which means that he’s technically innocent, since he can’t remember nor could he control his canine impulses or instinct. As far as you’re concerned, werewolf Clyde and human Clyde are two different beings.

“I-If anyone ever f-found out ‘bout ma c-condition...”

You pull away and look up at him, holding his face in your hands. “Clyde, I-I’m not gonna turn y-you in.”

“What?” He looks at you with a furrowed brow, like he’s surprised to hear your words. “Y-Yer not g-gon’...?”

Shaking your head, you swing your leg over his lap, hugging him once more while your face settles into the crook of his neck.

“No, of course not. I know you’re a good p-person, and like I said before, it’s n-not you. Your w-wolf side is not really you, Clyde, at least not entirely.”

Clyde looks down at you with an incredibly grateful expression, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He tilts your head up with one of his meaty fingers, immediately pressing his lips to yours.

The kiss is relatively short, just a showing of his gratitude, of his love for you. When he pulls away, you maintain eye contact.

“Okay, so most of the solid DNA evidence will have been washed away by the rain and tampered with by the elements over the past few days that the body’s been outside. Plus, they aren’t looking for wolf DNA, and even if they somehow knew, your wolf DNA wouldn’t lead to your human identity, at least I don’t think so...”

Hours and hours of watching countless true crime shows, movies, and documentaries are finally paying off.

“But, do you remember leaving anything, anything that could indicate foul play? Really search your memory.”

He puts his metaphorical thinking cap on, closing his eyes as he tries to recall anything of use from that night, but nothing comes to mind. His eyes swell with tears as they blink open and he shakes his head. “I can’t ‘member anythin’.”

“That’s okay, Clyde. They won’t find out, I promise, they won’t.” You kiss his neck. “For now, let’s just try to relax and we’ll keep an eye on the news. Will you come snuggle on the couch with me?”

Clyde smiles softly, nodding as you pull away and stand up, extending a hand to him. He takes it, standing up seconds later. As you walk into the living room, he says your name, causing you to turn around with a slightly perplexed expression.

“Thank ya.”

You smile brightly. “I love you, Clyde.”

“I love ya, too, darlin’.”

108 notes · View notes

togetherwearerapture · 3 years

Text

Boundary (Ethan x MC x Tobias?)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x MC (Elle Valentine) x (hints of) Tobias Carrick

Description: Tobias and Elle get to know each other while working on a case. Tobias pushes some boundaries.

Warnings: A few curse words, underlying health problems. Most characters belong to Pixelberry.

Word Count: 5.9k

Notes: Something a bit different, but I very much enjoyed writing this. There’s no overt Tobias x MC, so this is hopefully something Ethan stans can enjoy reading too. If PB won’t give me what I want, I guess write it myself lol

*********

It’s early Fall, yet despite this fact and the hospital’s ‘Bloom-and-improved’ ventilation systems, the diagnostics office feels uncomfortably hot. Elle feels a prickling heat across her back, one that she has become accustomed to of late. The façade she’s wearing is beginning to feel like an actual mask, all clinical-scented and restrictive and artificial.

And yet, this is not a mask she’s wearing on a crowded, sweltering T carriage. Her discomfort is unwarranted; there are, after all, only three of them in the room.

Oblivious, Ethan and Harper continue their conversation. She’s tuned out long ago, but she catches the premise- something that Dr Yannick once said at a conference in New York several years ago.

If she really tried, Elle knows she could search for a moment to join in the discussion. But if she’s being honest with herself, she’s tired of searching for sidegates to enter their house of conversation, instead of ever being invited through the front door.

She tries her hardest to appear relaxed, unbothered, indifferent. But her uneasiness spills into her mannerisms, like water through a cracked pot. Manicured nails drum erratically on the top of her thigh. Her top teeth tug, over and over again, at her lips. The apex of her stiletto heel taps the diagnostic office floor like a furious knife.

She likes and respects Harper very much, and her feelings for Ethan, both as a diagnostician and as her romantic partner are unfathomable. But as juvenile as it sounds, she’s so tired of being shut out.

A whooshing of the sliding doors breaks her out of her reverie, and she and the two other occupants of the room look up. Tobias Carrick strides in, all beams and bravado.

Her own notion takes her by surprise, but somehow, she thinks, his arrival is the breath of fresh air she so desperately needs.

“Goooood morning team!” he chimes brightly. Once again, his arms are laden with a trayful of drinks.

“Morning,” Elle offers him a warm smile, Harper echoing her words.

Ethan nods towards the drinks.

“Another round on you?”

“Sure is, but this isn’t just any old round, Ethan,” Tobias replies. “Now I’ve spent a week on the team, I take great pride in this being the first drinks order that’s just right, for all of you.”

Ethan quirks an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

Tobias grins, and plucks the first drink off the tray.

“Harper,” he presents her with an extravagant looking drink. “Chocolate frappucino. Double the sugar, double the caffeine. The Friday OR schedule is always jam packed, so I reckon you’ll need it.”

“You got that right, I’ve got two laminectomies today,” she sighs, although the passion for her job shines through her eyes. She takes a sip from her drink. “No complaints from me!”

“Excellent,” Tobias grins. “Ethan- a Vienna for you. Classic, refined, and,” he winks, “only a little pretentious.”

Ethan accepts the drink with a roll of his eyes, as Tobias moves around the desk to Elle.

“And now, for you Elle,” he hands her the third cup. “I must admit, for you I went out on a whim. I just hope my guess is a lucky one.”

Curiosity piqued, Elle presses the rim to her lips. She is aware of the eyes of both Tobias and Ethan following her action with interest. Mild, pleasant citrus swims onto her palate.

“Lemon balm?” she asks Tobias. He nods. “You going to elaborate?”

He shrugs.

“Well, I’ve noticed that I’ve never seen you with a coffee before 4pm, so I figured you like to limit caffeine earlier in the day. And I’ve seen you make up a couple of herbal teas before. I took a gamble and figured you’d like this one.”

“Impressive guess, Carrick,” Elle nods, amused. She takes a sip. “It’s good, thank you.”

“Those are some very…astute observations” says Ethan stiffly, as Tobias takes a seat beside Elle. “Maybe you can put your perceptiveness to better use for our next case.”

He slides three manila envelopes across the table, and the team begin to peruse.

“Jake Adams. 17-year-old male admitted last night, with multiple cardiac arrests,” Ethan begins. “He collapsed at school, was unresponsive, no signs of life, but luckily a fellow student was able to perform high-quality CPR until the paramedics arrived. Heart rhythm on their defibrillator was ventricular fibrillation, he was shocked, back to normal sinus rhythm. Between the scene, being loaded onto the stretcher, in the ambulance and arriving here, he arrested and was shocked again 5 more times.”

“Jesus, poor boy,” murmurs Elle, a crease forming between her brows.

“Cardiology have asked us if we can determine the cause of the arrest, which will of course determine the treatment,” Ethan explains.

“This case only came in last night and since he’s now on life support, we’re able to bypass Bloom’s absurd judicial performance and get straight into it,” Harper adds. “Actually, Ethan and I discussed it at length before you both arrived, and we have some solid ideas.”

Elle looks up from the file, quirking an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“So I’m thinking Long QT syndrome, or maybe Brugada,” says Harper.

“They would definitely explain the spontaneous cardiac arrest,” Ethan adds, “Harper and I have ordered genetic testing for both on immediate family members already.”

“Any family history of sudden cardiac death?” Tobias asks.

“Not that we know of,” says Ethan. “But that wouldn’t rule it out.”

Elle frowns slightly as she browses the file. The tests ordered so far are scant, and in her mind, there are several pieces of the diagnostic puzzle missing. But this didn’t seem to stop Harper and Ethan steamrollering ahead, and seemingly settling on a diagnosis before the case had even been presented.

“Does Jake have a-”

“Do you remember that patient with Brugada syndrome who came in for a study a few years ago, Ethan?” Harper turns to Ethan suddenly.

“Ah yes, Paul?” Ethan chuckles, “he was quite a character.”

As Harper and Ethan drift off once again, Elle glances up to see Tobias looking at her quizzically. She lets out a heavy sigh.

Tobias clears his throat.

“Hate to interrupt your…uh…stroll down memory lane,” he begins. “But Elle was about to ask a question about the case, and you both spoke over her.”

The three other diagnosticians turn to Tobias, and a tense silence hangs in the air. After a beat, Harper speaks up.

“I’m sorry Elle,” she says, sincerely. “That was out of line, please continue.”

Tobias turns to Ethan expectantly, who meets Elle’s eye.

Something flickers across his face for a moment, a mixture of shame, guilt, embarrassment, perhaps? It’s a look that Elle can’t quite place. Then, his eyes skim to Tobias and he coughs awkwardly.

“Yes…thank you Tobias. We did speak over you, Elle, I apologise. What were you saying?”

“I was asking if he had a 15-Lead ECG.”

“Not yet,” Harper replies.

“Then until he has one, I don’t think you can consider Brugada syndrome,” says Elle. “We’d need to do an ajmaline challenge too. I can see from the echocardiogram reports in here that he has a structurally normal heart, so we can definitely exclude congenital heart disease as the cause. But for me personally,” she gestures to the file, “there’s a lot missing in here. About what actually happened.”

“How do you mean?” Ethan asks.

“About the context of the cardiac arrest. All we know is that he was at school, but what was he doing? Was he doing anything strenuous, did it happen at rest? There’s a lot more I’d like to know.”

The rest of the team nod thoughtfully.

“I agree…if it happened during exertion, there’s a few other things we could rule out,” says Tobias.

“Exactly,” says Elle. “I think we should consider catecholaminergic polymorphic ventricular tachycardia.”

“You’re thinking CPVT?” asks Ethan, interested. “It’s a possibility.”

“Yes, and it’s one I’d like to investigate more by visiting the school, and finding out more about what happened” says Elle.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Harper responds, twirling her fountain pen between her fingers. “But unfortunately, I won’t be able to join you on your expedition. Like Tobias said, I’ve got a full day in the OR.”

The rest of the team turn to Ethan, who hesitates.

“I…have a meeting with Naveen and the board until lunch,” he says. “Which-”

“-means it’s just you and me, Valentine!” exclaims Tobias, clapping his hands together. “Oh boy, I’ve been looking forward to my first house call with the diagnostics team. We’re going to be on some scooby doo shit, Elle!”

“I beg your pardon?” says Ethan, scowling. Elle can’t help but burst out laughing.

“That settles it then, me and Elle will go to the school,” says Tobias, standing up from his chair. At the same time, Harper gets a page that her surgery is starting and bids them a hurried farewell.

“I was going to say, which means the three of us can go this afternoon once I’m finished,” Ethan says stiffly, as Harper heads out. Tobias shoots him a bemused look.

“I’d rather not wait,” says Elle flatly.

Ethan has wasted enough time in their meetings by bringing up pointless anecdotes with Harper, and she’s very keen to revert her focus to the patients, to diagnostics- the things she loves.

“Me and Valentine will be just fine, E. After all, I’m sure what happened with Jake is still pretty raw to the kids and staff, we’ll need to handle it delicately. Two’s company, three’s a crowd, right?” Tobias flashes Elle a smile.

The same look as before flashes across Ethan’s face, although this time, Elle thinks, it has less of the awkwardness and embarrassment and more of the…something else. His bright blue eyes seem to narrow a fraction, as he looks between Tobias and the woman of his affections.

“Alright,” he sighs finally. “We’ll reconvene when you’re back.”

“Let’s get this show on the road!” says Tobias happily. “To the mystery machine!”

He crosses the room to retrieve his car keys from his bag, while Ethan turns to Elle, and this time, the look of concern is undeniable.

“If you need anything,” he closes some of the distance between them and lowers his voice just a little, “just call me.”

“I think we can handle it,” says Elle, not unkindly. “Enjoy your meeting. And tell Naveen I said hello.”

And with that, she and Tobias leave the office.

********

A short while later, Elle and Tobias are riding in his blue Mercedes S-Class on the way to Jake’s school, a short drive away in South Quincy.

“Not exactly the mystery machine, huh?” says Elle, glancing around at the plush interior.

Tobias shrugs.

“The same colour, at least.”

Boston blurs by as Tobias pulls into a main road, and Elle turns to look at him. His side profile is unmistakably handsome. He drives one handed, the other resting on his thigh.

“So, how’s June?”

He gives a wry half smile, and glances at her.

“Is that your way of asking if we’re still sleeping together?”

“No!” says Elle, honestly. “I’m just wondering how she’s fitting in at Mass Ken. I mean, she left Edenbrook when she thought the ship was going to sink. I got the impression she was pretty keen to be working on your team, now I can’t help but think now you’ve come here, Aurora too…don’t you think she’s been left kinda high and dry?”

“In all honesty, I haven’t seen her for a while, and don’t expect to again anytime soon,” Tobias admits. “But trust me, Hirata will be just fine. She’s head of the team there now.”

Elle raises her eyebrows, impressed.

“I’d say she moves fast, but actually, that doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”

“She was pissed as hell when I said I was leaving, don’t get me wrong,” says Tobias. “But she’s the strongest diagnostician on that team, and the strongest player too.”

“Player?”

“She knows how to play the game. She’ll have no trouble asserting herself as the new leader, running the show the way she wants to.”

Elle thinks back to her time working with June. The way she changed her personality to gain patients’ trust…and Elle’s. Distant anger simmers at the back of her mind, as she remembers how June stole her employee file.

“I agree…office politics was always child’s play for June.”

“Speaking of,” says Tobias as they stop at a red light. He turns to look at her. “The meeting this morning seemed very…uh…political.”

Elle pauses as feels the uncomfortable tingling rise in her chest. She could ask “what are you talking about?”, but she knows exactly what he’s talking about. And there’s something about Carrick that makes her want to cut the crap, to be upfront. So she is.

“You mean Harper and Ethan…”

“Yeah, that. Whatever the hell that was.”

Elle is silent.

“Does that…happen a lot?”

“More often than I’d like.”

“Well, good job I’m here then,” he grins.

Elle’s head whips around.

“Excuse me?”

“C’mon, you can’t tell me you didn’t appreciate the out.”

She rounds on him.

“Ok, let’s make one thing clear, I don’t need you to fight my battles” says Elle angrily. “Since Harper joined, every time the two of them have gone off track, I’ve steered them back on. I’m here for the patient, to solve the case, and nothing is going to detract my focus from that. That’s the way it’s going to stay, with or without your “outs”, Tobias.”

Tobias chuckles.

“You’re feisty Elle, I like it.” His eyes sweep over her from head to toe, which makes Elle feel more angry, but also, inexplicably, makes her stomach flutter a little.

“What I mean is,” Tobias speaks more seriously; sensing her anger, but mercifully oblivious to the other sensation, “I hope you know you’ve got someone else in your corner Elle. I know how much you care about your patients, and I know Bloom’s going to make life for the team difficult, and try and undermine our every move. That’s not helped when it feels like you’re not listened to by the actual people in it. You’re an excellent doctor Elle, and I value your input. The others should too.”

Elle is dumbstruck. She still doesn’t know what to make of Tobias Carrick; she had picked up pieces and hints from the scattered stories she’d heard from Ethan, most recently in their walk through the rose garden. But while considering the perspective and feelings of the man she so deeply cares for, she acknowledges it is biased. Elle knows that she has good reason to be wary of Tobias; it was not just Ethan he had toyed with, after all- Aurora had been burned by him too.

But, Tobias had helped to save her life. And the genuine smile that he gave her through the contamination screens of that cursed room, on the worst day of her life, had always stayed with her.

So, with a pinch of salt ready between her fingers, Elle decided from the moment he joined the team, that she would form her own opinion of him.

It occurs to her then, just how much Ethan sees the world in black and white. But Tobias Carrick is very much a shade of grey.

Before she can respond to him, the GPS on Tobias’ dash declares that they are arriving at their destination, and sure enough, Elle sees the school up ahead on the right.

“Here we are,” murmurs Tobias as he pulls in through the school gates. “Looks like we’re expected.”

They park up and head over to the school steps, surrounded by blossom trees, where a middle aged woman offers them a watery smile and extends a hand.

“Ah, hello…the doctors from Edenbrook, I presume?” she asks. “I’m Helena Brady, the principal of Greenview High.”

“Yes, we spoke earlier on the phone,” says Elle. “I’m Dr Eleanor Valentine, and this is Dr Tobias Carrick. We’re here to speak to the people that were with Jake when he collapsed?”

“I’m afraid it’s just the one person,” says Helena gravely, leading them through the school. “His friend Charlie was the only one who saw it, and then ran for help. How is Jake doing?”

“He’s still in a coma, but stable,” says Tobias. “The most important thing for us to help him, is find out from Charlie some more about the collapse, and go from there.”

Helena nods, as they come to a stop outside a small office.

“We’ve all been praying for him, it’s so tragically sad…nothing like this has ever happened to a student before,” she sniffs stoically. “Thank you for your work doctors, but please, be gentle with the boy. He’s still very shaken.”

Elle smiles at her reassuringly.

“We will be, don’t worry.”

As Tobias and Elle knock and enter the room, the boy springs to his feet, eyes wild.

“You’re the doctors…how’s Jake, is he-oh god is he-is he dead?” he cries.

“No, Jake is ok. He’s been through a lot, but he’s recovering,” says Elle gently. Charlie sinks back into his chair, though his knees are still quaking.

“It’s Charlie right?” Tobias asks, pulling up a chair. “I’m Tobias and this is Elle. We’re Jake’s doctors. Do you know why we’re here today?”

“Y-yes, that’s me,” Charlie sniffs. “Principal Brady said you were here to talk to me about Jake…I was so scared, I thought, I thought that meant he had died.”

Elle kneels in front of him, laying a gentle hand on his knee.

“I’m really sorry that us coming made you think that, Charlie,” she says. “It must have been really tough watching Jake collapse like that, I’m not surprised you’re thinking the worst. But we think we can help Jake get better, we just need your help.”

Some of the tension seems to leave Charlie’s body upon hearing this; his shudders subside. He pulls anxiously at the strings of his hoodie, unruly teenage bangs falling over his forehead.

“So, Charlie,” Tobias asks as Elle pulls up a chair beside him, “do you think you could tell us a bit more about what Jake was doing when you saw him collapse? Had he been running, exercising, working out?”

“No,” Charlie says quietly. “He wasn’t doing anything like that.”

“That’s really helpful Charlie, thank you,” says Elle. “Can you tell us if he standing up or sitting down? Did he lose his balance or seem dizzy? Did he complain of feeling ill, or funny in any sort of way before it happened?”

Charlie stiffens.

“No. He was-we were-we were arguing.”

Tobias and Elle exchange a quick look.

“Is Jake your friend, Charlie?” Tobias asks.

“No! No he’s not, and I’m so sick of pretending he is!” Charlie shouts. “Jake’s my boyfriend!” Tears begin to roll down his cheeks.

“Oh Charlie, I’m so sorry,” says Elle. “You said you were pretending…does anyone else know that?”

Charlie shakes his head.

“No. That’s what we were arguing about,” he accepts a tissue that Elle offers, blowing his nose.

“Take your time, Charlie,” says Tobias, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “It’s ok.”

After a few deep breaths, Charlie steels himself.

“We’ve been dating for three years, kind of in secret, kind of not,” he explains. “My parents know I’m gay, and they’re fine with it. They’ve met Jake before and they love him, they know we’re together. But he’s not even out to his parents, they just think we’re friends.”

He sniffs.

“Now we’re in senior year, we’re both looking at colleges, and we want to go to different ones. We’d be living five hours apart. I don’t know if we can make the long-distance work, especially if his parents don’t know about us. In the times we’d both be back home, they wouldn’t understand why he’d want to spend a lot of that time with me. But the one thing I just really, really wanted, was for us to go to senior prom together. As a couple, you know? To just dress up together, get photos together, dance together, one last time before we leave.”

“And Jake…wasn’t on board with that?” asks Elle.

“He was,” says Charlie. “He said he really wanted to. He just…wasn’t on board with the part of that which meant he’d have to come out to his parents.”

“I see,” says Tobias.

Charlie’s eyes begin to fill with tears again.

“I was saying, before he collapsed, that he didn’t love me,” he cries. “That he must not love me if he’s not prepared to come out. He was getting so upset, begging me, telling me of course he loved me, he was just scared, and then-” he sobs. “Then he was on the floor.”

Elle kneels beside him again, taking both his hands in her own.

“I’ve been googling stuff that could have caused it,” Charlie sniffles. “I saw there’s this condition, some long one beginning with, a C, I think, that means people’s hearts can give out when they’re stressed.”

Tobias raises an eyebrow, somewhat impressed at the boy’s diagnostic skills.

“What if-what if I could’ve killed him, because of the argument? And I told him he must not love me, I didn’t even mean it, I know how hard it is to come out, I didn’t mean to-” he buries his head in his hands.

“Charlie- Charlie listen to me,” says Elle. “It’s true, that we think Jake might have a condition called CPVT. It means that certain situations, like exercise, or stress, can cause the heart to go into an abnormal rhythm. But that does not mean, whatsoever, that any of this is your fault. We all say things we don’t mean in the heat of the moment, when we’re angry. If Jake does have this condition, and we’ll have to run a couple more tests to know that for sure, then it means that we can treat it, and stop it from happening again. It could have happened to him at anytime, anywhere, but he was lucky enough to be with you. You’ve helped him have a lucky escape.”

“R-really?” asks Charlie.

“Really,” says Tobias, who is on his feet. He lays a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Your principal was telling us earlier that you did CPR on Jake while you got others to run for help?”

“Yes,” Charlie mutters, looking up at Tobias.

“Well Charlie, I think you saved his life.”

Charlie’s eyes gleam with hope.

“What are you applying for at college?” Tobias asks.

“Um..cardiac nursing,” he says.

“Very fitting. You’ll always be welcome at Edenbrook for some work experience.” Tobias smiles, genuinely. It’s the same smile Elle remembers from after the attack.

“Do you think, then, that he’ll be ok?” Charlie asks tentatively.

“Yes, I do,” smiles Elle. “And I think that you and Jake will be ok too.”

****************

Some time later, Elle steps out of the school. After speaking at length with the school counsellor, she had made sure that Charlie had some extensive therapy sessions in place. Tobias is waiting for her at the foot of the steps, beneath the blossom trees, and she is surprised to see he has a cigarette in hand.

“You smoke?” she raises an eyebrow at him as she approaches. “I thought you’d know better, Tobias.”

He takes a drag.

“Vices, Valentine,” he quips. “We all have them.”

Elle vaguely remembers Ethan had once said the same thing about butter.

“Carcinogens, though. Really?”

Tobias chuckles.

“I’m dirty, what can I say?”

He dutifully puts out the cigarette, as Elle gives him a reproachful look, and turns to her.

“You were good in there, with him,” says Tobias.

“Thanks…so were you.”

“We make a good team,” he smiles, and his expression softens a little. “That was kinda heavy though. You bearing up ok?” he asks.

Elle nods.

“I’m fine. I just hope Charlie will be ok, I really want to make sure he starts therapy as soon as possible. I know how much of a difference it made for me, after the attack.”

She trails off, and Tobias seems to sense the darkness clouding over her eyes. The mild September breeze sifts through the blossom trees above them with a gentle sigh.

“I don’t think I ever actually said this to you,” says Elle quietly, “but thank you. For helping to save me and Raf, that day.”

“No thanks needed,” he responds. “I wanted to do everything I could to help.”

He pauses only briefly before continuing.

“You know, out of everything that happened that day, all the work we did in the lab trying to find an antidote…the one thing I remember most is how Ethan was in that room. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him like that before. About anyone, or anything.”

A sudden chill trickles down her neck, goosebumps erupt on her forearms; a million tiny foothills.

Since their conversation in the car after Danny and Bobby’s funeral, Ethan had never really spoken in depth about his own feelings during the attack. Sometimes, in early hours when they laid in bed together, with the rain hammering against his window, she would mention it.

And every time, she would see his eyes darken with so many unsaid words. He would fix his gaze desperately on her like she was evaporating steam, set to vanish from existence in a matter of moments. His hold on her waist would tighten, fingertips tracing her soft skin as if to remind himself she wasn’t a ghost.

There had been whispers in his bed in the stillness of the night, when they were both half asleep. He had uttered sleepy confessions and declarations to her; some so heartfelt and moving, she still questioned whether they were real or if she had dreamt them.

More often straight after the attack, but still now sometimes, she would wake in his arms to find him already looking at her, his eyes filled with wonder, pain, and something else that she was starting to place.

‘Why are you awake?’ she would gently murmur.

‘I couldn’t sleep. I-had a nightmare.’

She would press herself closer to his chest, feel his strong arms encircling her as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

‘I’m here, Ethan.’

‘I know. I’m…so glad you are.’

She is jolted to the present with Tobias’ voice.

“Even if he didn’t show it this morning…Ethan’s got it bad for you, you know.”

Elle cranes her neck to look up at him- at the man who shares so much history with Ethan. He’s almost as tall as her lover, but slightly less built, shoulders not quite as broad. Alike in many ways, but different in so many others.

“Why are you here, Tobias?” she asks, without breaking eye contact. “You had it all at Mass Kenmore. You’re an excellent diagnostician, you could have gone anywhere. Why, of all people, would you want to come and work for Ethan, someone you have such a complicated past with?”

Tobias’ hazel eyes, a contrast to Ethan’s azure blue’s, look into hers deeply. She knows that there’s something hiding beneath their golden depths; either earnestness, an ulterior motive, or perhaps something more complicated- a mixture of both.

He takes a step towards her, raising his hand towards her face. Her breath hitches, then climaxes in a soft exhale, when he simply removes a lone blossom petal that has settled on the lapel of her white coat. She wonders what exactly she had been expecting him to do.

Tobias twists his tongue between his teeth, a half-smile playing on his lips. Once again, his eyes roam over her from head to toe. This close, Elle can smell his cologne. It’s good; notes of leather and pine and exotism drift to her olfactory nerve. It’s a contrast to her favourite aftershave of Ethan’s, which smelled like bergamot, cedar, and home.

Tobias drops the petal to the floor, his eyes never leaving hers.

“I’m here Elle,” he murmurs, “because I want to push boundaries.”

********************

Ethan leans against his desk, fingertips drumming impatiently. His meeting had been finished for a while now, but he was still waiting for Elle and Tobias to return.

His old rival’s keenness to go on an outreach call with Elle had stirred something within him. Something in his head had switched on. A distant alarm bell that had been silent for some time, had started to ring.

Lost in thought, he mulls over the events of the morning.

He’d done it again.

He, and Harper, had spoken over Elle when she was trying to talk about the patient. Not only that, he recognises now, but before Tobias had entered the room, the two of them had been reminiscing about something that didn’t involve Elle in the slightest.

He doesn’t know why he keeps slipping up. He harbours no romantic feelings for Harper whatsoever, but he’s been enjoying the chance to work more closely with her, the friendly conversations, to share stories and experiences.

But they haven’t just been work related, he thinks. Did I really need to bring up the flamenco lessons? Or Gaston’s? He recalls the look on her face when he’d told Elle he planned to take her there because of its intimacy, immediately after discussing it with Harper. Before Elle’s forced smile and her gracious reply of “I’d like that,” he’d always thought he had caught a flicker of dismay, of hurt, on her features.

Now he’s certain it was more than a flicker.

I don’t deserve her, he thought.

With a swoosh, the doors of the diagnostics office open. He sees the familiar head of immaculately coiffed blonde locks, and as his eyes travel down to Elle’s beautiful face, his heart soars, and he can’t help but break into a wide smile.

“Elle!” he says happily, pushing himself up of the desk.

I missed you, he foolishly finds himself wanting to say, despite the fact that like most days at work, it’s only been a few hours since he’s seen her. But as his eyes travel to Tobias following her in, he keeps the admission to himself.

“We have an answer,” says Elle triumphantly. “We’ve listed Jake for an ICD insertion tomorrow morning.”

“It was CPVT?” Ethan asks.

“Yep,” says Tobias. “Elle’s hunch was right. Turns out it was an argument with his boyfriend that brought on the cardiac arrest. We ran a test for CPVT as soon as we got back, while you were still in the meeting, and it’s positive.”

Elle smiles brightly.

“Jake’s going to be okay.”

Ethan beams. He’s exceptionally proud of her.

“Excellent work Elle,” he leans forward to squeeze her arm, as bold a gesture as he dares while they have company. “And thanks Tobias, for helping out.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” says Tobias. He looks pointedly at Elle, then adds, “believe me.”

An unpleasant sensation coils in the pit of Ethan’s stomach. He tries to push it down.

As Tobias crosses the room to take a phone call, he steps closer to Elle, lowering his voice.

“Listen Elle, about earlier. I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, tentatively taking her hand in his own. He caresses her tiny fingers with his thumb. “It’s unacceptable for me to talk over you in meetings, and I…know that this isn’t the first time it’s happened, and that there are, uh, other things. I’m sorry if my actions have ever made you feel excluded.”

Elle’s bright green eyes look into his thoughtfully, though she says nothing; silently willing him to continue.

“I’d like to make it up to you. I think a date night between us is long overdue. Can I take you for dinner tonight?” he asks. A flash of hope, along with the tinge of dismay he remembers from before, travels across her face. “Not Gaston’s,” he adds quickly. “I want to find somewhere new with you. For us.”

Her face floods with warmth, eyes gazing into his searchingly. He desperately scans her beautiful face, seeking some inkling of her true feelings; the ones he knows she’s bottling up.

“You’re right, it is long overdue,” she says finally, her gaze steady. “And I’d really like that, to find somewhere new to go to dinner with you. But I can’t do tonight.”

His heart sinks a little, and as if sensing this, like she always seems to, she squeezes his hand reassuringly.

“I’m out for drinks with Si, Aurora and Jackie tonight. But we’ll go soon.”

She offers him a soft smile, which he returns.

It doesn’t quite quell the slight but unmistakable feeling of anxiety in his stomach. It’s guilt, it’s the gnawing thought that he will never be good enough for her, the idea that he’s taken her for granted.

Worst of all, there is the completely irrational, but terrible notion that he could lose her.

And somehow, the thought that he could lose her in living rather than in death, as he had once feared, is almost more terrible.

She gently lets go of his hand. On the other side of the room, Tobias hangs up the phone.

“I’m going to go and speak to Jake’s parents,” says Elle, slipping off and readjusting her white coat.

Ethan’s eyes travel over her form-fitting pencil skirt, clinging to her delicate body in all the right places.

He doesn’t miss the way Tobias’ do the same. Then, as if knowing he’s being watched, he looks up at Ethan. His eyes narrow, and the corners of his lips twitch.

Ethan wants nothing more than to sock him in the jaw.

“We’ll check in later, once Harper’s finished surgery?” she asks, breaking the two men out of their reverie.

Ethan nods, and Elle bids them goodbye. The click of her heels on the linoleum echoes into the tense silence. Then, he can’t hold it in any longer.

“Could you be,” Ethan begins through gritted teeth, “a little more fucking subtle, Carrick?”

Tobias chuckles.

“I can’t help it, Ethan, and clearly neither can you. A woman like that, body like that…we’re just as powerless as any other red-blooded male.”

Ethan curls his fists in the pockets of his coat.

“Don’t talk about Elle like that. I won’t have you disrespecting her in that way,” he spits, taking a step towards him.

“You want to talk about disrespecting her?” counters Tobias, unflinching. “Because I think taking a stroll down memory lane with your ex, every five minutes, is pretty disrespectful to the woman you’re currently fucking.”

Ethan is stunned. Had she told Tobias that it had happened before? Did she tell him they were seeing eachother, or had Tobias clocked it himself? What exactly had they talked about while they were away?

“Elle is- she’s off limits,” he snaps, the only response his seething mind is able to come up with.

Tobias smiles, satisfied at seeing the other man riled up. Then, infuriatingly, he turns away.

“Who decided that, Ethan?” he says quietly over his shoulder “Her or you?”

And with that, Tobias turns and leaves.

*******

Author’s Note: Thanks for reading this far! I wanted to explore the dynamic between Elle and Tobias, and the way I wrote him in this fic reflects my own thoughts about him; I think he’s a good guy, as demonstrated by him helping to save her life and his thoughtfulness, but I’m definitely suspicious of his ulterior motives and his past actions. I also wanted the sexual tension between Ethan, Elle and Tobias, and was hoping that PB would make Tobias call out Ethan shutting her out of meetings. They didn’t deliver so I did it myself lol Also wanted Ethan to start feeling insecure about the way he’s been treating Elle since his behaviour has been trash thanks to the OOC writing, but I still love him

#ethan ramsey x mc #ethan x mc #tobias carrick #ethan ramsey #tobias carrick x mc #open heart #choices open heart #open heart 3

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Text

Not a Baby: Nat and Chris (And Ronnie)

CW: The first part is pure fluff with a couple underage drinking references/jokes. Second part references the events of Chris getting appendicitis (One, Two, Three, Four) and takes place while he is healing from surgery. Includes surgery references, whumpee rejecting medication, medical trauma references

Sometimes, you just want bittersweet fluff lined with angst.

“You gotta help me out,” Tristan sings along with the radio as they wait at a red light, Ronnie furtively checking her phone. “It’s all a blur last ni-eee-eye-ee-ight…”

One message from Paul, just now out of bed after a longer-than-usual workday had fully wiped him out, thanking her for leaving some food in the fridge. She smiles, faintly, at the sight of the little heart emojis he leaves after every single text.

He’s not much for showing emotion in his face, not like Tristan wears his own feelings on his sleeve, but he knows how to make sure Ronnie feels loved. He always has.

The light turns green, and she taps on the gas, then lets her foot slowly press down. Next to her, Tristan dances in his seat, totally unselfconscious, rocking back and forth.

“We need a taxi, ‘cause you’re hungover and I’m broke…”

Ronnie starts laughing, one hand over her mouth, the other still on the wheel.

He blinks, turning to look at her. They just clipped his hair short last week, getting him ready for the next competition coming up. She never expected to be a Gymnastics Mom, not once, but here she is, chaperoning her teenage son to the gym on a Saturday afternoon, where he more or less lives these days. “What?”

“I just. It’s something else to listen to your teenage son sing about being hungover, Tris. That’s all. You’re way too young for this song. And probably just for Katy Perry in general, not that anyone should listen to-”

“Mom.” Tristan rolls his eyes, leaning over and pointedly turning the volume up on the radio. “I like Katy Perry. And I, I, I know what hungover is. I’m not, not, not, not-... not-not four years old. I’m fifteen.”

“Fair enough, but I don’t think my fifteen-year-old should know about being hungover, either.” She takes a turn, the radio cheerfully blaring that’s what you get for waking up in Vegas and she wonders why she keeps letting Tris pick the radio station, exactly, when they could be listening to some perfectly fine soft rock right about now. “What do you get up to at Aki’s, huh? Maybe I need to speak to Aimi. Ask if you’re having wild parties as soon as I leave.”

“Oh my god, Mom.” Tristan turns bright red, and she tries not to enjoy how much he’s his father’s son - always but especially when he blushes, the red seeming to make the scattering of pale freckles stand out even more, not less, when he does. “You are, are not going to-... we don’t drink, Mom. We just, just watch shows and… hang out.”

“I know, baby,” Ronnie says, laughter still edging her voice. “I’m teasing you, that’s all.”

He glares out the windshield where he sits next to her, running his fingers up and down the smooth seatbelt, along its edge. Back and forth, enjoying the mix of silk and rough in the texture, she thinks.

“I’m not a, a, a, a baby,” He mumbles, all teenage resentment and irritation.

“Oh, honey. That’s the downside of having parents,” Ronnie says, gentling her voice down to affection, taking another turn. She can see the gym now, down at the end of the street. Aimi will probably already be here with Aki, she figures, and maybe they can make a coffee run while the boys practice. “It doesn’t matter how old you get. You could be fifty and I could be sixty-seven and I’d still see you wrapped in that hospital blanket looking up at me with big eyes. Even when we’re both old, you’ll still be my baby.”

He rolls his eyes again, but this time she catches the hint of a smile he’s trying to hide pulling at one side of his mouth. Tristan leans forward and switches the radio station over to Ronnie’s favorite, then falls back into his seat, focusing on the seatbelt again.

Sometimes, like his father, he doesn’t know how to say he loves her, but he always knows how to show it.

Two and a half years later

Nat came down for a glass of water, only to find Chris wide awake on the couch at 3 am, top teeth biting down so hard on his bottom lip she was afraid he’d draw blood, making his slow, careful, shuffling way towards the stairs.

She’d managed to convince him to go back to the couch, or really more or less command him, but the trade-off was promising she’d stay downstairs with him for a while.

Now, instead of water she has a mug of hot tea steaming gently on the side table, instead of her warm bed she has Chris’s head resting on a pillow in her lap while she runs fingers slowly through his hair - dark red in the night, lit with a hint of silver by the reflected light coming off the television - and instead of dreams, she has reruns of Frasier.

“You palmed your pain medication earlier, didn’t you?” She asks the question as gently as she can, without judgement.

He doesn’t answer, green eyes locked on the television, where the main character’s younger brother is preparing for a date and managing to set an ironing board on fire in the process. It’s probably one of the best scenes in television history, but Nat can’t even begin to pay attention to it. Worry has her all twisted up, heart beating a little too fast, as she picks up her mug and takes a sip, honey and lemon and yes, a little bit of whiskey in her tea all settling over her tongue.

“Chris,” She says, softly. “I asked you a question.”

“Mmmhmm,” is all he says, and he doesn’t move. His head is a soft weight against her leg, and his hair runs like silk through her fingers. He’s pale not just from the darkness and the late-night TV, but from the pain he must be in, must be holding back.

Of course, there’s no one who has come through her house who hasn’t been pretty good at hiding pain, after a while. Once you’re drowned in it, once it’s your everyday truth, you learn not so much to actually hide it as simply to go on living with it.

No one Chris’s age should already be so good at this.

“You have to take those, or you’re going to hurt like this all the time for a while,” Nat says, trying to keep from lecturing him. His freckles stand out more, lit by the cool blue-tinged light of TV. She watches him smile, just a little, at the slapstick comedy going on. “It’ll take longer for your incision to heal if you-”

“Don’t, don’t like pills,” Chris whispers, and she watches one of his hands, palm flat, running up and down the heavy weighted blanket she’s laid over him. It’s soft as rabbit fur, and he starts to hum, nearly a whisper, as he touches it. “Jake’s gone. Out. Didn’t… didn’t want them.”

Nat takes a deep breath, closing her eyes briefly. “Chris, you can’t only take pills when Jake is here to give them to you. He can’t always be here, he has things he does outside of this house-”

“I know. But… I didn’t want them. I, I, I don’t mind hurting a little.”

The funny thing is, it’s not bluster. He really doesn’t. Chris would really rather lay here, awake in the middle of the night, in terrible pain than simply put two pills into his mouth and wash them down with water. There’s been too much done to him with drugs, and he’s not the only one she’s had to help recover the idea of medicine as something other than torture.

He’ll get there.

She hopes.

“Okay, well… where did you put them?”

There’s silence, again, but this time he shifts a little, a flash of his hurt and discomfort across his expression. “In, in the couch cushions.”

“Do you have any of your other doses in there?”

“... mmhmm.”

“Chris…” She sighs, putting her hand up to her forehead, rubbing her fingers just above the bridge of her nose as the tension starts to build behind her eyes. Oh, her head’s going to hurt soon. She can’t just be up at night like she used to without paying for it the next day. “How many have you skipped? Huh?”

“... four.”

“Four. Four times-... okay.” She exhales, slowly - he’s tense under her hand, now, and she can feel the worry in him. Knows he’s trying to figure out if he’ll be in trouble, get punished. Disciplined for the ways he’s learned to live with what happened to him.

A different kind of test than what he’s tried on Jake, but it’s still a test.

“Chris. I can’t tell you how much I don’t want to have to sit here and watch you and see you swallow them. I know that it’s hard for you, I do, and I’m so sorry that we have to do this, but I have to take care of you. I want to take care of you. And part of that is making sure you know how to care for yourself. When you’re recovering from serious surgery-”

“The, the, the, the cut’s not even that big,” He mutters, a hint of irritation.

Nat feels a surge of affection for him that, if she were standing, would nearly knock her off her feet. Chris interrupting her, Chris being pouty and sulky and every inch a seventeen-year-old boy, is a new thing. She doesn’t take it for granted.

It’s just… a little inconvenient right now.

“It doesn’t matter how big it is. It went all the way inside your stomach, and it was a pretty serious surgery. You need these pills or you are going to hurt like hell for so much longer than if you take them and get better. You got it?”

He sighs, but relaxes against her again, and she starts running fingers through his hair again, simple and maternal. “Yeah. I, I do.”

“Okay. Let’s watch the show and see if maybe you’re up for taking your dose and heading back to sleep in a bit, huh?”

“Will you, you, you stay? Even if I-... even if I do, and fall asleep?” He twists a little to look up her and winces as it pulls the still-tender muscles in his abdomen. “Will you stay?”

Nat thinks about how badly her back’s going to hurt in the morning. The headache already trying to sneak its way in around the edges. How she’s going to end up napping half the day away and not getting a damn thing done she had planned.

Then she just smiles down at him, at his wide green eyes in his narrow face and the heavy blanket hiding every other inch of him in softness and warmth. “Yeah, okay. I’ll stay right here with you, ‘til Ant’s up in the morning. How’s that sound?”

“Good. See if you can get comfortable for a bit.”

The two of them fall back into an easy silence, broken only by the low-volume of the TV show, and get through two more episodes of Frasier before Nat’s tea is gone and she and Chris are both half-asleep on the couch, her hand simply resting on his hair, now, light but ever-present.

Eyes closed, the television’s cool blue still dancing against the inside of her eyelids, she hears Chris mumble, “Night, Nat,” in a sleep-slurred voice. It’s got to be four in the morning, there’s not much night left.

“Night, baby,” Nat murmurs.

“Not a, a baby, Mom,” Chris whispers, but both of them are too close to sleep to notice.

Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @astrobly @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump , @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump , @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @vickytokio @whumpiary @orchidscript @moose-teeth @nonsensical-whump @outofangband

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jamaiskookie · 3 years

Text

meet me in your memories (knj)

✂︎ pairing: memory traveller namjoon x gender neutral reader

✂︎ wc: 11.8k

✂︎ TW// car crash, mentions of death, crying, mental health, mental breakdowns, spoilers for frozen 1?? um, vomiting, mentions of PTSD, three seconds of family drama, memory loss

✂︎ notes: a little gift from me for being away so long <3 luv yall also ignore how short and shitty this is!!! ignore it!!!!!

✂︎ synopsis: namjoon is a memory traveller - he is thrusted back and forth into his world and the world of his memories, forced to re-enact his past experiences. but he doesn’t recognise you, who keeps showing up in his memories. why doesn’t he remember you? why can’t he recall any of these scenes if they’re supposed to be his memories? and why does it always feel like he’s forgetting something?

he comes to find out that he would choose you over and over again, in whatever lifetime or world he’s in. because he always returns to you.

✂︎ fic tunes: "eight"- iu (prod. & feat. suga) but you're at your favorite secret spot after a long day by neptjoon

masterlist asks

The road is slippery and Namjoon cranes his head out to look at the window. Rain splattering everywhere, he notes worriedly. He hopes that nobody crashes. The bus driver sitting about three meters in front of him is humming a melody to a song he doesn’t know nor recognise. While listening to the poor man hum the off beat tune, Namjoon sits in silence, wondering how sad it must be to drive a bus with no passengers but himself.

Suddenly, his stomach drops and his head spins, and this time Namjoon is certain it’s not from the rain or the driver’s subpar driving. He lurches forward, watching as the rain knocks against the window and falls in thick ribbons.

Click.

In an instant, Namjoon’s world collapses around him and he is thrown into his mind.

Seoul is sweltering hot - hot like he’s never felt before. Namjoon reaches up to clutch his head, which is still spinning, and finds himself standing in a pair of light washed baggy jeans and a sleeveless tee shirt, unlike the padding coat and thick boots he had on just a moment ago.

“Namjoon!” Someone squeals behind him and his heart jumps. He jumps around, facing you and the view of hot street food stalls and tall buildings behind you. Suddenly, his hand is reaching out to grab onto yours and you smile softly.

He hears his own voice ring out, clear as day: “Don’t run. I was looking for you.”

“Psh.” You wave off his concern, handing him a shiny golden hotteok. You hold an identical one in your fist, so he accepts it and murmurs his thanks, tearing apart the pancake and stuffing it into his mouth. Sweet, hot honey and small pieces of walnut flood into his mouth, and Namjoon is momentarily surprised. Science states that you cannot taste or physically feel anything in your dreams.

But Namjoon already proved that wrong long ago.

He takes you by hand and drags you over to a shelter, for some rest, apparently uninterested in your cries of wanting more tteokbokki or some Chinese food. He flings you over to his side and places his hand over your shoulder, while you both silently devour your hotteoks.

“This was a nice date.” You mumble tentatively, and oh. That’s what this is? A date? He wants to turn around and ask you for your name. Where are you from? Why am I here again? He wants to scream it out until his lungs hurt and he gets an answer that makes sense, but no matter how much he tries, his throat will not allow those words to tumble out of his lips.

Why don’t I remember you?

Instead, he replies: “Yeah, it was. This was fun.” He tilts his head down to smile at you and Namjoon finds himself nervous. Nervous enough that his hands are shaking against his will, but he tells himself that the sweat and the nervousness are all side effects of the swampy heat this summer.

You beam at him and Namjoon thinks you’re an angel. You lean up onto his chest to place a soft kiss onto his lips and Namjoon thinks about when he’s going to be thrown back out of his head.

“Wanna go home?” He asks, nudging at the sky, which is already filled up with first streaks of the sunset. Purple hues and pinks and blues that all blend together nicely. You watch the sky for a moment.

“Never.” You offer no explanation after that and Namjoon doesn’t pry. He feels like he understands you, which is scarier than any other encounter he’s faced, in real life and in here. You stare up at him more intensely, and a shudder of fear runs down Namjoon’s back. “I just want to stay here forever,” You enunciate, like you want him to remember this. “Just Y/N and Namjoon.”

Something tugs in his chest and Namjoon screams in his head, no. Longer. Not now. He slips away, gone, disappeared from the world before he can even tell you how pretty your name is. And he awakens back at the bus, where the driver is shaking him and yelling at him to get out.

Namjoon walks home in the rain, yelling out your name in happiness until his neighbours come over politely asking him to shut the fuck up.

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N… Y/N?” He keeps repeating the name over and over again, enough to make Seokjin annoyed, who has moved away from Namjoon’s desk to the sofa in his office just to escape the random spiel that Namjoon is hurriedly rushing through.

“I can’t find a single Y/N in here!” Namjoon cries frustratingly, and the corners of Seokjin’s eyes soften in something that is either pity or empathy. He discards his non-fiction novel about drag queens and wigs to come over and clap a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder.

“My friend, my crazy, idiotic, slightly insane friend.” Seokjin bends down. “You’ve checked all your yearbooks, social media, archives, newspapers… Have you perhaps considered that this person wasn’t that important? Just a passing stranger?”

“No.” Namjoon shoots down stubbornly. “They appear far too often for them not to be important.” So Seokjin shrugs, leaving Namjoon to, once again, search through the Facebook friends of a friend of a friend of a friend.

But no Y/N’s pop up, and he’s wondering if Y/N was just a nickname. Was it even your real name? With a sigh and one single (rather impressive) agitated brow wave, he lets go and spills. He tells Seokjin about how he finally learned your name, about the places you’ve been together and how much you adore street food.

He appreciates Seokjin for being a good friend, for sitting there and not interrupting to call him a crazy person, even if he is most certainly thinking about it in his head. Because Seokjin, at least, knows about a miniscule part of Namjoon’s tragic life. He doesn’t understand, but he gets it, and that’s all Namjoon needs in a friend.

He doesn’t tell Seokjin about how soft and pillowy your lips feel against his, he doesn’t tell you how much he longs to do unspeakable things to you when you show up in those blue short shorts. He definitely doesn’t tell him how much he loves your name.

Seokjin suggests a number of things. That perhaps you are a character from long ago, or maybe a passing stranger Namjoon once had a summer fling with. You may be someone long forgotten like a mutual friend in high school or college. He also suggests a psychiatric hospital to screw his head back on (as a joke, Namjoon’s pretty sure.)

But none of those seem right. Namjoon does his best to explain, he really does. For an award winning journalist and aspiring writer, he does just about a terrible job of trying to string his words together. Seokjin pinches the bridge of his nose and falls back onto the sofa, already spacing out. Namjoon weakly cries out that he knows you. He really does - he just doesn’t remember how, or why.

Like a puzzle with a few missing pieces.

He wonders when and if the missing pieces will ever make their way over to him.

Namjoon gives up and flops down onto the sofa next to Jin, who squeaks out various protests about how heavy he is and how stupidly huge his arms have gotten after he started working out, along the lines of comparing him to Jungkook and calling him a gym rat.

As usual, Namjoon doesn’t listen.

It’s difficult to explain the feeling of falling to someone who hasn’t experienced it. The cursed Click echoes out and suddenly, the world spins around, the axis breaks and he’s physically thrown into another time, another place… another memory that he can’t seem to recall. His stomach lurches, his head hurts and there’s a small breeze flowing in.

For a short moment, the loops of space and time are completely open to him. He can’t see it, but he can feel it. It flips his mind completely upside down and boom. He’s in a specific, random time and place. His body feels light, and every step he takes, he can physically feel it: He doesn’t belong here. He isn’t supposed to be here. Everything feels different. Even the air is more smoky, because something in this world is suddenly wrong, and it’s him.

The next time he meets you, he is in just about the worst place to fall. Sitting in a press conference, his stomach drops and he’s dreading the fall. Namjoon can already hear his boss screaming at him, and he desperately tries to root himself to his seat, typing whatever the assemblyman is yapping on and on about. About farming and agriculture and tax cuts…

Click.

He can distantly hear the assemblyman candidate talk about corrupt government workers as he’s thrusted out of his world and into another.

The memory he has the pleasure to be in this time is something not too unfamiliar. For a second, he thinks if this is just a normal day of him in his cramped, tiny city apartment. Until he turns around and realises you’re lying right next to him, sound asleep and nuzzling into the side of his neck.

The air is crisp. It’s spring, not winter anymore, and he can hear the flower petals outside his apartment complex falling lightly on the ground. This, Namjoon thinks, may just be the best memory he’s been in. The press conference and his life and his boss slips his mind and he cradles you in his chest, holding you closer and closing his eyes shut.

“Mm?” You mumble, half asleep. “You’re suffocating me.” You hoarsely call out, and Namjoon releases you with an insincere apology. He brushes the hair out of your hair and grins, framing you in his head. He reaches to his alarm clock, which is right next to his bed as it always is to check the time.

April 1st, 2017.

Oh god, Namjoon winces. This means he still has that god awful haircut right now. He reaches up to feel his head, and sure enough, the horrible slicked back bleached hair is still there, an unfortunate result of his friend Hoseok daring him to drunk dye his hair.

“You’re awake?” He asks you, and you nod slowly.

He wonders if this memory precedes or follows the one he had with you last time, and he desperately hopes things are going in chronological order. He wants to know you just as much as you know him. Namjoon naively prays to whatever deity that controls his dreamworld: Please follow things step by step, follow the clock.

You roll around, saying something he can’t really catch. He asks you what you said and for the first time today, you peel open your eyes directly facing him. Namjoon’s heart almost falls out of his ass, seeing your eyes bore into his own.

“Where’s my morning kiss?” You ask cutely, nudging his nose with your own button nose.

“Right here.” He finds himself saying, leaning in to close the inches in between your two faces. You taste like hotteok, even early in the morning. You taste like a spring day and a never ending forever. As your lips capture his and his everything is consumed by thoughts of you, Namjoon begs himself to kiss you harder.

His past self declines politely, and Namjoon thinks about whether this counts as himself being controlled if he himself is still controlling what he says and does.

In that moment, listening to your slow breathing and someone across the street playing simple, melodic piano chords, Namjoon tells himself: Do not ever forget April 1st, 2017. You rise from the bed and some form of protest bubbles up from Namjoon’s mouth, to which you just laugh and drag him out of bed with the excuse of wanting breakfast.

You push him into the bathroom, where he expects to meet his sad single grey towel and foggy mirror. You push him in front, and he cringes at the sight of his hair in the mirror. You sigh.

“Calm down. The blonde looks sexy. You can dye it back black later.” He laughs, because it’s clearly not very sexy. For once, his past self is doing exactly what the current Namjoon is pleading him to do. Does it count as reliving your memories if someone else was living through them originally? But, he reminds himself while you hand him a green toothbrush and squeeze a dollop of toothpaste on both your toothbrushes, this is him. He lived through this once and he is just taking a trip down memory lane.

The person who lived through this before was him.

He has to remind himself many more times before it sinks in.

You brush your teeth next to him, fluffing your hair and squinting in the mirror to wake yourself up. Without a second of hesitation, Namjoon brings the toothbrush up and starts to brush his teeth. Nothing has ever felt more domestic or right than this, despite the tentative steps and heavy lead feeling in his throat telling him he still isn’t supposed to be here.

You spit out toothpaste in the sink to gargle your mouth and Namjoon mimics you exactly. Somehow, you find yourselves in the kitchen, giggling while making some sort of french toast with an abundance of cinnamon floating through the air. Which makes Namjoon cough and makes you laugh even harder.

“This is a perfect morning.” You say, peering out the window to watch the city life slowly bustling to life. People scrambling out their doors, ushering their children or pets with them. People you don’t recognise going on walks or runs. Mailmen and delivery people dropping off packages and people yelling into their phones as they hurriedly walk along the sidewalk.

And you and Namjoon, calmly staying in your pajamas while frying toast on the pan.

“Is something burning?” You ask, sniffing the air, and Namjoon’s blood runs cold.

“Oh, shit!”

You smile and shake your head while Namjoon attempts to save the blackened piece of bread to no avail. He catches sight of the corners of your mouth lifting, even as you chastise him about watching the stove and ranting on about how you’re never going to trust him in the kitchen again. Namjoon watches your pink lips, stained with a brown mudge of cinnamon french toast mixture, which lifts up and your head falls back, hair flowing around your head like a halo.

Your laugh plays out in front of him in slow motion, and absentmindedly, he thanks that deity he prayed to for slowing this moment down. Because if there’s anything he yearns most to remember, it’s the way you laugh. A chuckle makes its way out of his own throat as well, and he’s not sure who’s in control at the moment.

Himself or himself in the past?

Either way, they both did the right thing. Namjoon forgets. He forgets the life he has back home, he forgets Seokjin’s warnings, he forgets that he has at least a hundred articles waiting for him at work to be written. He forgets that this world is nothing but a chance for him to follow the footsteps of what he once did, with no control to say or do anything he wishes to do himself.

But, oh, he really can’t bring himself to care.

Those piano chords from before blend together beautifully, and you scrape the black toast into the garbage can, still teasing him relentlessly, and oh. Oh, this is what it means to have a home. You made this junk of a house into a home, and he feels like he has to return here. This is where he’s meant to return to, everyday. Each time.

You turn around after discarding the toast and with a bright smile, you ask him to kiss you again. Namjoon thinks that he doesn’t ever have the capability to deny you when you smile like that, so he complies and crashes his lips onto yours.

The lead, heavy feeling in his throat is still weighing him down. Except Namjoon isn’t sure whether it’s weighing him down to this world or the real world.

The cursed deity pulls him back, pulling him through the time and space back to his own responsibilities and life. His heart is wrenched out and he reaches out, trying to grasp your hand for the last time. He falls back to his own world in a hospital bed and an IV attached to his arm with half a piece of french toast dangling in his mouth and another promise he makes with himself to meet you again with a smile on his face.

Memories… memories that he’s lived through but can’t remember. Memories he slips into to live momentarily through the actions and words of his old self.

Somewhere along the line of diving back and forth his own life and this past one, he has forgotten which is which.

“Most likely due to exhaustion. Lack of sleep, lack of rest. It’s quite common with working young adults, workaholics. I’m putting him on medical leave for the rest of the week. He needs a rest - He needed it yesterday. Don’t worry too much, Mrs. Kim. A long nap and a meal or two will fix him right back up.” Namjoon groggily registers the white walls and beeping noises, the chatter of doctors and nurses rushing around.

He’s in a hospital, and a rush of fear runs straight through his blood. He sits up to eye his mother, sitting next to him and holding his hand. She shushes him, laying him back down on the bed, but all he can do is panic.

“No, not here. Not here again.” He mumbles incoherently. His mother puts a hand over his eyes, shushing him again and telling him softly to go back to sleep. He doesn’t want to go to sleep, he wants to get out of here. But his eyelids are already feeling heavy and he weakly fights against his body, but before he can even process it, his eyes are shut and he is asleep.

Seeing her son close his eyes and drift off to sleep, Mrs. Kim turns back to the doctor.

“I’m not surprised,” She starts. “He’s always worked himself to the bone. But that’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about his brain.” The doctor cocks his head and looks through the papers which are clipped to a clipboard in his arms.

“Ah, yes. I see he was in a car accident a few years ago.” Doctors are some of the most heartless people, and you can always tell how experienced a doctor is by how much sympathy they show. This doctor shows none at all, which must mean he’s been working for a long time.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Kim.” The doctor continues, peering over Namjoon’s sleeping body. “I see he suffered light effects after the accident. Selective amnesia, no external damages to the skull. He didn’t suffer as much. In fact, I believe the doctor in charge believed that the amnesia was mostly due to the shock of the event. But he’s received treatment for PTSD since then, right?”

Mrs. Kim nods.

“Good. Doctor Park also noted at the time that his amnesia actually didn’t affect much of his memory. He couldn’t remember distant relatives or kindergarten friends, but that seemed to be the extent of his amnesia. Oh,” The doctor slipped through the clipboard. “He also couldn’t remember certain knowledge about philosophers such as Freud, which he was, quote, ‘devastated over’ un-quote.”

Mrs. Kim stays silent.

“So, you don’t have to worry too much. Best thing your son could do for his well being is rest. And a therapist if he has a relapse or shows some symptoms such as sleep difficulties or nightmares, or physical signs like fatigue and nausea.”

Mrs. Kim nods. “Thank you, doctor.”

That’s it, and she turns back to her son, with her hand in his. She stays there, unmoving until he opens his eyes, mumbling incoherent questions and asking his mother why he is in the hospital again, demanding to be discharged immediately. Her heart breaks a little, small cracks form for her beloved son and she kisses him on the forehead, telling him he’d be out of here in no time.

“What did you see?” She asks quietly, and Namjoon is surprised. She never asks him about his memory walks. It’s taboo to mention it in his household. Not even his sister is comfortable talking about it. “Anything? At all? You passed out at a rather unfortunate time, I heard.” She continues.

“Nothing much.” Namjoon replies, lying through his teeth and trying to justify it with the sight of your laugh. He leans back and closes his eyes once more, bringing up his memories of you and your bedhead. He tries to fill the gap inside of him with thoughts of you, as if that can make up for the empty feeling that he’s forgetting something.

In the hospital, staring at a white ceiling and glaring lights, Namjoon is left to think about what’s happening to his head. During the end of his rather short stay, he comes up with a terrifying conclusion. One that scares him more than he could imagine, but it’s the only one that makes sense. He’s falling in love with you.

He voices out this concern to Seokjin when he visits after his mother leaves. Seokjin stays silent, mumbling out an apology that feels like the wrong thing to say. The elder boy can only look at his friend with sadness in his eyes, telling him that someone as great as Namjoon shouldn’t be suffering so much pain. Namjoon jokes that a witch must have cursed him when he was born.

None of the two friends laugh.

This routine continues on and on, without Namjoon dwelling too much on it. Which is so much unlike Namjoon, whose main personality trait is overthinking about the smallest things. He lets the flow of time and space take him wherever they wish to plop him down. He lets the evil deity toy with his heart and wrench him away whenever you smile the largest.

It hurts right after he is torn away from you, but he’s filled with so much joy in the moment that he can’t bring himself to do anything else about it. Even if he wanted to do something without it, he has no idea where on earth he might start.

Sometimes he questions the validity of his memories. What is real, what is fake? He still can’t answer, and this is what he spends most of his time wondering about. The memories he has with you don’t make sense. Those are large gaps in his life that he seems to have no recollection of.

He goes everywhere with you.

One day he showed up on November 5th, 2015.

The next day he jumped to August 23rd, 2017.

Another time, he was thrown into March 15th, 2016.

None of it makes sense. Are they not memories? He thinks. There’s no possible way he’s spent this much of his life with you and can’t recall any of it. What is real - the world he spends with you, or the world where he always returns to by default?

And yet, nothing else can explain these short periods of blackouts. Ever since one day in some horrible hospital, he’s gone under and pulled and thrusted into some land where he has no control over his own hands. Everything else makes sense. This world, everything else is accurate from the settings to the props, with one anomaly in his memory.

A character who goes by the name of Y/N.

He could go the science-y logic route that he so often frequents, come up with theories that can somewhat explain these periods of time. Theories that include explanations such as hallucinations, or that Seokjin’s right and he’s finally gone crazy. You’re just a figment of his imagination, that this is all in his head and he’s out of his mind.

But he rejects all those theories when he’s clicked into another memory. Somehow, he just understands. These are memories. These are memories he’s had with you, whether that was in a past life or in some sort of messed up alternate timeline where he’s actually happy.

Is this a gift or another curse from this stupid deity?

He has too many questions.

He cannot explain these memories using science, logic, common sense, or even using his own words. But in the moment, while you’re in his arms, he can feel it. He can explain it by describing the way you smell, like pancakes and fresh mint. He can explain it by describing the way you feel, like a warm marshmallow filling up his insides and consuming him.

It’s cheesy, cringier than Seokjin’s dad jokes, but only he gets it.

Namjoon is in his living room, switching channels on the TV and thinking about this when his stomach sinks again. He braces himself, and disappears.

Click.

Seoul is freezing cold. The air is light and he is sitting on a bench on his college campus, rubbing his hands together and zipping up his huge jacket over his sweater. Namjoon shudders, his body not yet used to the bite of the cold compared to the warm breeze he was just enjoying.

He sniffles, nose slightly red like some knockoff Rudolph and wanders around. His body pulls him to go to the right, despite the warm coffee shop being on the left. He shudders again and tries to protest, but his body won’t listen, standing up and walking over to the right with no particular destination in mind. Students are rushing around, complaining about the cold and talking about their next party or study session.

Namjoon pulls himself forwards, and thank god this version of himself still has terrible tolerance for the cold, because he reaches up and pulls his beanie down over his ears, still wandering around aimlessly. Where are you going? Namjoon wants to scream out frustratingly.

His brain doesn’t reply and Namjoon sulks.

Eventually, he is pulled over to another bench, outside in the cold, and he sits down, deeply resenting himself and wondering why on earth he just stood up from one bench to walk to another one. If anything, it’s colder here. He watches the students that pass by for a minute or two, thinking that this is the most boring memory he’s ever been in.

There is no snow falling, but almost everything on campus is lined with a sheet of ice or cold steam. Namjoon nuzzles deeper into his own clothes, cursing himself for not being able to go buy another sweater or something to fight the extreme cold.

Suddenly, you appear in front of him and Namjoon perks up. There you are. He thinks. Finally. You come over and sit down, holding something in your hands. He smiles, waiting for you to speak up and greet him with a kiss that will surely warm him up, but you silently sit next to him, ignoring him. Namjoon urges himself to say something, but instead, he continues to watch the students bustling through campus grounds without looking at you.

Are we fighting? Is Y/N mad at me?

This is excruciatingly frustrating, Namjoon bites his tongue and thinks. Why can’t he just say something? Abruptly, something lands on his jacket with a splat and he straightens up, snapping his neck towards you, who is looking at the yogurt splat on his jacket with a look of terror.

“Oh my gosh!” You squeak out, quickly setting your yogurt aside and reaching for some tissues in your purse. “Oh, god, oh god, I’m so sorry. Please, let me-” Namjoon frowns, taking his hands out of his pockets to thumb at his jacket, debating whether he wants to take it off or not.

You lean over, pawing at his jacket and wiping the yogurt off of his jacket. “I’m so sorry!”

“No, don’t worry.” Namjoon says, chuckling. He reaches for another tissue, helping you get the yogurt off of him. “It’s no big deal.” The yogurt is mostly wiped off and you side eye him with the unmistakable look of guilt filling your eyes. Namjoon laughs again.

“It’s fine, really! No, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m literally so sorry. Do you want me to pay for dry cleaning? Laundry? I can, um, wash it for you! I’m not the best at laundry, but it’s the least I could do?”

Namjoon briefly wonders why you’re being so polite.

“No, it’s fine.” The words tumble out his mouth again before he can process it. “Really, this jacket is old, anyway.” Not really, Namjoon thinks. It feels really new. “But who the hell eats cold yogurt in this kind of weather?” He jokes. “You sure you’re not a demon?”

You freeze, terrified before realising he was cracking a joke. “Oh. Hah! Yeah, no, I guess I just really like yogurt.” You offer lamely, and you break out into a small giggle. “Yeah, I guess I kind of am a psycho for eating it right now. It’s freezing today.”

“God, tell me about it.” Namjoon says, stuffing his hands back into his pockets.

“Thanks for not going bonkers on me. This jacket looks insanely expensive.”

“Not really.”

“I’m Y/N.” You greet, holding a hand out for him to shake. I know, Namjoon thinks with a secret smile, but everything makes sense now. You don’t know him yet. To you in this moment in time, he’s just a random stranger who didn’t blow up on you after spraying some yogurt onto you. To him, you’re… you’re…

“Oh, um, I’m Namjoon.” He says, hurriedly taking a hand out of his pocket to shake your outstretched hand. Your fingers meet and Namjoon swears a small zap just went through his hand.

“Namjoon. Nice to meet you, Namjoon.” You say with a small smile, yogurt already long forgotten on the bench beside you two.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” He says in return, even though he doesn’t mean it. He already knows you, he knows you better than everyone. He knows your favourite food is Korean street food, and you always wake him up with kisses and your favourite colour is periwinkle and you absolutely hate abalone with more passion than he’s ever seen in his entire life.

But this is your first time seeing him, ever, he reminds himself. This is your meet cute. This single moment set off the events in the next god knows how many years. This is the first time he ever had your name grace his tongue. This is the first time you’ve seen him.

Another moment to treasure. You let go of his hand, after realising you two have been shaking hands for much longer than the socially acceptable rate of hand shaking. Blushing, either from the cold or humiliation, you sit, turn back around, grabbing a hold of your yogurt once more.

Suddenly, Namjoon finds himself blurting out: “Hey, you wanna go get some coffee?” You look over curiously, pointing to yourself like you can’t believe he’s asking you out, because you don’t know that you’re all he ever thinks about at any given moment in any given day. “You’ll probably freeze your ass off if you keep eating that yogurt.” He jokes, pretending like this is all because he’s caring about how cold you are and not how cute or incredible or kind you are.

“Sure.” You say, nodding shyly. He stands up, leading you to walk over to the left where the campus coffee shop is. Along the way, you throw the yogurt cup in the trash.

“You can’t bring food brought from outside into a shop, right?” You ask.

Namjoon smiles. “Yeah.” He stays there until night takes over the sky and one single twinkling star in the sky is signalling that it’s time to go home. Possibly the longest time he’s ever spent in a memory. He keeps glancing at the clock, praying that he gets one more minute with you, one more second, one more moment.

At any time, he could be pulled out of this world, and he needs to make the most of it. You tell him about your childhood bedroom and your major. You tell him about the love you have for pancakes, and how much you want a puppy even though it’s prohibited in the on campus dorms. He nods, pretending like this is all new information even though it’s not, and he’s known all of this for the longest time. He knows you better than you know yourself, which he keeps to himself.

In return, he tells you about his own childhood bedroom, which was adorned with posters of western hip hop rappers. He tells you about his passions for writing and music, that if he didn’t major in journalism, he’d be studying music production in school. He tells you that he’s obsessed with philosophy, and in all honesty, is a bit of a nerd.

Instead of laughing or pulling a face, you nod and smile, saying that you think he should tell you more about philosophy on a second date.

You leave the coffee shop with a small goodbye, and even though he desperately wants to, Namjoon can’t kiss you.

He gets pulled back after you disappear pass the corner of the street, and the world morphes into a huge motion blur. When he gets pulled back into his living room, the TV is playing late night TV shows already. Namjoon checks the time. He was pulled in for five hours, the longest he’s ever been in that world.

After that, no matter how much more he prays and begs, he never stays any longer than that.

Three days later, Namjoon suddenly pops into Hong Kong, which is hotter than anything he’s ever felt. The streets are heavy with people, squabbling in cantonese while selling raw meats in a wet market. The sun is glaringly bright, and Namjoon starts to sweat almost instantaneously. Taxis and huge buses drive past, Namjoon jumps to a side only to find a vast ocean. He’s at the harbour front.

The smell of food, of egg tarts and pineapple buns and meat dumplings along with other Hong Kong delicacies waft through the air, combined with the salty air of the sea. It makes for a strange combination that confuses his senses but works nonetheless.

He thought he knew a city like Seoul, but this is a true city. This is busy and fast paced like he’s never even seen before. People shove each other aside to catch the bus, dogs are yapping everywhere and he soaks it all in before the thought enters his head.

What the hell is he doing in Hong Kong?

It’s like every time he wonders aloud, you pop up. “I’ve been looking for you.” You say, echoing the words he said to you that day in the streets of Seoul.

“I was exploring!“ He says defensively, and you roll your eyes.

“Come on.” You say, walking along the harbour front.

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” Namjoon asks, the words spilling out and surprising himself. Are you mad at him? You’ve never been mad at him before, not in the memories he’s seen. He hasn’t ever seen you fight with him, and immediately, he wants to apologise, fix things before he’s pulled back out and he has to live with the guilt and overthinking of whether you’re still mad at him for the next week.

“Can’t believe you’re mad at me during our vacation.” Namjoon says, and that’s why he’s in Hong Kong, he realises. He’s on vacation. How strange. Namjoon thinks back to when the last time he took a break from work and the only thing he can think of is when that doctor put him on medical leave not too long ago. Oh no, you’re mad at him on holiday?

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” You retort back, and Namjoon has never heard your voice this curt. “Just sit around pretending like everything's okay?”

“What do you want me to do?” Namjoon replies. “You act like this is my fault!”

“It is your fault!” You cry out indignantly, and Namjoon knows that, but why? What did he do? What did you do? “Is this even a vacation?”

“Yes!” Namjoon cries out again in response, and you shake your head.

“You promised, Namjoon.” You say like it’s a warning.

“Yes, I know,” Namjoon says, even though he doesn’t and really, what on earth did he do? “But this is out of my hands! I can’t just say no, you’re not looking at this from my point of view.”

“You’re not looking at this from my point of view!” You argue back, and Namjoon looks around, realising that this squabble is attracting a small crowd of chinese people, gathering around to watch the free entertainment along the sidewalk of Victoria harbour. He awkwardly laughs, raising his hand and bows, a universal sign of apology, grabbing your hand and walking to the other direction.

“Come on, I’d rather not have the whole city witness our fight.”

“Oh, so this is a fight now?”

“What? Yes!” Namjoon says exasperatedly. “How else would you classify this argument?”

Once he makes it to somewhere with at least a sliver of privacy, he turns around with his brows furrowed and a glare etched on his features. Why do you look so angry? Namjoon chastises himself. Just relax, relax, relax. As usual, his body doesn’t listen.

“Why are you so mad at this?” Namjoon asks, and feels a flow of relief go down his spine. Finally.

“It’s not just this instance, Joon. I know work is important, but sometimes it feels like you put literally anything else above me! Like last time? You bailed on our date, like, at least twice. You keep saying you can’t say no, but you can. You have that right, Namjoon.”

Namjoon’s heart softens a little bit. His workaholic tendencies ended up biting him in the ass after all. Sighing he rubs the back of his neck, eyes glued to the floor. “I’m not prioritising work over you, baby.” He tries to explain, and tries to ignore how his heart sinks when your eyes turn stony at the sound of the pet name he often uses to address you.

“It’s just important to me as well, okay? It’s not my fault my boss heard I was going to Hong Kong and insisted I come to interview some investors about Hong Kong’s economy.” He explains slowly. “It couldn’t take more than a single day to get everything organised and tidied up.”

“But-!” You huff angrily, spitting out your words. “You don’t understand! You keep doing this, Namjoon. You keep working, working, working. It’s been this way since college. It’s like you’ll die if you just take a break to come talk to me. I even went over to your office to have lunch with you last week and they told me you were in a meeting.”

“It was important!” Namjoon insists and he can feel things sinking and getting worse and worse with every word he says. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? You can’t expect me to put you in front of all of my responsibilities. I’m sure you have things you can’t give up for me too.”

Hearing that felt like a slap to the face to both you and Namjoon, and he’s screaming at himself internally, why would you say something so, so, stupid?

“Excuse me?” Your broken voice rings out and Namjoon’s accusatory finger falls.

“Wait.” He mumbles, fumbling with his hands. “Wait, I didn’t mean that. Wait, I-”

“Fine!” You yell angrily. “You think nothing’s more important than work? You think I haven’t given up anything for you, Kim Namjoon? Because I’d quit and give up anything for you, you asshole.” You bite out, tears desperately trying not to fall. “You fucking asshole.” You say, before turning back around to weave through the crowd.

“No, wait, baby!” He calls out, and even he knows that he’s messed up. Messed up big time. That was more hurtful than any cuss word or insult he could’ve ever said. “Kim fucking Namjoon, you idiot.” He mumbles to himself. Seeing you cry is more painful than anything else in the world, Namjoon thinks. He’s not ever going to see that sight again if he can help it.

He walks forward, trying to find you. Maybe you went back to the hotel, or went to look at the sea to clear your head. He thinks he sees the back of your head for a second, and he reaches forward, clutching at air. He’s about to cry, and Namjoon has never seen himself be more pathetic.

“Oh no, where are you?” He murmurs to himself like a crazed man. What if you were hurt somewhere? He needs to know you’re safe, he needs to know you’re okay, he needs to make everything better. With each step, the lead feeling in his throat grows heavier and heavier until he feels like it’s sunk to his chest. He wants to kneel down, he wants it to stop hurting, but he can’t.

He must aimlessly follow his shell to do whatever he is doing now.

The lead feeling continues to grow, and Namjoon feels like he’s suffocating. He’s not supposed to be here, he reminds himself. But he has to find you first, then he can leave. Then he can go, but where are you? He wants to cry, he wants to breathe.

Namjoon tells himself to gasp for air, but he cannot. He tells himself if this is the last time he ever sees you, he needs to see you smile. He needs to see you laugh.

Like the pattern in the rest of his meaningless life, an evil deity always pulls him away from the ones he loves when he needs them most. He feels the lead feeling being lifted and pure panic races to Namjoon’s head. He tries to croak out no. He tries to resist, he shoves people aside and calls out your name. But no one answers him, and the cruel deity laughs at his demise.

He is too weak, too weak to control himself.

Namjoon is plucked out of the world and transported back to his bedroom with the threads of time slowly ravelling and tangling themselves around his neck, all while he reaches forward, only to grasp at air and pretend in his head that everything’s alright.

When he reaches his bedroom and wakes up, he stumbles into the bathroom and vomits, all while longing for the warmth of your lips.

Walking around dazedly, Namjoon somehow manages to make his way to Seokjin and Jimin’s apartment, knocking and hoarsely asking them to open, open up please. Because he’s not sure he can hold on to another night alone. Jimin opens the door instantly and catches Namjoon in his arms, frantically calling for Seokjin to come fast.

They lay him on the couch, hearts slowly breaking and trying to convince themselves their friend will be fine as they watch Namjoon whimper in his sleep.

Namjoon wakes to the smell of breakfast, of bacon on the stove and Jimin chattering around while watering his plants. He gets up, headache pounding and throat sore. Seokjin wordlessly hands him a few pills and a glass of water, while Jimin plates up breakfast, placing the sausage, eggs and toast separately on the plate because Namjoon can’t stand it when food on his plate touches.

Silently, the three friends eat. Nobody speaks until Namjoon clears his throat and looks up.

“Thank you.“ He whispers.

“What are friends for?” Jimin says.

Namjoon wonders why he’s got such amazing friends. Jin replies that he was born perfect and God created him like this, so Namjoon shouldn’t dwell too much on it. Jimin and Namjoon both throw a spoon of scrambled eggs in his direction simultaneously, high fiving without missing a beat when Jin lets out a protest of unjust behaviour.

As the three friends sit quietly, Namjoon says: “I think I’m going mad.”

“I’m glad you’ve realised.” Seokjin replies offhandedly.

“I don’t think I can keep going between these worlds. I think it’s making me lose my mind.”

Jimin stills. Seokjin stops washing the dishes and turns off the faucet.

“Do… do you know how to stop it?” Jimin asks hesitantly. Namjoon shakes his head, and Seokjin sighs, in deep thought, which is a strange and rare sight to see itself.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to figure this out together.” Seokjin says casually. Jimin agrees and the faucet comes back on, Seokjin going straight back to washing the pan he used to fry up the scrambled eggs. Jimin unplugs the toaster and Namjoon sits, smiling at his beloved friends.

“You can borrow some of my shirts.” Jimin calls from the bathroom. “You know, if you want to stay over a couple more nights. Feel free.”

“Make yourself at home and shit.” Seokjin mutters, waving his hand around sarcastically. Namjoon almost bursts out into tears of happiness, but he decides to hold it in until Seokjin doesn’t have access to his phone and won’t put Namjoon’s breakdown on instagram live.

The next day, the entire gang comes over, all with varying degrees of understanding what the hell is going on with Namjoon. For example, Yoongi pretty much knows as much as Seokjin does, who still doesn’t really understand what’s going on. Taehyung was just told Namjoon’s been feeling down because God knows that boy has a big mouth and definitely can’t keep a secret to save his life.

Seokjin supplies homemade snacks and burgers fresh off the grill, Yoongi brings over his unlimited Netflix and HBO account passwords he probably stole off of some innocent family member to watch Disney movies, Taehyung comes over with Yeontan clutched to his side because that’s the group's emotional support dog. Jungkook and Hoseok offer up their extensive alcohol collection and bring over some quality wines. Jimin, after a long three hours of consideration, gives up his lucky plushies and fluffy blankets to build a fort.

For one night, the seven boys crowds around the television, watching everything from The Lorax to Tangled to Frozen and bawling their eyes out when Anna turned to ice (spoiler alert!!!) For one night, the fully grown men all turn back into their 8 year old selves, playing video games and staying up as late as they wanted even though they all had responsibilities to tend to the next day.

When they all awake from their mega-sleepover the next morning, the remaining six friends all insist they just felt like watching Disney movies and drinking wine suddenly. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Namjoon’s been feeling a little off in the past few days.

Absolutely not.

Namjoon’s eyes brim with tears and he tackles all the boys to the ground in one incredibly coordinated group hug, ignoring Yoongi’s complaints of being anti-social and that his love language is not physical touch.

“Thanks, guys.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jungkook mutters. “Now could you please get the fuck off?”

“Never.” Namjoon says, muffled because he says it while his head is buried in Hoseok’s chest.

“Love you.”

“... Love you too.”

The next time he falls, Namjoon thinks he’s prepared. Ready, not to get attached, ready to make clear of what belongs in his world and what doesn’t, after lots of pep talks and therapy sessions with Seokjin and Jimin and Yoongi, who is surprisingly helpful with shooting down ideals of toxic masculinity and talking about mental health.

He’s wrong- he’s not ready, but he doesn’t know that yet.

Click.

He’s come to resent that stupid sound. In an instant, he’s dropped into a car, which is strangely familiar. You are next to him, driving, and thank goodness, because everyone knows Namjoon cannot drive. If he were dropped in the driver’s seat, things may have taken a turn for the worse.

“You want to play some music?” You ask, and Namjoon nods.

“Yeah sure, turn up the radio.” You reach over to flip a switch and a pretty tune fills the car, echoing and bouncing off the walls of the small vessel. You bring your hand down and interlace it with Namjoon’s, who is suddenly hyper aware of his surroundings.

“You’re driving, baby.” He says, and a great sense of relief floods back into his system when he sees you smile at the pet name. He hopes this moment is after the Hong Kong trip. He hopes he did the right thing and made up with you afterwards.

“We always do this. When there’s not many cars around, anyway.” You hum along with the music. “Nobody’s on the road tonight.” Sure enough, there are no cars in sight and Namjoon sighs, curling his hand tight against yours. He looks out the window.

“No stars tonight, either.”

You snort. “There are never any stars around the city, babe.”

“Ahh.” He huffs playfully. “Fuck global warming.”

“Fuck capatalism.” You add on, and he nods, wholeheartedly agreeing.

“I love you.” He murmurs.

“I love you too.” You reply with a sweet smile and Namjoon just realises that no, he’s not ready to let go of you, because his heart still flips like crazy when he hears you say that. He’s so unbearably, horribly, absolutely in love with you. Not in a creepy or obsessive way like he was probably in love with you a few months ago, but so in love with you.

He wonders why on earth he’s so drawn to you, but as usual, there’s no definite answers to his questions. Namjoon thinks about how he likes the way you cook pancakes, and how he likes the way you always reach down to pet a puppy no matter where you are or where you need to be. He loves the way you’d give up anything to defend the people you love. He admires your bravery and your courage. He admires the way you present yourself to the world.

He loves you simply because you are who you are, unapologetically and unashamed, which is something he never had the guts to do. But he gets pretty damn near to being fully and truly himself when he’s around you, so maybe that’s why he’s so in love with you.

Namjoon feels bad for a moment because he realises his love isn’t selfless or humble like the ones he sees on dramas and TV. His love for you is shamefully selfish, because he needs you more than anything else. He voices this out to you in a long speech while you keep your eyes on the road.

“I need you more than you think I do, Joon.” You say, while laughing, and Namjoon doesn’t know whether to feel offended or relieved.

“You think your love for me can trump my love for you?” He asks with his eyebrows raised.

“One hundred percent.” You drawl out, and this time, Namjoon’s offended.

“Excuse me? Who the fuck?” He asks, sitting up. You laugh bashfully, enamoured but mostly just entertained by your needy boyfriend who is very willing to prove how much more he loves you right now. “I love you way more than you love me!”

You laugh, your eyes still fixed on the road. “Oh no, please, we’re not arguing about this.”

“Yes we are!” Namjoon demands with a huge smile on his face. “How could you possibly think you love me more than I love you?” Your laugh only grows louder.

“I don’t even know if you’re being serious or just joking around anymore.” You say through bit back laughter.

“I’m being dead serious.” Namjoon softens for a bit, laying a hand on your thigh. “You’re my everything. You’re my future, you’re my present, you’re my past.” A part of you wants to tell him he’s being cheesy again, but the romantic in you who doesn’t want to hurt your boyfriend immediately shuts the realist in you up.

“That was sweet.”

“I try my best.”

You turn your head back to the road and he keeps his eyes on you. On the hoodie you’re wearing, which definitely doesn’t belong to you and he now has a certain inkling of where his missing hoodie went. He likes how it swallows you up. He likes that you have something of his on you.

Not as a weird mark of possession, but he likes that you’re comfortable with wearing something that essentially brands you as his. But you are his as much as he is yours and wow, Namjoon thinks in his head, is this the real Namjoon or the past Namjoon speaking? And his brain replies that it’s both.

“I love you.” He repeats, because as much as he seems to say it, he can’t seem to express how much he loves you (hint: it’s a large amount).

“I love you too.” You say right back.

He wants to say it more. He wants to say it better. He wants to repeat it until you get annoyed and tell him to shut up, he wants to let you know how much he loves you. But his lips are sealed, and he can’t say another word. Instead of what he wants to say, the words that come out his mouth are, admittedly, just as true.

“You’re pretty.”

You giggle. “Did you just realise?”

Namjoon shakes his head. “You’ve always been pretty. You were pretty on the day we met. You were pretty the day we fought in Hong Kong. You were pretty the first time you stayed over. You’re pretty when you cry, you’re pretty when you… I wanted to think of something that rhymes with cry, but it slipped my mind and now everything’s ruined.”

You laugh, a real, huge one this time. He can always tell when your laugh is real or not.

“Thank you.” You say. “For the record, you’ve always been pretty too.”

Namjoon leans back into his seat. “Damn straight.”

“When d’you think you first fell in love with me?” You ask, genuinely curious, and Namjoon thinks for a moment. He thinks about what the Namjoon in this moment would say, and he thinks about what the present Namjoon would say.

If he had verbal control, what would he say? That he fell in love with you during the very first memory he was thrusted in? But that wouldn’t be true, and that wouldn’t be honest. He fell in love with you during the memory of when you met? But that wouldn’t be true either. He fell in love with you in between memories, when all he could think about was the next time you could be in his arms, or how much he longed for your touch.

He tries to say that, he really does.

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is:

“I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s a specific moment. Maybe it was that time we went to the movies and watched Coco while crying over popcorn, or maybe it was that time we went to Disneyland.” Namjoon’s heart slouches, because he doesn’t know any of those moments. He hasn’t been in any of those memories.

“But I don’t think falling in love is a one moment, time stops kinda thing. I was always falling in love with you. From the time you spilled yogurt on my jacket to right now, where you’re asking me when I fell in love with you. I’m going to be falling in love with you tomorrow and the day after that, until the day where we shrivel up and die from old age.”

Oh, good answer, Namjoon thinks.

“Good answer.” You say. “I think I’d say the same thing.”

“Great minds think alike.” Namjoon sighs out.

Something strikes Namjoon’s heart. It’s not the lead feeling or the heavy weight he’s grown used to. It’s strange, like a wave of deja vu. And suddenly, Namjoon stops thinking. He glances over to the control board to look at the time, which proudly reads: December 3rd, 2018.

So that’s why he’s always had the feeling that these were memories. Why he was so adamant to believe these things really had happened to him. Even more strangely, what feelings strike him then is not panic, nor fear. It’s a strange flow of calmness that rushes through his veins. He looks over at you again, driving now with both hands on the steering wheel.

He wonders why the deity would make him witness something as cruel and horrible as this, and he gets the weird feeling that this will be one of his last memories to enter. Namjoon looks at the dark blanket covering the sky and sadly thinks that the deity could have at least placed a few stars in the sky on this night. As consolation, or perhaps an apology.

Something is ticking in the background, and Namjoon has no idea if it’s coming from the car or if he’s imagining it. Flashing memories go through his mind, so fast he can barely register them as images or moving pictures before they are gone again. Your smile, your laugh, your first date, your second date. The day he asked you to move in, the day you told him ‘I love you’ for the first time and he literally fainted.

The day he came to pick you up from work for the first time, the night where he first laid his hands on you and kissed all your worries away.

It comes fast and hurtles towards the two of you, but Namjoon doesn’t even see it coming because all he is looking at is you. Your face, your lips, your eyes, trying to engrave it all in his memory. You yelp out something to him, which he doesn’t hear. Floating images spin around both your heads and a high pitched screech rings out, a spark of orange lighting up like a stack of fireworks. The dark van shoots forward and collides into the driver’s seat.

The world collapses. It goes sideways, rotates then flips completely upside down, and the dark fog starts to eat up Namjoon’s eyesight. Oddly, nothing hurts. Perhaps because of the shock, or panic, but nothing on Namjoon’s body is in pain. Everything crashes, Namjoon’s head hits the window with force. Something breaks, glass cracks, people scream and he cannot tell which is which. Red and white flashes are all he can see before everything fades to grey and he can only reach around in the darkness, to find your hand.

He clutches onto your unmoving, still hand desperately, trying to calm his jumping heartbeat. Are those sirens in the background he hears or is that his imagination? Is that your voice he hears or is that a hallucination?

In the end, his final thought before leaving the world once again is a wish. A wish that he prays the deity will grant him. He hopes that in your final moments, you were not scared.

He falls.

When Namjoon arrives home, his entire body is numb. He doesn’t know where he is, nor what he was doing before he was clicked in. He opens his mouth and screams for a full minute without stopping.

It feels good in a fucked up way.

Namjoon has never been one for confrontation. Just ask his middle school bullies, who tormented him all they wanted because he wouldn’t do anything but put up with it. Just ask Mingyu from work, who keeps piling his unwanted projects and articles onto Namjoon because he never protests or complains to the higher-ups.

But while walking towards his childhood home with the birds chirping and his hands placed casually in his pockets, confrontation is all he can think about. He lets himself in the door; his mother never locks it and walks in calmly.

His mother is sitting on the couch, stitching up a sock which has a hole in it.

“Mom. I’m home.” He says softly, and his mother greets him normally. Namjoon leans on the wall and his mother stares at him strangely, calling him over to sit and have some fruit. He declines, telling her he won’t be staying very long. “That car crash that happened two years ago.”

The needle in his mother’s hand stills.

“They said I had selective amnesia, right?”

The needle picks up speed, stitching faster and faster, his mother’s hand moving faster than light.

“What did I forget again?”

“What did you remember?” His mother asks, never one to beat around the bush.

“Mom.” He says, firmly this time. “What did you do to me.”

The sock is torn apart in his mother’s hands. “Namjoon,” She starts and Namjoon already has a growing urge to shake the truth out of her. “When you got into that crash two years ago, you came out of it with very little injuries. We were all so relieved. When you woke up, you didn’t remember Y/N.” All that fills the air for another moment or two is the spongy sound of silence.

The gap in this family became clearer than ever to Namjoon. He thinks about how everyone must have been in on the secret, even his sister. And he was left to suffer, wondering why his life seemed so empty after forgetting something he couldn’t clutch onto.

“And what?” He demands, screaming and throwing his hands out of his pockets. “Do you think you can just keep something like that from me? The love of my life, and you just decide to erase them from my memory?” His mother stills and looks up at her son.

“You didn’t remember Y/N. You lost contact with all your college friends, and then when I asked the doctor how selective amnesia worked,” His mother cleared her throat. “Sufferers often forget some parts of their memory. Relationships, talents, skills, certain areas or certain people.” His mother looks up directly in his eyes. “Sometimes, especially after going through a traumatic event, people forget certain parts of their memory as a coping mechanism. To erase bits of pain and regret.”

“I thought,” Her voice breaks and her face twists in regret and bad memories. “I thought maybe by forgetting her, I’d be saving you from more pain and hurt. I just wanted you to stop hurting”

Namjoon held eye contact with his mother for three full seconds before collapsing and gasping for air, lying with his head on her lap. All words of scolding, anger. All the confrontational tactics and all the accusations he’d thought of shooting towards her had gone.

“Hurts.” He let out through large gasps of breaths. “Hurts, mom.” He lied there, with tears threatening to spill out his eyes for the rest of the night, with his mother caressing his hair and apologising to him with tears in her eyes.

“Miss Y/N. I miss Y/N.” He hiccups out, and his mother wipes away his tears, but it feels different from when you used to do it.

“I know, I know.” The woman looking down at her son wonders why she put him in so much pain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” The night carries on like that, with the lights eventually dimming and the night covers up the light in the sky. The mother son pair repeat their grievances and apologies to each other until the sun comes back up, peeking through the curtains and extending out their warm embrace as if it wants to comfort the hurting humans.

It doesn’t take long for Seokjin and co to come knocking on his door, sent by his mother who must have filled him in on everything, judging from the looks on their faces. It only takes one single glance at his friends, tilting their heads and all asking to come in for him to burst into tears. Ugly crying, with snot coming out of his nose and eyes bloodshot red from the nightmares.

Jimin is the first to reach forwards and bring Namjoon into a hug. Soon after that, the six friends surrounded Namjoon, comforting him with the warmth of their arms and soft spoken words of encouragement.

“You did well.” Someone mumbles into his hair.

“We’re all proud of you.” Someone else says.

Namjoon’s sweater sleeves are sopping wet with tears when he asks the boys to help him get into therapy.

Things went on like that for another while.

Therapy isn’t as bad as Namjoon had thought it might’ve been. He wasn’t forced to be vulnerable or open up or confront his worst fears. He certainly didn’t want to tell the truth about the world he’s thrusted in, for fear of getting thrown out of the building and into a mental institution.

Even his mother didn’t believe him the first time he told her about it. She urged him to visit a doctor. How could a therapist who doesn’t even know him believe the nonsense he spouts? Even he himself wouldn’t believe himself if he hadn’t experienced it firsthand. Slowly, but surely, he began to open up, and to his surprise, there was no calling of hospitals or kicking him out. His therapist sat there and listened like everything he was saying was valid.

He started eating again, mostly because of Seokjin, stuffing his creations down everyone’s throats every two seconds, claiming he needs opinions on his new recipes even though Namjoon’s fairly certain that the past three dishes of spaghetti were the exact same recipe.

Namjoon started to workout again with Jungkook, much to the younger boy’s surprise and happiness. They talked about their own struggles while panting on the treadmill and spinner. Jungkook eventually tells him that he also has a secret he keeps from the rest of the guys, which is his high school sweetheart who broke his heart so horribly that he still feels hurt from it.

Jungkook told him to cheer up though, because most of the pain fades away with time. It’s still there, ever as present, but other things will become more important to you and cover up a scar or a wound with blooming flowers.

“Like us,” He said cheekily. “Your friends.”

He talked to Yoongi most days of the week about nothing in particular. He enjoys the time with Yoongi because he’s the only one who never walks on eggshells around him. He still pelts him with pillows and roasts the outfits on Rupaul’s Drag Race with him. Taehyung and Jimin even helped him adopt a dog, an furry white Eskimo named Rap Mon which is literally now Namjoon’s entire life.

Would likely kill all of his friends if one of them hurt his precious baby.

Life is good, Namjoon learns. He gets better at his job. He never forgets you, but things seem to hurt less. But he gets relapses sometimes. Some days he wakes up screaming about the stupid lead filling up his throat. Sometimes he gets nightmares so intense he has to take medicine.

Therapy isn’t as bad as he painted it out to be, but recovery is ten times harder than he thought it would be. Some days all he can do is lie in bed or do nothing, thinking of you.

His therapist tells him that his life is more than his past memories. Both Yoongi and Hoseok agree, when he pulled up a random conversation about it late at night. Hoseok says that there’s never going to be a time where he won’t think of you, or still love you. Perhaps not as much as he once did, but he’ll never forget about you. Yoongi tells him he’s healing, and that they’re all proud of him.

Namjoon meets his friends, for the first time in the two years he’s known them. Taehyung has an extraordinary and (slightly strange) obsession over art museums. He’s been to almost every single one in Korea, and he dragged Namjoon over to one an hour away in Gangnam in the summer. Jimin is an amazing dancer, which Namjoon never knew.

Until Jimin brought it up casually, looking through old footage of his dance competitions. “Nothing big,” He said. “I used to dabble.” Namjoon’s eyes bulged out of his head and he told Jimin if that was ‘dabbling’, then he was wasting away his talent. He asked Jimin why he never made a career out of dance, and Jimin replied casually:

“I feel like if I start to make money off of it, and I’ll lose my love for it. Now that I haven’t really has time for it... I dunno. I feel like I’ve lost the talent a little bit.“

Namjoon told his friend that talent is nothing but a bunch of practice and time dedicated to a certain skill. Nobody loses talent, people just get a little unfamiliar with it. Jimin turned around in deep thought and told him he may just have a point.

Still, some days, he can do nothing but sulk around, feeling like a waste of space. Take today for an example. He walks down the street and out of the corner of his eye, he thinks, and he might be wrong, he thinks he sees you. The back of your head, anyways, but you’re wearing a red sweater with headphones over your ears and you turn around the corner.

Namjoon panics. He drops his coffee, which splashes all over his leather shoes and runs. He runs past the corner and he doesn’t know what on earth he’s doing but all he can do is run, and the wind dries his tears faster and faster, and he forgets all over again, that you aren’t here, that there’s no way he can go back and see you unless it’s in his memories, which he doesn’t even know how to control.

Somewhere deep in the depths of his mind, he knows something about this doesn’t seem right. That it couldn’t possibly be you, because he watched you go right in front of his eyes. He knows that in order to heal, he can’t chase after you or center his world around you. He knows all of that. But in that moment, he forgets that he still doesn’t remember everything about you.

He forgets that you’re dead.

And one day he’ll be free from this constant spinning. One day he won’t ever have to think twice when he cooks pancakes but that day and all that work he’s put in is the last thing on Namjoon’s mind and all he can think about is if that’s really you.

He sprints faster and reaches out, misses your wrist by an inch and ends up clutching at nothing but air. He heaves a huge breath, about to clap his hand over your shoulder-

Click.

tags; @jksbbyfacebunny @extremeobsessions101 @dwcljh @bishuthot @s0seo @stonyiscanon @cecedrake2217

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internalsealpanic · 3 years

Text

Death Cannot Take You

Summary: You died. You should have died, yet here you are having the audacity to still be walking.

A/n: This is semi abandoned old guard au. I made it for 3 reasons. 1) I love Old Guard. 2) I love writing resurrection scenes cus it makes my brain calm. 3) This is a poly that I am desperate for.

Warning: Violence, kidnapping, terrible explanations, and blatant disregard for patient care.

The world shook violently as it staggered into view— blotchy patches of fluorescent lights and rough textures. Drowning the heavy scrape of metal is a chorus of thumping and ringing in your ears. Your hands fly to the seat in front of you, cold metal pressed against hot skin as the train rattles on. It makes your stomach lurch, dredging out its contents.

Crumpled in your seat, you heave a ragged breath. You retch, the contents of your stomach burning in your esophagus. You screw your eyes shut unable to take another long gulp of air; it stung to breathe in the piss heavy air. You need to breathe. You need the oxygen. You need your mind in working order. Sucking in a greedy lungful, you cough it out, body rejecting it.

There was a heat.

A pulse.

A pistol.

A laugh.

You can remember the wetness of saliva and blood and tears on your face as the warmth bled out of your fingertips.

It was cold.

It was so cold.

Your heartbeat picks up. It’s getting harder to breathe. Your windpipe is closing. The world is getting smaller. The bones in your hands are rattling.

A cry pries itself out of your chest, tearing its way out of your mouth. They’re not stopping. They’re still laughing.

No.

Please god, no.

With another violent rattle, your consciousness slips.

You’re cold again. Shadows grasp at the corners of your vision. The world is blotchy— a patch of tangling threads.

The alley smells of piss and garbage. The smell is thick enough to make you choke. Your heart had stopped a while ago. No, your mind did. No, it was your heart you’re sure. No, no. It was his heart that stopped.

It’s cold. Someone is crying out for you. It’s your father. You’re scared. Your blue eyes are fading in color. You’ve faced death before— No, not you. He has. He’s faced death always with a smile but now with his heart at a complete stand still he’s sure this is it. He’s sure this is how he dies. It isn’t on the trapeze or because of some cookie plan made by a costumed nut case. Your— his heart stops.

He died.

So did he. There’s another man. He’s lying on the battlefield. The sky is so pretty. You can hear canonfire. There’s another man beside him. He’s dying too. Your fair hair is matted red. Your— his flesh is reknitting itself. It’s— The whole in his— your stomach is closing the whole in it. You’re gasping for breath. The alley doesn’t stink of piss and garbage; it smells like cotton fields and summer heat.

He died.

You died.

There’s a buzzing in the air— the thrum of electricity as it writhes in the wires. Bouncing your leg, you wait for the receptionist to call your name. Anxiety sings in your veins like a chorus of scraping metal.

You don’t remember what happened last night— not clearly.

It’s all a melting pot of images and voices and touches.

You cup your hand over your mouth, the stomach acid burning its way up your esophagus. Your tongue is tacky with dried saliva and the lingering taste of copper. They’re laughing. They’re all still laughing. The ringing in your ears won’t stop.

You fold. Legs curl up into your chest as you dip your head under. Eyes sliding shut, you let the darkness pool in your mind. The vague sounds in the emergency room coalescing into a discordant symphony. You let yourself dream again.

You lift your head up slowly, colors bleeding into view. The words don’t make sense.

“Kid, are you ok?”

You regard the large man with the open—mouthed confusion of a fish. He’s handsome in a rough sort of way— grisled with a full beard, cropped hair, and gunmetal blue eyes— eye. He’s got an eye patch. You swallow. Your lungs inflate as they inhale the sterile scent of the room. The smell of hand sanitizer is too thick. He’s tall. You crane your neck to look up at him. It hurts. He must easily be 6’3”, maybe even taller. His chest is broad and through the shirt, he’s wearing you can see the expanse of taut well—defined muscles. His lips are curved up at one side in a lopsided smirk. Your head is pounding. You shut your eyes, vigorously nodding your head. You know what he’s staring at. You know what his eyes— eye— are trained on.

You… You haven't changed. The crisp white shirt you’d worn to your job is dark and wrinkly with dried blood. You hate it. You hate how uncharacteristically messy you look; it makes you feel off—model, like something that is a cluttered version of you.

You curl up again. This time the ringing in your ears blocks out everything else. Your head dips back into the dark. It’s cold and stuffy and your ears were ringing when they—

Your eyes fly open and there’s a figure in front of you. You squint. The figure is smaller, less broad; a nursing assistant with kind eyes stands over you with a clipboard. You breathe. You turn your head to the man from before. He’s standing next to a man— younger, shorter. He looks dwarfed next to the other man but he’s average height and it would be funny if you had the energy. You’re far enough away that you can’t be sure of his features but it’s not hard to tell that he’s pretty. He’s got rich brown skin, black hair, and a gymnast’s poise. He’s familiar. Both of them are. They’re talking to the police. You freeze.

Are they here for you? Who are they?

“I need you to follow me back into the ER,” she says gently, grip firmly grasping your shoulder. You run your hand through your matted hair. Your hand comes back slick and sticky with sweat and dried blood. The oxygen in your lungs stutters. You feel another squeeze on your shoulder. You’re back. You’re not whole but you’re back.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, legs wobbling beneath you as you stand.

You follow her. It’s faint but you can feel someone follow you as you disappear into the hall with her.

The walk to the hall was peaceful. It was steadying. It’s the talk with the doctor that’s putting you on edge. He’s tapping his pen on the clipboard. Your mind writhes with every tap. Sighing, you rub your eyes and try to push the sensations away. “I— I’m so sorry. I’m just. It’s my mind. I just can’t—” you breathe “—I can talk. I’m sorry.” You wave vaguely.

“Alright tell me what happened.”

You swallow. Your trachea still feels splintered. “I—” breathe “—I was cornered. In an alley. Behind a butcher shop. I was trying to take a short cut—” he taps a pen against the board "— I was attacked." You finish, fingers tracing up the length of your throat. Attacked was too quick a word. Attacked was the kind of word you used for the quick in and out of a knife— the split second bite of a bullet. You weren’t attacked. You were— what happened to you felt like an eternity.

Shuffling, he looks you over. There's a prickle in the back of your neck. There's someone watching you. Your eyes flick. There's the young man. His eyes are a warm tropical blue. He waves at you. He looks uneasy. The man from before is trying not to pay attention. Your legs swing, almost clipping the doctor's clipboard. The doctor frowns at you but you shrug.

"You don't seem to have been injured."

You blink. "That's not possible," you say, hands shaking,"they had me for hours." No that wasn't true. At most they had you for an hour or maybe two but that didn’t matter not at the bite of the bullet, not at the slice of flesh, not at the impact of the bat.

"I need you to breathe," the doctor instructs, placing a hand on your back; it tenses. You go rigid. He pulls back muttering about x—rays and brain scans.

Catching his lab coat in a death grip, you beg: "Please don't leave me."

"Ma'am, you're perfectly safe here."

They will find you.

He thinks you're hysterical. You know that from the way he looks at you, like a caged animal. "We have security personnel if need be," he assures, none—too—gently prying his coat from your grip. "We'll close the curtain if that makes you feel safe and there are hospital gowns in the closet if you'd like to change."

You nod quietly.

You slowly peel off your shirt. The cool air stings. You suck in a breath. You think of the dream you had. That man's heart stopping. The press of lips. The bite of metal against skin. You look down at your skin— no bruises, no cuts, nothing.

You're scared.

You know these memories aren't fully yours.

You hear the door slide open. Your knee jerk reaction is to be embarrassed. You're in your underwear. Pulling on a gown, you're ready to snarl at the intruder. Your heart stops. It's the man from before.

"Did they take a blood sample from you yet?" He asks, closing the curtain behind him.

His gaze is unyielding as he makes slow predatory strides towards you. You flatten yourself against the wall. "No— I— what?"

"Good."

"What—" There's a sharp pain in the side of your head. There's blood trickling down the side of your head. Your vision is fading.

Falling forward, you grasp your blood tacky hands at his shirt. You feel weightless. You're on his shoulder.

"Who are you?"

"You'll find out."

The desert sand billows as a gust of wind blows through the dunes. You’re searching for someone. Your friend. His friend not yours. He’s somewhere. He’s being held prisoner. You’ve kept him waiting long enough.

You turn your head and the scene shifts.

There’s a sky full of lights above you, glittering. You can’t tell if they’re man made or not. You reach out to them. Your hands aren’t yours. You squint. Your hands are dark and calloused— covered in sawdust. There’s a terrible shape in your stomach. You’re scared but that’s not new. There’s always a little fear when you go on the trapeze.

You shift under the cover, limbs wrapped around a pillow. The smell of freshly roasted coffee is heavy in the air. You burrow your face more into the pillow. Mark can wake you up—

"And you thought kidnapping her was the solution?!"

You wince at the tone. Shuffling your limbs quitely out of the covers, you press yourself to the wall, peaking over the corner just a fraction— just enough to see two men arguing. The taller man with white hair facing the hall opening into the sleeping area.

“It was.”

“Slade, you can’t just go kidnapping people!” the younger man shouts, his face red while his arms waved all over the place. Slade, you assumed, stood impassively, but his arms were now crossed over his chest in a defensive manner.

“I just did.”

The younger man runs his hand over his face and through his hair, ruffling it in frustration. “She’s going to be terrified when she wakes up.”

You are. Your eyes flick to the window. You could escape. You're in a motel room you realize. If they’re distracted enough, you could make it out.

“Well, Kid, it looks like you’re right.”

“Of course, I am—”

You look up. The two men are looking in your direction. Should you go back to the bed and pretend to be asleep? Is there any point? Just make a run for it.

You sprint only to hit what feels like a brick wall. You stagger back but what feels like a metal band wraps around your waist. The next thing you know is that you feel weightless.

“Slade, put her down! You’re going to give her a heart attack.”

“Relax, kid, it’s not like it’s gonna kill her.” Your body is dropped unceremoniously on the bed. You bounce a couple of times before your body settles against the soft sheets. Scrambling back against the headboard, you look between the two men trying to decide what to do. You place a pillow in front of you as a shield. The pounding of your heart is loud in your ears that you don’t think you’ll be able to hear anything that comes out of your mouth.

“I’m broke,” you finally manage. You turn to the younger man. “My roommate is broke too.” He gives you a confused furrow in his brow. “We can’t afford ransom. You won’t get anything, so please just… just let me go. I won’t tell the police. I promise.” Folding your legs behind the pillow, you press yourself into the headboard further. The young man sighs and slumps. “We don’t want money.” You stiffen, keenly aware that save for the flimsy protection of the hospital gown, you’re only in your underwear. He seems to realize what you’d concluded.

Slade snorts. “Way to go, kid.”

“Yeah, thanks for the help, asshole.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“Ah, yes. Aside from kidnaping her you mean,” he snarls. You swallow loudly, trying to keep the bile down. The younger man turns to you, the impressive glare he was sporting slides way too easily into concern. His body rolls into a different shape; it’s the kind of posture you’ve used when comforting your younger sibling. He lowers himself on the bed slowly. He reaches out a hand. Carefully, he says “We won’t hurt you.”

And you want to believe him. You desperately want to believe him.

“Real convincing, Grayson.” Slade sneers as he watches your recoil from Grayson’s outstretched hand. Grayson levels another glare at Slade who simply huffs and shrugs.

“I haven’t done anything to you. Please let me go.” You croak.

Grayson looks at you helplessly. “(Y/n)... We can’t...”

“You died last night.” Slade says. Nothing in his tone suggests a question. It’s just a statement. No room for doubt.

You blink, nose scrunching. “I— I was mugged.” You cover your face with your hands. You’re pretty positive that you’d remember being murdered and you say as much. You got cornered by three to four gang members and they mugged you. That was it.

Your stomach rebels at the thought.

Grayson gives you that pitying look again. He pries your hands from your face, blue eyes bearing down at you with so much concern. His touch is so gentle that you almost cry. “Sweetheart, think about it.”

You shake your head trying to pull your hand away from him. He doesn’t let you. Your head is throbbing. You’re scared and confused and you’re starting to feel anger prickle under your skin. “I think I would know if I died, asshole,” you snarl and the shift in tone catches them both off guard.

Slade sighs. There’s a flash of metal and a gunshot. The pain radiates from the middle of your stomach; it’s sharp. Some small, shrill sound escapes you. You’re gasping as you look at him again. He’s looking at a watch. It looks expensive. It’s funny how even during death your mind finds a way to procrastinate.

“It’s taking a little while. Of all the inconveniences, why is it so slow the first few times?”Slade mutters in a voice that would sound right at home in a self checkout line. His shoe is tapping against the rug. You wonder if that’s expensive too.

“Why would you shoot her?” Grayson demands, shooting up from his spot on the bed. The loss of weight jostles the bed. You wince.

You look down. Something strange is happening. Your flesh like cloth is reknitting, leaving the seamless expanse of your stomach.

You look back up, eyes blown wide and frantic. You pat your stomach, hand coming away with a thin film of blood but the strange tingling you get when you’re expecting to feel something but you don’t. The bullet hole wasn’t there. It just wasn’t.

A sprawl of frantic horror lives down the line of your sternum. It was the kind of amorphous energy you get when something doesn’t make sense, when something just shouldn’t have happened— a sort of odd dislocation in the universe.

Grayson holds his hands up in a placating manner as he sits back down on the bed. He’s careful not to jostle you but you barely notice. You think his hands look familiar. Your— his calloused hands reach out to you. “You need to trust us.”

“You. Just. Shot. Me.”

“Correction, he shot you.”

Slade rolls his eye. “Ah yes, kid, very helpful.”

“It’s an important distinction.”

“Fine!” You point to Slade. “You shot me.” You point to Grayson. “You. Let. Him.”

“Sweetheart, I appreciate that you think I have any control over that brute,” Grayson says, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, “but I have about as much control over that brute as I do over a storm. ”

Unamused, you throw a pillow at Grayson hard enough that he almost topples over the edge. You grab another pillow and Grayson raises the pillow you threw at him in defense. You can see the smile in his eyes; it makes the acid behind your teeth boil. All embarrassment and horror bleed out to give way to anger as you throw the pillow at him with the same ferocity as before. Slade snatches the pillow midair saving Grayson from having to deflect it. Grayson gives him a smile that looks like an insincere apology. Slade, like you, seems unconvinced and pushes your discarded pillow into Grayson’s fine—boned face. It does nothing to wipe the grin off his face but you feel a little better knowing you’re not the only one who has to endure him.

You fight the urge to laugh but not too hard. The chords of your muscles come loose and for the first time in what feels like an age, you feel tired. “I’m dead. I died. Then you shot me… And then you shot me. WHAT THE HELL?” You say, the accusation directionless. You were supposed to die on a smoking heap of trash, gutted and pathetic. Hands falling limply to your sides, you let your mind go through that a dozen times because, well, how does one process their own death and undeath? You shouldn't still be here.

"What’s happening to me?"

"She's acting far more reasonable than you did." Slade teases.

Grayson scowls at him, slapping him with the pillow. Slade just kind of grunts clearly less hurt than annoyed. Considering the solid wall of muscle the man is sporting, you wouldn’t be surprised if it would take nothing short of a brick to hurt him. "YOU SHOT ME IN THE HEAD THEN SHOT ME THROUGH THE STOMACH."

“I only shot you in the stomach because the bullet through your head didn’t get through your thick skull.”

You’re one missed heartbeat away from laughing. Your brows shoot up, limp limbs coming back to life as you curl in on yourself again. What have you gotten yourself into?

"Oh my god, I mean— Shit!" Slade snorts as Grayson flails. Grayson puts his hand in his face, groaning. “Sorry about that… Slade is terrible at explanations.”

Slade makes a noise in the back of his throat. It sounds like a laugh and twitch of his lip would suggest so but you're still second guessing yourself. "You're one to talk Mr. We Won't Hurt You." The air fills with Slade's amusement as Grayson’s cheeks flush. It's funny how easily pretty shifts to adorable.

You sigh raking your hand through your hair. It's been an exceptionally long day. "What’s happening to me?" You whine mostly to yourself. "I'm not a meta. I think I would know if I was something like that… Right?" You look up at Grayson who just gives you a complicated expression. "You know what's going on don't you?" You say, crawling closer to Grayson. He shifts a bit, keeping his eyes straight. Grayson blinks and runs his hand through his hair, collecting his scattered thoughts. He leans back, putting a bit of space between you as he speaks. "We got off on the wrong foot," he says extending a hand to you, "the name's Dick—”

“Are you sure?” and Slade laughs at your question. Grayson— Dick (is that really his name?) looks tired like he’s heard this question a million times. “Yes, I’m sure about my name.” You feel a little bad but not enough to actually say anything that even comes close to an apology. “Anyway,” Dick (?) continues,”the grumpy old man over there is Slade. We’re sort of in the same boat as you.”

The last line makes you pause. You think back to your dreams, the quick flashes of sensations. Oh. That was— Oh. Your stomach feels like lead. You watched them— Oh.

“I’m sorry.” you say, at a loss of what else to say. Death was an intimate thing. You guessed that only the dead or the previously dead would know that. You fold your hands on your lap as you sit back on your legs, a primm gesture that made you feel solid and a bit more like yourself than you had in hours.

Dick’s warm blue eyes are wide. He goes still for a moment taking in what you’d just said. His head shakes and he smiles at you, an expression that is weightless. It made you think of the trapeze. “It’s ok,” he assures you, warm hand on yours, “it’s not your fault… Anyway!” You use the very sarcastic brows you’ve been given to convey your concern about the neck snapping shift in tone. Dick looks at you sheepish, hand rubbing the back of his neck before deciding to soldier on. “We don’t know why but some individuals are brought back to life and are made immortal. We’ve— I’ve got a few working theories but—”

“Immortal.” You repeat, trying to make the concept make sense.

“We, now including you, don’t die, kid.” Slade deadpans.

“Thanks. I’ve read a dictionary.” You say, eyes flicking to your very much intact stomach. Dick laughs, the sound high and breezy. He tries to stifle it but even the hand cupped over his mouth couldn’t contain the sound. Slade’s long leg stretches to give Dick a not so light kick. This does nothing but increase the volume of his laughter. You look back up at them. “So, what does my latest existential crisis have to do with either of you?”

“Well for one,” Slade says, standing up, “we can’t have you running around with a millenia old secret without even attempting to teach you how to disappear first.” This is what gets your stomach to rebel. Bile is climbing up your throat. Dick, quick as a whip, holds a trash can out for you. You put your hand in front of you. You hold out your hand to stop him, not even sure if you had anything in your stomach aside from acid.

You had just started getting your life back together and then this. Shaking your head, you try to break the thought down into more manageable pieces before swallowing it. “Ok. ok. That makes sense. I guess.”

Dick pulls back still looking concerned. “You are taking this alarmingly well.”

You stare at him. Your stomach rolls again. "Do I have a choice?" You ask from behind your hand.

Slade huffs, "she's right, kid."

"Is he just gonna keep calling us kid or..."

"Considering he's got 700 years on the both of us?" Dick laughs like he didn't just hit you with a ton of bricks.

"Ah, so he's a museum piece. Got it." You deadpan and you're rewarded with another roll of laughter from Dick. Slade grunts but doesn't protest much more than that. You turn your focus to Dick. "So how old are you?"

"A lady never tells," Dick says, crows feet wrinkling at the corners of his eyes. You blow air between your lips. "Lemme guess, you're like 2000 years old."

Dick makes a noise; it sounds offended. You don't much care, finally feeling a smile creeping on to your face. It doesn't hurt when you do not like everything else right now. That fact would be almost uncomfortable if you weren't so weary.

Folding your knees against your chest, you squish your face against your arms. "No seriously, old man. How old are you?"

"You're persistent." Dick hums.

"I want to know if I can cite you for my thesis on ancient greek culture."

Dick shakes his head. "You're better off citing him."

"Sadly, he's right Grayson is just a mere 27 years old."

You blink. He's— He's around your age. You breathe. "Ok so I'm not alone. Great."

"You're not," Slade says, "he was much harder to deal with."

"Do I have to keep mentioning that you shot me twice?" Dick asks crossing his arm sover his chest.

"Are you ever going to stop bringing it up?"

"When it stops working."

"It ever started."

From their banter, they're familiar with each other. The tiredness from before ebbs back in. You feel alone. Out of habit, you bury your head against your knees. There is something comforting about the stillness.

A warm hand settles on your shoulder. You jolt up, knocking the back of your skull against the headboard. It makes a loud thunk against the wall. Dick winces, pulling his hand away from you. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine." You lied still seeing stars.

They look unconvinced. You don't quite care. "You look like you need a good meal."

"Or a hot shower," Slade suggests.

You think it over, hand on your stomach brain still looking for the bullet wound. Eyes flicking between both, you lick your lips before saying: "I'll take you up on that shower." Your eyes drift back down to your arms, concentrating on the small details, the imperfections you've gathered through the years. The thought that you won't be able to add more doesn't really register like it should.

Dick nods getting up to grab something. "I might need a couple of minutes in there," you say absently.

"Take all the time you need." Dick says handing you a towel and a fresh shirt. You accept them with a small nod, carefully peeling yourself away from the bed. Your eyes go into a tunnel vision, only focused on the door to the shower.

You stop, a hand gripping your wrist. The pressure is solid and reassuring. You turn back to see Dick, biting his cheek."It'll get better I promise."

You give Dick a crooked smile. "I'll probably feel a lot better when I'm not covered in blood."

"That always helps," Slade says flatly.

"You'd know."

"You really wanna scare her more right now?"

"It's just way too easy with you around."

"Please save the other world shattering revelations after my shower," You whine pulling the towel to your chest.

"Can't promise that." Slade says with a rumble that just radiates bastard.

You blow out a breath, raising a middle finger over your shoulder. It was a rude gesture you'd never normally even consider but it felt appropriate at this moment.

"Hope you don't mind pizza." Dick says already dialing the number.

You stop leaning against the door, face squished against the frame. "What kind?"

"Hnnnnn... I figure you would like ham and mushrooms."

With amusement, you note how Slade blanches quietly behind Dick. You quietly question both of their maturities. "how'd you figure oh wise ancient one?"

"Please don't ask him that."

"Why not? I'm curious to see how his mind works."

"You're going to regret that."

You cock your brow as Dick draws himself up. He reminds you of a pitcher winding up. "Because I'm a fun—guy, get it?"

Slade groans, hand on his face and for once he looks like an old man not like a terrifying wall of intimidation.

"You're right. I do regret it," you say, stifling a laugh,"anyway, if you'll excuse me, the shower is calling my name. You two love birds have fun."

Slade sits beside Dick, an arm wrapping around his waist. "You heard the lady. She told us to have fun," Slade rumbles into Dick's ear only loud enough for you to hear. You flush. Realization hitting you like a truck. The color of Dick's face mimicking yours as he shoves Slade's face away. That warm shower will now be a cold one, you think as you awkwardly shuffle into the bathroom.

Instead of a shower, you elected for a nice soak. You're too weary and rung out and you hadn't seen a decent bath tub in a few years so you took the chance. It's not like an infection from the tub could kill you, right?

You step out of the bathroom feeling refreshed if not a bit cold from your shirt. Dick's shirt was big but it stopped shy of your thighs. You couldn't really complain. You were just happy to get out of the blood soaked clothes.

You pad your way into the room and eyes are instantly on you. Slade quite blatantly stares at the curve of your ass as it peaks out from under your shirt. You think of scolding him but decide to leave that up to Dick who… is also staring at you… in the same area. He has the decency to look embarrassed when you catch him. Clearing his throat, Dick answers the knock on the door which just adds another set of eyes on you.

A poor pimple faced kid stands frozen at the door, slack jawed. His eyes dart around the room, frantically looking for a camera or something. You sigh. You too could see how this could be a lazy set up to a porn. You’re slightly flattered at the idea that you could be astronomically hot enough to be in a porn with either of these two but you’re more worried about the kid having to deal with a boner while he delivers pizzas. Dick, incredibly oblivious to the problem, seems to take his time looking for his wallet.

Slade, not oblivious to the problem, makes his way to the poor kid, looking as imposing as possible as he hands the kid a fifty. Whatever arousal the kid felt at the moment floods out of him along with any color in his face.

You snort plopping on to the bed and crossing your leg over the other and you watch as the men’s eyes widen as they trace the expanse of skin. This is the closest you will ever be to a bond girl.

Slade slams the door in the kids face, not even bothering with the change. Dick rolls his eyes with a crooked smile playing on his lips. “She hasn’t been with us for a day and you’re already acting possessive,” Dick laughs, patting Slade’s chest as he walks past.

Dick plops on the bed next to you. You press your cheek into his shoulder as he opens the box. The smell of greasy cheese and canned vegetables floods your nostrils in a concert of sweet, unhealthy goodness. Your stomach rumbles and your hand darts down to get a piece. Your hand jerks back as your skin tingles from the heat.

“Sorry, love, you can still feel pain.” Dick says, puckering his face as he blows the rising steam away. As if to be contrary, Slade grabs the largest slice and immediately takes a bite. You turn to Dick, raising a brow to ask. “Him? He’s just a weirdo.” Dick answers, grabbing his own slice. You roll your eyes grabbing your own slice.

Dick’s trying hard not to stare at your legs but ends up staring at your lips instead. “Do you have any spare pants?” You ask around a mouthful of pizza.

“I’ll get it,” Slade says before Dick can even stumble out a response, “clearly wonder boy hadn’t thought this through.”

You hum around another mouthful in agreement and Dick just looks at you betrayed. You uncross and recross your legs to prove your point.

Shifting away from Dick and swallowing the last bit of your pizza, you take the pants Slade offers you and you’re not at all surprised that it doesn’t fit right. “Any chance I can go back to my apartment? Even just for clothes?”

“Sadly no.”

“Should I ask?”

“Do you really feel like talking to cops right now, kid?”

“Yanno, you’re gonna have to distinguish between us at some point,” Dick huffs, opening a can of soda,”and she’s right we do need to get her new clothes.” He hands you a can. Not feeling parched, you just roll it in your palm feeling the need to indulge in the feeling on cool metal. You catch yourself before you tuck your legs against your chest again.

“I don’t see why you’re so hell bent on this, kid 1. You clearly like seeing her in your clothes.” Slade says, flatly the way you’d read out the summary of a particularly boring movie summary, probably based on a Nicholas Sparks novel.

“You think adding a number is enough effort to distinguish us?” Dick sneers, trying to distract from the flush of his cheeks.

“Would you prefer I call you ‘Sport’?”

“Dick, for both of our sake’s please accept being called Sport.”

“No!”

“How about ‘Chum’?”

Dick’s nose wrinkles at the name. You’re not sure if it’s the name itself, the way it rolls off of Slade’s tongue, or something to do with your dream. You don’t know Dick well enough to discern.

“Please don’t.” Dick tries politely and there’s a tinge of sadness in his tone. Slade seems to back off, easing into his chair.

You open your mouth wanting to pry but instead of asking the question on the tip of your tongue, you settle for asking for another slice. The air is full of questions but you’re not really sure which one to pluck out. Then again, you’ve got time. And really? Right now, that’s all you have.

Before you can dwell too much on that thought, Slade turns the TV on to drown out whatever Dick was saying. You’d tuned him out a little bit ago. It wasn’t really a matter of choice; it was more a matter of your brain going on power saving mode.

You blink sleepily, the voice of the anchor falling into a low hum in your mind. You’re pretty sure your name blips in between the static of words. There’s a dull recognition in the words ‘kidnapping’ and ‘suspects’ but it all seems so distant at the moment. No reaction registers upon realizing that they were probably talking about your kidnapping and really could anyone blame you when some cosmic fuckery just occurred and now your life has been turned on its head? ____________________________________________________________ Thanks for reading!

#dick grayson x reader #slade wilson x reader #Slade Wilson #dick grayson #slade wilson imagine #dick grayson imagine #crack au #poly

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dekus-afro-pic · 3 years

Text

Bright Blue Butterfly

Tamaki Amajiki x Reader

Warnings ⚠️:: This Fic includes blood, fighting, crying, death(kinda), descriptions of depression and eating disorders, profanity. ALSO BNHA SPOILERS

Summary :: You were apart of U.A’s Fabulous 4, which was originally the Big Three. You had gotten close to Mirio and Tamaki when the three of you were in primary school. You had even interned under Fatgum. When the villains and heroes were battling, you had gotten separated from your team. No words from your Suneater or Fatgum left you in a depressive state.

Genre- Angst to Fluff

You and various other heroes were fighting for hours. Hours that felt like days, without knowing who had died or who were still fighting for their life. You were split up from Fatgum and Tamaki during Gigantomachia’s “fun run” and found yourself assisting Deku, Bakugo, and Todoroki in their battle with Shigaraki.

That was until Dabi decided to reveal that he was also a Todoroki. Shoto stood in shock while the villain twirled and traumatized him more. Your heart broke at the sight of tears streaming down Shoto’s eyes for you have grown close to the youngest Todoroki and viewed him as a little brother. You tried using your quirk to pull the first year out of the way but blue flames burnt your tentacle-like wings.

You were giving it your all. Trying to stay alive for him. Your sun eater. Your sweet precious Tama. You, Tamaki, and Mirio were childhood friends. After Mirio lost his quirk the two of you promised to never let your heart stop beating while fighting and you were determined to keep that promise.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Bakugo plummeting to the ground. You dodged another wave of blue flames as your legs pushed to catch the falling boy. But Tenya was there right on time.

“TENYA GET HIM OUT OF HERE” You yelled at the boy.

“HEY GUYS. HEARD YOU COULD USE SOME HELP” You heard Nejire’s voice call out.

Before you could warn her about Dabi’s flames, fabric strings wrapped around the gigantic monster.

“Sorry I’m running fashionably late” Best Jeanist announced.

Deku and Shigaraki were still out cold as the fight went on. Nejire fought against Dabi’s flames while you and Best Jeanist tried to capture Gigantomachia.

“This is one big bitch” you sigh tiredly.

“That’s a nono word Y/n-Chan,” Mirio said, erupting from the ground.

“LEMILLION” you cry “YOUR BACK IN ACTION”

With the extra help, you guys apprehended Mr. Compress and other villains. Nejire’s and your body were burnt in various places, Deku’s limbs were hanging by a thread, Shoto had new-formed scars. Mentally and physically.

You were hospitalized for 2 weeks. Half of your left-wing was gone but to your advantage the doctors said it’ll grow back. Mirio came to visit every other day. You had been roommates with Nejire before she was discharged and put on bed rest. Even Shoto came to visit you every day, although his visits consisted of him crying into your chest as you comforted him. But no sign of Tamaki or Fatgum.

You’d watch the news every day to see any new updates to the fatalities list. But there their names were, bright as day, on the still missing list.

Once you were able to leave, you ran to the last place you saw them. The forest was still wrapped in yellow police tape. Scenes from the horrendous fight flashed through your head. Still, in your hospital gown, you duck under the yellow plastic and search for any clue or any pieces of them you could find.

You climbed through trees, looked through ash piles, under rocks, EVERYWHERE to find ANYTHING. You threw a heavy rock at a nearby tree, screaming in frustration. You watched as Tamaki’s Signature hooded cape float from the tree and into your hands. Tears forming in your eyes as you clutch at the fabric, you scream

“DAMNIT TAMA YOU PROMISED” You sobbed into the cape “YOU PROMISED. YOU PROMISED. YOU PROMISED”

You probably shouldn’t have been screaming so loud, since villains could be creeping around the area. But you couldn’t give not one flying fuck. Your heart, your sun eater, your sunshine was gone. And you weren’t even there to say goodbye. To save him.

You punched at the tree, leaving your newly healed knuckles bloody and broken. Your chest felt heavy as you slumped down to the ground, clutching at the fabric.

You slid the cape over your head and inhaled the scent of your forever lover. It still smelled just like him.

With your remaining strength, you stand up and begin walking back to the U.A student dormitories.

Before you could reach the big wooden doors to the 3rd year dormitory, a bright blue buttery landed on the tip of your nose.

“Hello Beautiful” You hoarsely whispered. “Butterflies were always his favorite. Especially blue ones like you”

The door opened, revealing it to be Mirio. You watched as the butterfly flew away at the sudden sound and teared up once again. You turn to face Mirio, who already had tears running down his face at the sight of you in your best friend's cape.

“Mirio-Kun” you choke, falling into his arms. The blonde catches you and helps you into the building.

That was the last day anyone had seen you. You hadn’t come down to eat, to watch tv, to socialize in almost a week. Whenever Mirio brought you food in the morning, it’ll still be at your door at lunch. The only things you were capable of were crying yourself to sleep and waking up a 3 in the morning to shower.

You hadn’t even bothered to look at the news anymore. You laid in your bed wrapped in Tama’s cape surrounded by his clothes that he’d sometimes leave in your room. You were far from healing. In order for you to heal, you’d need your SunEater back.

You had woken up at 3 in the morning crying like you have been for the past couple of days. In an attempt to distract yourself, you wrap yourself in one of Tamaki’s many scarves and made your way to the kitchen. Everything in the dormitory looked normal. But you knew it could never be normal without Tamaki even being in his or your room. Your voice never came back to you due to your constant crying. So you fill-up the kettle with water and put it on the stove eye. Once the kettle was screaming, you pour the water into your cup, place your tea bag in, and watch the tea seep in.

“Y/n!” Mirio and Nejire came running towards you, engulfing you in a big hug. You placed the hot mug down before they spilled it everywhere and returned the gesture. You gave them both a confused look as they took you by the hand and rushed out of the dormitory.

You wanted to ask where they were taking you at 4 in the morning but every time you tried to talk your throat burned in return. You wanted to cry. When you looked past your friends' heads you saw they were taking g you to the hospital. Were they taking you to get mental help? Were they about to leave you here? You tried to pull out of their hold but they kept a firm grip on your wrists.

“3 visitors for Amajiki,” Mirio told the nurse behind the counter. Your movements stopped. What did he just say?

Everything started to move in slow motion. Everything was soundless. You didn’t even hear what room number the nurse had told him. All you could think about was finding Tama’s cape in the woods that day. The two let go of your wrist to open the door to his room. Your legs wouldn’t listen to your brain and move. You stood there frozen while the door remained open.

“Come on Y/n. He’s waking up” Nejire said softly, taking your hand in hers and gently pulling you through the threshold.

Mirio was the first to pull the anxious boy into a hug. He was rambling about how much he had missed his best friend. You clutched at the scarf that was wrapped around your neck as Nejire walked over to his bed.

“Y-y/n?” Tamaki’s teary eyes widened as you caressed his cheek.

“H-Hi T-Tama” You croaked. Your voice was worse than you imagined but that was the least of your worries. You placed your forehead against him, letting tears stream down both of your faces. Tamaki pulled you in closer, sobbing into your shoulder as you did the same.

“T-They told m-me t-t-that you d-didn’t make it” He choked out. You held his face in both of your hands, kissing his nose you look into his eyes.

“Shh, I’m here now Tama. We’re together now” you smile.

You hadn’t realized that your friends had left the room until you crawled into his bed, letting him wrap his arms around you.

“Y-your wing!” He exclaimed, reaching for the bandages around your back “And you’re w-wearing my s-scarf”

“Oh...yeah. One of the villains burnt some of my wing off. It’ll grow back. Just gotta give it time” you explain running your fingers along his hand. You kissed the scars covering his forearms and his hands, leaving the boy red in the face.

“I want to go home” He groaned, burrowing his face into your shoulder. “W-When I was l-laying on the ground. A b-blue butterfly landed on m-my nose. I told it to find you to let you know that I was going to be ok.”

“That’s one trained butterfly then” you joke. “One landed on my nose last week when I...found your cape”

You switched sides to be face to face with your lover and kissed at the tears that trailed down his face. “Don’t cry Tama. I’ve done enough of that for the both of us”

“I-I love you s-so much” He whispered. Looking into your eyes with his teary ones.

You lean foreword to press a kiss upon his lips. Tamaki pulled your chest against his and let his hands wonder to your hips while your hands never left his face.

“I love you too Tama”

#mha #mha fanfiction #mha headcanons #mha x reader #mha x y/n #my hero academia #kirishima x reader #amajiki tamaki x reader #tamaki headcanons #tamaki amakiji #amajiki x y/n #mha tamaki #tamaki amajiki #mha angst #mha fluff #tamaki angst #tamaki fluff

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perriewinklenerdie · 3 years

Text

Photograph (Ethan Ramsey x MC)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Claire Herondale

Word count: 1,8 k

Summary: Claire and Ethan attend Naveen’s birthday party ft. jealous Ethan

Warnings: None (though MSWord told me that ‘bastard’ might be offensive to my readers so who knows)

A/N: @justanotherrookie look, I made it :D it’s an honor to be considered your friend, you slay my life, pls continue to do so <3

A large clothing bag was thrown over his shoulder as he strode towards his office. The light of the day was slowly giving way to the dimness of the evening. Ethan exchanged his working clothes and a white coat for a tux, hair styled meticulously and an alluring scent of his cologne filling the air around him.

He expected her to be waiting for him inside, but upon entering the room, he noticed her absence. Before he could reach for his phone to call her, the door opened and a very frenzied and out of breath Claire appeared. Their eyes locked and she breathed out in relief at the sight of him.

“Sorry I’m late, our patient in 507 needed additional tests run and then there was hold up in the lab and I couldn’t get the results fast enough- “

“Take a breath, baby, calm down.” He laughed under his breath, wrapping his arms around her to pull her closer. She stared up at him for a moment, then stood on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips. She let out a low hum of contentment.

“Mmh Ethan Ramsey, the best tranquilizer known to humankind.” Claire complimented, brushing her nose against his. “I’m not sharing with anyone, though.”

“Spoken like a true addict. Though, I have to say…” he gripped her hips tighter, smirking at the way her pupils dilated slightly at the motion. “You’re addictive too.”

She leaned up to kiss him again only for her lips to meet his cheek when his head turned. Slightly confused, she leaned away to look at him.

“If you kiss me again, we’ll never make it to the party.” He muttered, stroking her jaw with his thumb. “Go get ready, there’s still time.”

It takes her entire twenty minutes for her to put her dress and shoes on, touch up her makeup and tame her hair. Ethan was waiting for her by the wall, his head rising to look at her when she came back. His breath got caught in his throat for a split second, awe induced by her entire being stopping his thought process momentarily.

He walked over to her, smoothing out one unruly lock of hair, his over hand tracing the edge of the cleavage of her dress.

“I take it you like it?” Claire grinned, toying with the lapel of his jacket. He hummed affirmatively, bringing her closer to his side as they began walking.

“If it wasn’t for the party, I would have shown you just how much.”

Naveen, unlike his protégé, liked to celebrate his birthday. He didn’t manage to organize himself a party every year, so he settled for throwing a rather big get-together every few years. Other than that, he settled for small celebrations with Harper, Ethan and, since last year, Claire.

This year, however, was the party year. Claire couldn’t wait. Ethan, on the other hand, wasn’t looking forward to it as much. Tradition was tradition, however, and combined with very convincing arguments from Claire, he didn’t argue.

Due to the situation at the hospital, they were running a bit late. Their saving grace was that they bought the present a few days earlier and that the host was their very dear friend.

“I was beginning to think you two wouldn’t make it!” Naveen exclaimed, greeting the two by the entrance to the bar. He embraced Claire, then Ethan, smiling widely at the pair.

“I like to think we’re fashionably late.” She winked, then passed the gift she was holding to him, warning him of its weight. The oldest doctor deposited the bag at the table near the side of the room, then guided the pair to the group of people by the bar.

“I’m sure you all remember Ethan, so let me introduce you to Claire Herondale, a brilliant young doctor that I literally owe my life to.” Naveen spoke up, a pride tone in his voice when the memories of the pair working together on his case flooded his mind. Claire blushed a bit, taking a small step towards the group.

“Naveen is entirely too generous in his assessment.”

“No, he’s not.” Ethan argued, smiling down at his girlfriend. His hand glided up and down her side affectionately. “You are brilliant.”

Among the people in the group, most of them shared a common feature of surprise at the affectionate side of Ethan Ramsey. They’ve met a couple of times at public functions more or less formal than this one, but all those instances had one thing in common. Ethan Ramsey was alone. Ethan Ramsey was solely focused on his work and his patients. So, to see him with a woman on his arm, and to see him so infatuated with her, was a sight for sure.

Ethan didn’t mind most of the people Naveen invited. They were all amazing doctors and scientists; talking to them was usually an interesting and challenging for his brain experience.

That statement, however, wasn’t entirely true when it came to Jonathan Millstone. In general, he didn’t mind the man all that much. As a researcher, he was great. As a man, not so much. From his more than forward attitude, to his treatment of other people, women especially, everything combined into a not so alluring picture in Ethan’s opinion. He never voiced it, however, as the behavior of the researcher never impacted him directly.

Up until that point, that is.

Because Jonathan had wandering eyes. And his gaze has made itself at home on Claire. Her face, her neck, her waist. The slit of her dress. But most of all, the neckline of the said dress.

There was no shame in his ogling, not a hint of embarrassment when she noticed him staring. He didn’t say a word to her, just stood there and watched.

She breathed in heavily, trying to keep her annoyance at bay. Sensing how motionless Ethan has become, she snaked her hand around his arm, pushing herself closer to his side, twisting her body slightly to shield herself from insisting eyes of the other man. Ethan’s arm immediately wrapped tighter around her, amplifying the effect of her actions. It was the subtlest way she could have given Jonathan a hint that she was in a relationship and wasn’t, even in the slightest, interested or flattered by his behavior.

Surprising no one, he didn’t take a hint.

As they walked away from the group, Claire turned towards Ethan with a glint in her eyes.

“That was some impressive jealousy management you had there, Dr. Ramsey.” She gripped the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. His hands squeezed her sides, his lips hovering right above hers.

“I was holding onto the last bits of patience.”

“I’m glad you did. Tonight, is about Naveen.”

A teasing grin grew on his lips in one moment, and in the next, he was twirling her out and into his arms. His fingers twisted the fabric of her dress slightly, the material rising off the ground a bit. Claire wrapped her arms around his neck, their face coming so close together that they were breathing the same air.

A soft sound of a working camera broke the bubble they were in, causing them both to look over. A photographer stood there, asking them if he could take a portrait of the two of them, per request of the host.

Ethan didn’t have to search very long for Naveen, who had a satisfied smile on his face. He shook his head with a sigh, then turned back to the photographer, nodding slightly in agreement.

With his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, they faced the camera, easy grins lighting up their features. Claire’s hand glided over his back, then slipped into the pocket of his jacket, the tips of her fingers pressing into his side playfully.

“Remind me to get that photo from Naveen later.” He muttered into her ear when they were alone again. She nodded, pressing them together so they could dance.

A few songs later, Claire managed to persuade him to let her get them drinks. And it did take some heavy convincing, especially when the first response she got was ‘I’m not going to be drinking any colorful nonsense’. She promised to not disappoint, then went towards the bar.

He turned around, coming face to face with Jonathan Millstone. He watched something right above the diagnostician’s shoulder, and Ethan didn’t have to guess or turn around to know just who was on the end of his gaze. When two men looked at each other, smugness and arrogance met irritation and disapproval. An explosive mix.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Ramsey with a date.”

“Would it kill you to be more respectful towards anyone?”

“She’s a real piece of beauty. You’re one lucky bastard, getting to score her.” Jonathan admitted out loud, watching how his words affected the doctor. Ethan’s hands rolled into fists and he was about to take a step towards the man, when a deadly calm voice called out from behind him.

“And you’re a real piece of an asshole.”

Both men froze in place when Claire walked to stand next to them. One would expect an angry scowl to reside on her face, but instead, she was neutral. Not a single emotion shown.

Wordlessly, she passed Ethan his glass of scotch, her eyes zeroing in on Jonathan. She weighed her own drink in the glass, swirling the liquid inside a couple of times. When she raised it, the researcher took a step back, expecting her to throw a drink in his face. Instead, she took a sip, smirking at his scared expression.

“You’re also lucky. I won’t make a scene at Naveen’s party.”

He thought he was off the hook. Oh, how wrong he was. Ethan took a definite step towards him, gripping his arm in a vice-like hold. “I’m not that generous, though. I suggest you learn your lesson and beat it.”

With a curt nod, he bid them goodbye (very respectfully) and got lost in the crowd. Claire’s face finally broke out into a smile.

“That felt good.” She shook her shoulders a bit, laughing in relief. Ethan bent his head, lips tracing the shell of her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

“It was also incredibly attractive.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his pants to drag him closer, her expression feigning innocence despite very suggestive looks they were both giving one another.

“Let me get you home so you can find out.”

Notes

We’re absolutely going to ignore the difference between the dress in the fic and the dress in the pic (yes, I’m a poet)

Denise, find the Hamilton reference (a literal line, no shame) :D

Tagging separately

#open heart #ethan ramsey #playchoices

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primasveraas-writing · 3 years

Text

"Kent v Fucking Automobile" -Ted Lasso

This is an accompanying piece to 2 others in this series, but I consider it an AU of the first one. The subject matter is the same, but things go down differently. This one can be read on its own.

Part 1 // Part 2

WORDS: 3482

XXX

Roy Kent’s life is fucking incredible.

For one, he has a gorgeous, wonderful wife, with whom he has a fucking wonderful son, and if that weren’t enough, they’re expecting another baby in just a few short months. But, not only does Roy have a perfect fucking family that he loves, he also has one of the greatest fucking jobs in the world: coaching AFC Richmond (a career second only to being a footballer himself).

He’s headed to work early; Sam needs him for something before practice, and apparently, Roy loves this team enough to miss part of his morning with his wife and son.

It’s one of those days where he’s on autopilot, barely needing to pay attention to what he’s doing. He’s slowing for a traffic light when it turns green, and then there is a mass moving towards him, and he jerks the steering wheel, dread heavy in his chest.

All Roy knows is that he’s bracing himself, then there’s pain, then a hot flash striking his arms and face, then the world stills and he’s opening his eyes. There’s an airbag in his face and horrible pressure against his right side. He blinks, slowly, and tries to take a steadying breath. That doesn’t hurt, at least, and he looks around.

His door is bashed in, bent awkwardly into his body. He can hardly see around the airbag, but he can feel the metal against his leg- his fucking leg, as if it weren’t fucked up enough- and the other car is rammed into his own. Roy swears, loudly, and realizes that there are people starting to swarm around the wreck. He groans and curses again- he doesn't particularly fancy making the headlines with this one.

He gives one of the pedestrians a thumbs up, then fumbles around for his phone. There's no moving until the other car is gone, and even then, Roy's not sure he'd be able to climb out of his seat without collapsing. The phone rings once, twice; long enough that Roy can feel his hands shaking.

"Keeley," he says when she picks up.

"Roy," his wife answers, and she sounds startled.

"I'm okay," Roy says, staring down a bystander, who's unabashedly taking pictures of the scene. "Whatever you see, I'm okay."

"Okay," Keeley says, and there's an edge to her voice now. "What's-"

"I was in a car accident. I'm fine."

Keeley gasps; Roy wavers, suddenly regretting his bluntness. "Some wanker hit me from the side. Airbags went off but aside from being very pissed, I'm alright."

He hears Keeley breathe in and out deeply, and more anxiety bubbles in Roy's stomach. He feels hot, uncomfortably warm, and when he raises his free hand to his head, it comes away wet with blood.

"Are you sure you're alright, Roy? Did you call 999?"

"No," he mutters. "Though I'm sure someone else did." A beat, then:

"I think I fucked up my leg."

"Does it hurt?"

Roy looks down, tries to move his leg, and bites down hard on his tongue to keep from yelling. "A little."

"Okay." He can hear Keeley moving in the background, undoubtedly getting her keys. "Where are you?"

Roy peers through his cracked windshield and finds his vision is blurry. "I don't know," he whispers, and closes his eyes. "I was on my way to the pitch, but-"

"Right. I'm coming to find you."

"Wait," Roy warns. He can hear sirens approaching. "Worry about Oliver first. I'll meet you at the hospital, okay?"

"Okay." Keeley manages to sound businesslike. He knows she's trying not to reveal her worry, and that she knows he's downplaying the circumstances. "I'll see you there, then."

Roy waits for her to end the call. There's a few seconds of silence.

"You're okay, yeah?"

"Yes, Keeley," Roy promises. "I'll see you soon."

"Okay," she whispers back. "Love you."

"Love you, sweetheart."

Keeley stands in her kitchen and releases the kind of profanity only Roy is usually capable of. Her purse and keys are already gathered in her hands, but there's just one thing she has to worry about first.

"Oliver, love, we're going-" She bites her tongue. She can waste precious minutes asking the neighbor to come and watch him; if that fails, she'll have to find someone to come over and that could take any amount of time.

"We're going to the hospital!" She declares, and her and Roy's little terror sprints into the room and cheers.

Keeley scoops him into her arms, feeling incredibly unbalanced, and makes her exit, grabbing the first pair of baby shoes she can find. She's sure she's missing something, but at least her toddler won't have bare feet.

She calls Ted and Rebecca on the way there; Ted to watch her son and Rebecca to watch her. It'll make them both late to work, she's sure, but there are few people she'd trust more to support her family.

As expected, both of her friends drop everything to help her. Ted sobers up the moment after Keeley says hello; the worry in her words must be painfully evident. In turn, Rebecca vows to be at the hospital in a time that guarantees some horribly reckless driving, which is terrible, given the circumstances, but Keeley knows Rebecca and her best friend bribing her driver isn’t Keeley’s greatest concern right now.

Unsurprisingly, Rebecca is waiting at the hospital for them, Ted at her side. He’s white in the face, which confirms Keeley’s suspicions about their ride over, but he scoops Oliver into his arms, asking how his day has been and if he’d like Special Texas Pancakes for lunch. Keeley offers Ted a wordless smile in thanks before Rebecca takes her inside.

“All I know is they’ve admitted him,” Rebecca says, glancing at the receptionist. “They wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

“Right, well, you can’t bribe hospital staff all too easy,” Keeley muses. She gives her name to the attendant, who, despite Rebecca’s glowering, tells them to wait, and they take a seat.

It’s only a few minutes before a nurse is pointed towards them. He smiles at them, which Keeley takes as a good sign, though she still clings to Rebecca’s hand during the whole of the conversation.

Roy is fine; he was brought in conscious, but with a severe leg injury and a probable concussion. The doctors aren’t terribly worried, but they have to act fast.

“We understand that Mr. Kent has a previous knee injury.” Keeley nods. “This complicates things. Preliminary tests suggest that there’s further damage to his knee. We still need to do an x-ray and an MRI, but it’s likely that he’ll need surgery.”

Keeley swallows, hard; the youngest Kent-Jones gives her bladder a kick, and she shifts uncomfortably.

“We’ll let you back as soon as we find a room for Mr. Kent.”

“I’d like to see him before any surgery,” Keeley asserts, but her voice is strained.

The nurse nods. “Of course, Ms. Jones.”

Soon translates to an hour, but Rebecca occupies Keeley, complaining about idiot businessmen and updates on her mum and anything else asinine that Rebecca can think of. Keeley’s leg shakes up and down, but her thoughts aren’t totally captivated by worry, and that’s good enough.

A different nurse takes her back to see Roy when it’s time, and they wind down a long series of identical hallways. The air is stale with sickness and nerves, and Keeley’s boots click on the linoleum of the otherwise silent hall. Then, they round a corner and the nurse pushes open a door, leading Keeley past curtained-off beds and finally, to Roy.

His eyes are closed. Bright red skin indicates the burn of a deployed airbag, and there are cuts on his face and arm. The hospital gown does him no favors, revealing his mangled leg and the mess of bandages covering his knee.

Tears well in Keeley’s eyes. It’s the most vulnerable she’s seen Roy, topping his last game with Richmond, his retirement conference, and his reaction to the birth of his first child. He’s pale, clearly in pain, but when his eyes open, they seize her up quickly.

She breathes out his name, moves to the head of the bed to run her fingers through his hair, and presses a kiss to the unmarred part of his forehead. His hand captures hers, gripping tightly.

“I fucked my knee,” he whispers, and Keeley nods.

“We’re gonna unfuck your knee,” she tells him, unsure of how much she means it. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Roy nods, alert, but obviously tired. His voice was shaking on their call; it’s steady now, but Roy is stuck in a grimace, and he’s barely moving as he talks to her.

“What did they tell you?”

“Not a lot. What did they tell you?”

Roy eyes her suspiciously. “Fuck all. They did a hundred fucking tests and kept their damn mouths shut.”

“Okay. Let’s wait for the doctor, then.”

“Keeley-”

They know each other so well. She’s hard-pressed to get out of this one.

She can see the argument brewing in his mind- his lips are parted, his trademark scowl graces his lovely features, and she knows that he has every right to be frustrated.

“Well, you’re not gonna lose your leg,” she informs him, and Roy snorts. Keeley bites her lip. “I think.”

“It’s fucking useless anyway.” Roy rolls his eyes. “I’m not fucking playing football with it.”

“Legs have other uses, you know,” Keeley points out, and Roy snorts again.

“Fuck that."

A smile is tugging at her lips, and Roy is about to mirror the expression despite everything fucking hurting when metal scapes against metal, and the curtains part to reveal a doctor, who smiles at them both. Roy scowls.

“You’re going to cut my fucking knee up.” He accuses, and the doctor nods.

“You tore several major ligaments and we need to prevent permanent nerve damage and limit the risk of blood clots.”

Roy’s scowl deepens, impossibly. “Fine.”

“Excellent. We’ll get prepped for emergency surgery.” She looks at Keeley and Roy, at how tightly they’re holding each other. “I’ll give you two a minute before we take you back.”

Keeley murmurs her thanks, and turns back to Roy.

“Right,” she says, brushing a stray curl off of his forehead. “You be good, and enjoy the hell out of those painkillers. I’ll see you soon.”

“Right,” Roy agrees, kissing the back of her hand. “Don’t eat shitty hospital food if you get hungry. Make Rebecca order you something fancy while you wait.” Roy’s brow creases. “Ted has Oliver, doesn’t he?”

“He does, yeah.”

“Fuck. Well, Ted can keep him when he has his massive fucking temper tantrum ‘cause of all the biscuits he’s eaten. And you fucking relax and don’t worry too much about me and my fucking knee, okay?”

“Okay.” Keeley bends to kiss him, and he smiles at her, not with his usual brilliance but something close, and that’s enough. She knows he’s in pain; she can read it in every line on his bruised face, but he’s being unflappable for her, and she can try and do the same. “I love you so much, Roy Kent.”

“I fucking love you, Keeley Jones,” he tells her. “And tell Ollie I love him too.”

“I will. He’s gonna cuddle the fuck out of you when we get home, you know that.”

“Damn right.”

Keeley stays with Roy until nurses come to take him into surgery. She watches them wheel her husband down the hall and through a forbidden set of double doors, and exhales.

She finds Rebecca quickly enough, who ensures they celebrate Roy’s prognosis and consciousness and retainment of his humor. Over and over, she repeats Roy’s words in her head: he’s going to be fine, and she shouldn’t worry too much.

Rebecca regales her with tales of the worst men she’s worked with; when that fails, they compare notes on baby names. They laugh and grin without light ever reaching their eyes and neither utter a word about it, but Rebecca confiscates Keeley’s phone when her Twitter mentions blow up. There are pictures of the accident, and of a bloodied Roy Kent being loaded in an ambulance, and Ted texts her to let her know that he’s brought Oliver inside where any nosy press won’t catch a glimpse of him. Her heart aches for her son, who would be distressed if he knew any better, and who likely won’t get to see much of his parents today. Ignorance is bliss, though, and Keeley thinks of Roy’s last smile to her, and not of his strained words when he called her, or the pictures of his totaled car online, or how fragile he looked in the hospital bed.

There’s a nagging at the back of her brain, though, of what would’ve happened if Roy couldn’t reach his phone, or if he left home a second sooner or a second later, or if she had gone with him, or if he had to drop Oliver off somewhere along the way, or if the other driver had been going a tiny bit faster or hit Roy at a slightly different angle. He’s lucky, after all, that it’s just his leg, that it’s not even broken, that their baby wasn’t in the backseat, that Roy will ultimately be fine after this, he’ll be fine, because he’s still so fucking young and his son is still a baby, really, and he hasn’t even met his second child yet.

Keeley takes a shaky breath, and Rebecca captures Keeley’s hand in both of her own. She rubs her thumb across the back of Keely’s hand, and the younger woman rests her head against Rebecca’s shoulder, and the two women stay like that for a long time.

It’s three hours before they get any word about Roy. Keeley thinks, really, that it should have been like, half an hour at most, but the nurse who talks to them says all good things, and that they’re almost done. Some of the damage is permanent, especially to Roy’s nerves, but the rest of him is fine. Walking normally will be the greatest challenge, and to Keeley, that’s a nominal problem given the rest of his prognosis.

Rebecca stews when they have to wait another couple of hours: first, the surgery has to wrap up, then Roy is brought to a recovery room to be monitored, then finally, finally, he’s moved to a private room where they can sit with him. The whole time, Rebecca lingers an inch away from total fury, but Keeley lets Rebecca be as angry as she likes, so that way, Keeley doesn’t have to be and all her energy can be focused on Roy.

It’s quieter when she sees Roy this time, more peaceful. Even Roy Kent doesn’t scowl in sleep, and despite the IV in his arm and the injuries peppering his skin, Roy appears at rest, genuinely so. Keeley waits, alone for the first time that day, for him to wake, and when he does, Roy only mumbles hi and offers a groggy smile before he’s out again. Keeley texts Rebecca and Ted an update, and that’s how her afternoon passes, her husband in and out of sleep, and not much else in the world mattering.

The next day is a flurry of doctors and physical therapists, and their three-year-old son navigating a hospital for the first time. Roy’s concussion means wearing sunglasses indoors, but Ted drops Oliver off with a matching pair for him and Keeley, and their first family picture after the accident is of them in the hospital, all wearing shades inside like a bunch of proper arseholes, Roy’s face impassive but Keeley and Oliver positively beaming at the camera. Roy learns how to navigate on crutches, as is the condition of his release, so he struggles his way up and down a short hallway, swearing all the while, his grouchy disposition only faltering when Oliver makes his opinion known about the matter (“Daddy has four legs!).

They’re sent home, donned in sunglasses and laden with crutches and high-grade painkillers, late that day, and Roy has to wonder if Rebecca’s paid off the press when he’s loaded from wheelchair to car without any twats snapping pictures of him at his worst. Later, he’ll confirm that she did, in fact, pay the tabloids to piss off, accompanying a press release along the same lines. He and Keeley are lucky to have such a friend, he knows, especially one that doesn’t believe in bullshit.

He’s absent at the next Richmond match and most of their practices the following week, in favor of sleeping frequently. Something wonderful about needing three fucking naps a day is that Oliver will nap with him, which gives Keely a much-needed break, and also there’s nothing fucking better than his baby asleep in his arms, because he loves his son so fucking much but sometimes it’s fucking nice when Oliver isn’t running around like a maniac, and Roy can just hold him.

Putting any weight on his leg is fucking hard. Showering is fucking impossible, bending down to pick up Oliver’s ridiculous toys is difficult, stairs are a fucking burden on humanity, and Roy is in so much fucking pain all the time. It gets better at a snail’s pace, and he manages to make it through a full day of work on an obscene amount of Tylenol and Ted literally cheering him on in the most annoying way possible. The only thing that pacifies him is Keeley coming in to kiss him at various intervals throughout the day, and he buries his head against her side and she runs her fingers through his hair, and their kid-on-the-way sometimes kicks against Keeley’s stomach, which never fails to be spectacular.

Roy masters crutches, even though the dumb fucking things make his armpits hurt, and a month after surgery, when Roy has endured physical therapy and public sympathy and a thousand fucking stairs, he begs his doctors to let him off them. And so, they introduce the next alternative that Roy will use for the rest of his fucking life.

A cane. Roy Kent, still fucking young, is fitted for a cane, which Ted immediately wants to decorate with lights and streamers and shit, and that Oliver tries to use as a fucking lightsaber and wack people with. It’s fucking terrible, but it’s also the first thing that makes Roy laugh after coming home from the doctor’s with his fancy new stick.

They told him and Keeley this, that first day in the hospital after the wreck. That he would never walk the same, that some of the nerves were too far gone. There’s nothing he can do, aside from physical therapy to build up some strength. It’s damning, and a hard pill to swallow, but Roy’s knee has been fucked since his last football match against Manchester, and he knows that. Keeley reminds him that his life is still pretty incredible, after all, and Roy has to agree.

His daughter is born shortly after, and Roy weeps when he figures out how to hold a cane in one hand and his precious baby in the other. Frequently, he looks like the corniest fucking dad ever, because it’s honestly easiest to carry Lily in a papoose, but Roy fucking Kent’s reputation holds up: he’s still the scariest motherfucker to ever grace the face of football. When he takes her to practice, though, he finds that this effect is somewhat diminished; he yells at one of the boys to tighten up, then his daughter gurgles, and Roy is caught gazing down at her with a dopey fucking smile on his face.

The first cane breaks when Richmond loses by a slim margin thanks to a few small mistakes. Roy is minutes into a post-match debrief when he punctuates what went wrong with the cane against the whiteboard, and the wood slams against metal and splinters into a hundred fucking pieces all across the locker room, footballers ducking for cover, Roy’s chest heaving as he surveys the scene. Then Ted sits Roy down, commends his incredible strength, and tells the team to goldfish their way through this, and that they’ll work through it during the next practice.

Oliver breaks the second cane. And the third. And then Roy concedes style to durability and gets a fucking metal cane that his kids aren’t allowed to touch.

His life is different, largely because he’s a father of two now, and stairs are fucking terrible and he hates them. But, aside from that, he’s still Roy Kent, Keeley Jones’ husband, parent to the two best fucking kids in the universe, football coach extraordinaire. That’s pretty fucking good, in his book, and in the end, there’s nothing fucking wrong with using a cane so long as Oliver doesn’t kill anyone with it.

#roy kent #roy kent fanfic #ted lasso #ted lasso fanfic #keeley x roy #roy kent x keeley jones #keeley jones #roy x keeley #roy x keeley fanfiction #roy x keeley fanfic #ted lasso fanfiction #ted lasso imagine

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