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halcyone-of-the-sea · 10 months

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Run Away To Me (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, being hunted/chased, medieval period-esc standards, arranged marriage insinuations, toxic family insinuations, angst, protective Johnny?, etc.

A/N: This series is so Lord Huron coded

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You rush through the low-hanging branches of the reaching pines, their green arms tearing at the once perfect and virginal white dress clothing your body; waves of delicate fabric like bird’s wings. Shredded and torn, you sob in large gasps while the shouting gets louder behind you—the pound of vile hooves along cobblestone.

“After her!” Blood was rushing down a long slice in your palm, dripping to the verdant grass as you traversed the off-trial paths, the roads of animals and bandits—monsters in the night.

Flashes of torchlight had gone out long ago, the rain slamming the ground with ancient purpose as the storm got angrier. Tree trunks slam into your shoulders, the wedding dress ripping away in strips as pine needles pierce the bare skin of your feet. Your shoes had slipped off as soon as you had started this mad dash.

“She went this way! Quickly!” You run faster, shuffling down a long hill as mud gets packed into your flesh; infecting wounds with its slimy make-up.

“Please,” your voice begs lowly, hiccuping out vowels as you drop to your knees at the bottom of a ravine before you sob and grit your teeth. Wading through the stream of chilled water, you dig into the ground and shove yourself up on shaking legs as rain pelts your head. “Please, I can’t go back.”

Even your thin clothes are heavy on you—body weighed down by terror and a desperate plea. Because what you said was true. You can’t go back. Can’t go back to the search party, can’t go back to the ceremony…and you can’t go back to the man you were supposed to marry. No, you’d rather face the woods.

Scaling up the other edge of the ravine, you slam a bloody hand down to the rocks atop, pebbles flying past your face as a flash of lightning momentarily illuminates your field of view. Noises reminiscent of an animal carve their way out of your esophagus, teeth gritted as feet slip and strain.

You heave yourself over and fight the weakness in your arms. Coughing, you pray the storm will wash away any trace of your charge to freedom—the blood and the tracks. With any luck, the hounds won’t be able to pick up your scent even with the strips of your dress left behind in the branches.

Pushing away the water from your forehead, you stumble onwards on unsteady feet that pound with pain. Grasping at your gushing palm, you cry out as the burning pain echoes up your forearm.

“Whatever God is out there,” You speak in gasps, slurring the words as your dry throat grates. It’s all but lost to the wind in its great bouts of staggering attacks through the trucks of the trees. “Please, offer me sanctuary.”

Lightning is the world’s answer, more streaks of light that make your soaked body flinch and shake even more. Yet, in that tiny second of light, there had been something in the far distance—a shadow.

Your eyes peer harder, the calls from the riders suck in the back of your mind as they taper off as the search is re-routed.

What was…?

Wooden sides, three separate rectangular shapes that stand firm in the rampaging elements. Your feet slide over the ground as you limp in the direction you’d seen them, the flesh of your body so cold that you had gone numb in the sheets of rainfall.

A heart fills with senseless hope.

A homestead! With no other option, you take a deep, ragged, breath and continue on as quickly as you’re able; dress hanging off one shoulder. When you reach the front door some ear-ringing minutes later you’re barely standing upright—legs teetering and thighs shaking with dying vigor.

Panting, your first banging to the wood is weak at best, barely a sound above the thunder and the slap of rain. You strangle a sob and wrench your shoulder back, landing three hard hits that act more like punches. Pain blossoms in your hand, but you continue striking the wood.

There’s a loud ruckus from behind the blackened barrier, a yell, and before your knuckles can make themselves bleed from fear-filled adrenaline, the door is whipped open. A dim firelight spills out from a low hearth and you find yourself staring into the narrowed eyes of a man and his exasperated expression.

There’s the beginning of a growl, heavy with an accented voice, “Now who in the hell is—!”

A strong jaw goes slack, brunette stubble stilling. Blue eyes like cobalt instantly peel back to show the whites, words strangled away in a sharp inhale.

The man is in his late twenties, stocky, and clothed in a loose sleep shirt made of thin linen with black pants. His shoulders were near large enough to knock on the frame of the door as he stood in it, built with the strength of a boar and then some. His large, lightly-tanned hand on the door slackens as his eyes speedily dart down your disoriented form. Biceps the size of your skull.

Heart hammering, you stare for a moment longer, rain pelting your back and looking like a wet dog. It’s as if you’ve forgotten to speak beyond gasps for air, but your eyes implore enough for you. The stranger recovers from his surprise at seeing such a beautiful lone woman at his door with a clearing of his throat.

“...Christ, Dearie, you’re soakin’ wet out here.” He shoulders the door open wider without another question. “Inside, now, quickly.”

You wrap your arms around your waist and speed into the shelter of the home, water dripping down to the wood as you shiver and your teeth clatter. Not for a second did you think if this might be safe or not, too scared of the riders and their hounds than anything. You wouldn’t allow them to drag you back to your husband-to-be. Not in a million years.

Your voice is hiccuping as you speak.

“I…I don’t mean to i-intrude, I’m very sorry, Sir.” The man looks around his home before he spots a large bear fur by the messy bed in the corner—he rushes over and grabs it. “I ask forgiveness for w-waking you at such an hour.”

“Jesus, is that what you’re worried about?” Blue eyes crease at you as the heavy fur over your shoulders; your hands snap to catch it, the entire thing swallowing you as gaze up in confusion. The man frowns, staring back as water drips from your nose. “Let’s just focus on gettin’ you dry, yeah? You’ll catch your death like this, Little Lady.”

A wide hand presses to the expanse of your spine, prodding you forward as you squeak at the sudden contact. You’re guided to a small chair in front of the hearth, plopped down and the sides of the fur are hiked up to your neck quickly.

The stranger kneels down in front of you, focused, and his tired eyes alight with worry. He makes sure the fur isn’t going to fall as he blinks over the state of your hands. He pauses, his large grip stalling at the sight of spreading blood.

Your wound—you’d almost forgotten.

“Now what’s this, then?” The brunette's words are quiet, very in-tune with your state as you try to catch your breath and shiver. It was like coaxing a wild animal.

Blinking, you shift your hand farther under the bear's fur, bringing it to your chest.

“I won’t be here long, Sir. I promise,” you try to change the topic, but quickly jerk your nose into the crook of your arm as you sneeze, bending over slightly as mud and blood stain your skin.

Lips tighten along a square face.

“It’s Johnny, Miss.” The world outside rages on, blocked out by the four walls of this nicely sized home of wooden logs and boards. It was well-made with pine and cider, the large hearth in the back wall with inlets near the shuddered windows and various crudely carved pieces of art.

Weapon displays lined the walls, various makes and models hung on pegs. Axes and swords, spears with red-leather shafts set next to halberds of black steel. You blink at them in slight concern, not used to being around weapons.

Johnny, as he calls himself, sees this and quickly explains as he rubs at the back of his head, eyes crinkling.

“Ah, Johnny MacTavish, the blacksmith, that is,” a small, rough chuckle echos out.

You ease at that.

“Mr. MacTavish,” you give your name and offer a kind, yet still anxious, smile. “I give my thanks for allowing me shelter. A-and the fur.”

His gaze slips down to your hidden hand once more, face swirling with an unidentified emotion before studying your torn wedding gown.

“Well, I’m not one to leave a person out on my doorstep in weather like this. Certainly not a Lady.” His brow raises, head tilting. “You going to let me clean that wound a’yours or am I going to have to fish it out myself?”

Your body tenses slowly, bare feet shuffling over the floor. Staring at Johnny, you gaze at the strangely cut hair atop his head and the messy strands that speak to a night of shifting on his bed. His face is honest and open to you, blinking in soft question as his head angles to the side with an easy twitch of his lips.

“It’s really not necessary,” you try to chuckle but it falls flat, eyes red and heart still speeding.

Johnny sighs and glances at the fire, blinking before he shifts to grab another log and toss it in with no concern for the heat of the flame that lap at his fingers. You watch his muscles bunch under his shirt and quickly look at your lap.

“I’m not the greatest doctor out there, Dearie, but I can do good with washin’ out a cut an’ wrapping it.” You study him and nervously tighten your lips. Johnny’s face seems to soften, hands going up and wrists tilting as his knee stays connected to the floor; firelight on his face. A small smile blooms. “C’mon, I’m not that scary of a bastard, am I?”

You spare a tiny chuckle, shoulders jumping as rainwater slips down your chin. Your shivering was still going on, and would until you got a change of clothes, but the warmth from the fire was helping tremendously. Already feeling was returning to your limbs.

“Ah,” the blacksmith huffs a laugh, “there’s a smile. Now, let's have a little look-see shall we?”

Under the fur, your hand lightly shifts, coming back into view, slit palm and all. Johnny’s eyes darken, face going serious behind his stubble. Brown brows turn in.

“Now where in the hell did you get a—” Just as his gigantic hands were about to circle around yours, there was a violent knock at the door.

You shoot up in an instant, jerking away from the blacksmith as he snaps his head to the front, eyes lighting. He stands up slowly as you back up a few paces, eyes frantically darting back and forth. The knocking starts up again and thunder peels from outside.

Your form flinches.

“You can’t let them take me back,” you say quickly, breathing catching up in speed again. Fear burns your lungs and suddenly you’re ten times colder than before. “Mr. MacTavish, please, I can’t go back.”

Another round of knocking shakes the barrier. Blues eyes stare at you blankly, half-turned face pulled in visible confusion as Johnny’s jaw clenches.

A voice echoes from under the door as the blacksmith once more lets his eyes linger down your battered frame; taking in cuts and the limp you carry. Muddy feet and water stained red. His hands twitch at his sides.

“These are the guards of Lord Wilkin, would anyone in this home come to make him or herself known? It is of the utmost urgency!” You grow more fearful, head darting to find any other exit in this home but you land on nothing besides the windows. Your fingers shake with panic.

No, no, no.

Confusion gives way to deep concern.

A hand grasps your upper arm and you’re being hurried to the corner wall by the front door with fast feet and a firm, iron, grip. An accented voice mumbles quietly by your ear, “Keep quiet for me, Dearie. It’s alright, you let me take care of it.”

He stands you there and takes one last look at you, blinking, before grabbing the bear fur and pulling it above your head in a swift motion. There’s a quiet chuckle as you tense and slam a hand up to the brown material instinctually before Johnny darts around the corner and opens the door. You hold your breath and listen.

“Well, steamin’ Jesus, you bastards have any idea what time it is?! And in this damning weather, you show up at my door reamin’ on the wood like you’re the one who has to keep it anchored to the frame.” There’s a fast conversation of apologies and explanations that you can't catch above the yell of the rain.

“Does it look like I give a shite about a lost bride? Not my fuckin’ place to keep ‘er…I’ve seen nothing besides you…anyone out in this storm is as good as lost…” You listen and stay completely still, holding your breath as if it’s a prisoner in your lungs.

You can hardly believe it. Why was this man…lying for you? A wounded stranger that had shown up at his doorstep in nothing but a tattered gown and babbling through tears. Anyone else would have turned you over—especially to your betrothed, Lord Wilkin. He owned these lands and held fiefs by all who lived here. Not a man to mess with, if your slit palm was anything to go by.

“Go on!” Johnny calls loudly, and the door closes a second later, the latch locking. There’s a moment of nothing, before the clearing of a throat and a soft call. “Well, they won’t be back, least.”

He pops around the corner and smiles comfortingly.

“Sorry about the yellin'.” You part your lips in innocent awe and you take a deep breath before speaking slowly.

“Why would you do that?” His expression tightens, crossing his arms over his chest. Under him, his large hips shift.

“Ya asked, didn’t you?” Your blank expression only serves to make him chuckle heartily, head shaking. Johnny hums, “I won’t press you about it all tonight, though I well should. You’re in no shape for it.” Cobalt eyes glance at the food before looking back up. “But I’m guessin’ you have a good enough reason to sneak off as I hear you did.”

The very blood in your body heats with warmth.

You’re waved back over to the chair by the hearth. “Let’s get that injury looked at and I‘ll get you a change of clothes. You can take my place for the night,” eyes twinkle, “there’s no bed bugs in it, Dearie, knight’s honor.”

“What about iron shavings?” You call back softly, lips jerking up momentarily. The man’s actions had given you a large amount of trust in him. Johnny blinks in surprise at your joke, but a large grin grows moments later as you walk over delicately.

“Can’t say for certain, but I promise there’ll be no weapons under the covers. If anyone breaks in they’ll find my fists to be the first iron they get a touch of.”

Your laugh bounces off the walls, hand coming up to cover your mouth in the picture of a cultured upbringing. Johnny chuckles in turn, looking smug. He liked your laugh, it seems.

“That was detestable, Mr. MacTavish.” You sit down, and Johnny kneels where he had been before—his hand outstretched where you carefully place your wounded limb.

Immediately you feel the scrape of old burns and calluses, hands hardened by long hours of labor and intensive demands. You’re certain these are the hardest hands that have ever touched your skin, but it astounds you by how gently you’re being caressed and turned. People with far fairer flesh have never handled you like this. As if you would break apart with the barest of pressures.

Your breath stills as the blacksmith, with all the care of a butterfly, tilts your cut into the light and studies it, thumb absentmindedly brushing up and down your wrist. You hold back a shiver.

“Ah,” he grumbles, still smiling yet more focused on your injury now. “It wasn’t that bad.”

You hum under your breath and try not to flinch when he wipes away a stain of mud near your wound. The blacksmith grunts to himself, gentle pressure at your flesh like the scuff of tree bark. But it wasn’t unpleasant. No, you thought, not at all.

The two of you fall into a hole of soft silence, Johnny leaving for a moment to grab a bucket of water and bandages, saying in a mutter that he had plenty of the former to go around.

“Have a habit of burnin’ myself on my bad days, y’see,” he shimmies past, pausing before pulling back up the bear fur from where it had slightly slipped down your neck. “Comes with the job.”

Your face burns as he grabs what he needs, eyes stuck on your lap. You were astounded by the man’s ability to put away his obvious confusion for your care, how he was content to wait for answers until you were rested. It was honorable of him.

Thinking back to Lord Wilkin’s guards at the door, your thighs shift over the chair. They’d be looking for you until they found you—be that days or months, it didn’t matter. The Lord wasn’t someone to let what he wanted get away from him. Like senseless beasts, your family would undoubtedly help. Your chest is stiff with worry. How would you get away with this?

The scene you’d made at the wedding wasn’t exactly subtle.

Johnny comes back carrying a small bucket of fresh water, ladled from the wash basin, and a bundle of clean white cloth.

“Alright,” he huffs, “let’s get this sorted, eh, Dearie?” The wound was very obviously a slice from a knife, anyone could see it.

Johnny takes your hand once more and holds it in his palm, glancing up at you before dipping one of the cloths into the water and beginning to clean the cut.

“Is it…bad, Mr. MacTavish?” You ask, worried about the likelihood of scarring. That would be the last thing you would want. The blacksmith looks up from where he pats the edges, the fabric already going red.

“Just Johnny, if it pleases you,” he smiles, hulking form seemingly all a facade to hide a cheeky and loyal Scot. “And…no, not bad. If you’re worried about a mark, don’t be—it’s deep but only at the beginning. A slight discoloration, no more.” His brows pull back, teasing, “You’ll not end up like me, at any rate.” Your shoulders ease back, and you let him work with a thankful comment and a giggle.

You watch and take in the way his jaw clenches and loosens as he works, completely focused as if he was fashioning an axe and not helping a complete stranger.

“There’s no harm in scars,” you settle on saying, thinking over his last comment. Blues lock with your eyes, head tilting like a hound. Your face gains a slight heat to it and you stutter, “It’s just this one I’d rather not carry, Johnny.” Smiling warmly, you see the man’s lips part, his motions stalling for a moment as he looks up at you and blinks. “But yours suit you if…I’m allowed to say.”

It’s then that you realize that a slight flush has come to his cheeks, starting from under his stubble and leaking out to his cheeks like a red blaze—his gaze burrows deep with hidden fire that rivals the dancing shadows from the hearth.

Noticing, your own face burns all the hotter as the blacksmith quickly clears his throat, snapping his eyes away. Fingers once more cleaning your cut, he grunts out, neck now shifting to a blush of crimson, “...Thank you, Miss.”

You stay in silence for the rest of the delicate process; the air heated and rolling with something. Electricity sparks when Johnny’s hands rub across yours, large enough to break you in an instant but acting like moss over a stone. You find yourself falling into a sort of comforted state you hadn’t felt in a long time—the fur over your shoulders and the tingle of skin-on-skin contact that expects nothing but offers all.

“There,” Johnny says at last, and a part of you wants to cry when he pulls back, standing slowly. A firm but malleable wrapping is over your palm, a tiny knot tied in the middle to keep it from falling off.

You bring it to your abdomen and blink, the other hand going to run over the material.

“Thank you, Johnny. Truly. If I hadn’t found your homestead, I would have been lost.” The man rubs at the back of his neck, tunic bunched up by his elbows.

“Gah,” after a second of bruising off the comment, he waves a hand while his wide chest puffs with pride. “It’s no trouble, really. Keeps me on my toes.”

Outside the storm continues to beat the walls, and the blacksmith can’t help but feel his eyes drawn to your dwarfed form under the large fur, the dripping water, and the weight of your gown. Based on the information from the guard, he had a decent story already forming in his head.

A runaway bride and an angry Lord. By his own role as the fiefdom’s accomplished blacksmith, he should be turning you over. But your eyes had been flooded with tears when you’d pounded on his door; soaked in rain and mud—blood. No shoes. Freezing.

You had looked so afraid, his heart had hurt for you, a strong need to shelter you stuck like a knife into his ribs. Johnny had seen much in his life, war, and death, but your desperation had stuck a cord in him.

He’d keep you here with no charge, offer food and shelter, and do what he can to understand your situation. If not for simply hospitality sake, then because he had heard your laugh and had found it to be like a bird’s call in the wake of a dew-coated morning. Your soft skin like the wisps of fire from his forges. Your voice like a rippling spring. There was no way to describe the way he wanted to help besides to admit to himself that he was a good man.

And, while cocky, the blacksmith had never once been self-absorbed.

He watches you rub at your damp cheek and starts out of whatever trance he had been sucked into.

“I’ll…” Johnny rubs at his neck again, “I’ll get you that change of clothes, Bonnie. You just wait right here.”

You stare at his back as he strides over, the fatigue washing back over you now that the adrenaline leaves in its stupendous sweep of heavy heartbeats. Anyone else would have given you up. Your face softens, seeing the quick dig of hands into the stack of clothes in the dresser.

“Fuckin’ hell,” the man huffs, looking over his shoulder and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Dearie, all I’ve got are my tunics and pants.” Black and pale cream linen is held up on display.

“Oh,” you mutter, “I don’t mind,” your chuckle makes his lips twitch with care. “I would just prefer to be out of this…thing.” Your eyes glare down at the tattered gown, breathing softly. “Anything is perfect.”

“Well, then I hope you don’t mind the smell of fire,” Johnny hums. “Here you are.” As much as his insides twist to understand the story, making sure you don’t run a cold was more important.

Your legs push you up and you walk over softly, gliding over the wooden floor to take up the articles and dig your fingers into the warm and easy texture, thin stitching, and cuffed wrists. There was a cut down the neck with a tied cord looped through, making up an ‘x’ pattern.

“I would say thank you again,” you begin, “but I think you’ll be getting annoyed with how many times I’ve already said it.”

Johnny laughs, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his feet.

“Ah, perhaps only a little.” Silence laps into a minute, and you study him with slow puzzlement, tilting your head. For a moment, the man wonders what he’s done. The blacksmith’s dark brows furrow, lips moving back. He looks down at the clothes again and starts with a wild blinking of his lids.

“Oh! Hell’s bells, right,” Johnny walks to the other side of the room and swiftly turns his back to you with respect and a burning neck. He cringes. “Christ.”

You laugh brightly, letting the fur fall to the floor as you undress and shimmy into the borrowed clothes. Your nose takes in the scents of metal and fire—fatty linseed oil used to protect a blade against corrosion. With the crackling fire, you slip the large tunic above your head and find that it falls heavily over you; far thicker than it seemed and very comfortable, ending at your lower thigh.

But those scents make your head spin, rolling up the cuffs as you bring your nose to the collar and once more take it in with a slow breath. You hum and move, throwing the bear fur back atop your shoulders and grabbing your ruined garments from the floor before calling out to the rod-straight figure.

“Johnny?” His arms lightly jerk, as if he’d been unfocused, but he doesn’t turn around. “Where would you like me to throw these?”

The blacksmith delicately tilts his head to the side and utters with his eyes stuck to the side wall. “Bin by the door is just fine.” You look to the container holding scraps and other garbage to be taken out and drop the gown in before rubbing your cheek.

Wide cobalt eyes stare at the clothes you wear heavily, jaw loose before he re-set it and averts his gaze. Johnny chuckles to ease himself and loops his thumbs into his waistband, embarrassed.

“Do you need anything else, then?” Your eyes blink with fatigue.

“No, I…I don’t think so.” Gazing at the home, your lips thin. Your family would have a heart attack if you even mentioned that you were staying the night at a complete stranger’s homestead. No protection, no way to beat off a blacksmith beyond a well-placed punch, and running from your betrothed. To say that you’d cause anything less than a heart attack would be generous. But Johnny felt different. Firmer in his emotions and intentions. Far more than the Lord.

That was really all that matted.

“Are you really sure this is okay,” you still ask hesitantly, gargantuan clothes atop your frame. Johnny is already nodding firmly.

“It’s my pleasure. I won’t be turnin’ you back out to the woods in a storm like this.” For whatever reason, the next words fall from his lips like an oath. “There’ll be no harm comin’ to ya as long as you stay under my roof.”

Your hand burns with the memory of his gentle grip and your heart skips beats. You feel as if a great weight is lifted, even if only for a night.

“Alright,” your words barely make it to air, and you grip the bear fur harder to stop yourself from kissing this man’s cheek, wanting to take him into a tight hug.

Johnny takes a blanket from the bottom of his bed and shuffles over to the inlet below the shuddered window, sitting down while you slowly walk forward.

“But, Little Lady,” you rest on the edge of the bed and look up to find him watching you intently, leaning back with a hand behind his head and the other on his stomach. The fire still crackles, the storm still dances outside, and the room is still tight with something you can’t put a name to. Like you’re caught in a trap of soft pillows and the scent of metal, you listen to the blacksmith with bated breath. “I’ll be needin’ answers…you hear?”

Licking your lips, you nod tersely. “Tomorrow,” you agree.

Johnny gazes off into your eyes, the runaway bride that had shown up on his doorstep and captured his attention like a bird made of a white wedding gown and panicked breath. He sneaks a peek down at your wrapped hand as you settle on his bed, burrowing into his furs and his covers—wearing his clothes.

For some unknown reason, the smallest of blood stains makes his chest roll with bright anger.

“Tomorrow,” he grunts through a tight jaw before he fights to turn his head away from you. It’s a long while before he sees any type of sleep, listening to the sound of your soft breath and the crackle of the fire.

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happybunnykat · 2 years

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Had a very intense dream about Deltarune and Covid and being queer....

#a talking bunkat #my dream was that chapter 3-7 came out and I got to play them all #with Toby Fox and a bunch of other people on stream which was fun #and like #I made a joke about being bi and everyone there was super chill about it #Also at one point I'm pretty sure I ate glass #but anyway each chapter had a normal route and it's own like. ''Snowgrave'' type thing #and if you messed up one ''Snowgrave'' the rest would be impossible to complete #except bc I was playing with Toby Fox he had a way around that some how so it was much lower pressure #the first chapter we did was like. Space themed #or more like. space station themed #and then we went back to the school except it was like. a preschool room with some rando teacher #and like she got made bc people kept talking about the last chapters secret boss (a giant fish person)#and anyway after that we went to a pool based world bc of course we did #and then a new strand of covid that was transmitted through water was announced and everyone had to get out #and no one could get in the water to play past it until they found a vacation for the new strand #then I woke up #there were more small details but that was the general idea of it all

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generalllimaginesss · 5 months

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"Who are you again?" with Nico. I have this thought that he wants to talk to her at a bar and gets nervous and is cocky when he approaches her. And obviously she knows who he is because his face is plastered all over the city. But she can’t stand when men are arrogant so she pretends not to know him and sends him back to his table. Then maybe he sees her at a coffee shop a few days later and he approaches her there too but in a more chill way. And she continues the “who are you again” joke but actually has a conversation with him.

Just like fluffy Nico being awkward and kind of being awful but only bc he’s nervous around the pretty girl.

Honestly I feel like Nico would be the most precious boyfriend ever. Whoever gets him wins in life. But anyways….here ya go! I kind of went a slightly different route with Nico not being very nervous, but I feel like this flows ok. Thank you for requesting! Keep them coming!

••

The bar that you were currently in was loud and slightly obnoxious. Because it was later in the night, the crowd was more rowdy than you cared for, causing you to become irritable with everything.

So here you were, sitting with a friend of yours at a table in the corner, trying to avoid people at all costs, when a group of guys walk through the door, some laughing, some heading to the bar, but one in particular caught your eye.

He was tall, had brown hair that was a little messy, but his smile was hard to miss. It lit up the whole room, a refresher from the scene that had been playing before his presence.

"Is that who I think it is?" Your friend elbowed you, pointing to where the guy was propping himself up against the wall talking to somebody.

As you sat there looking at him longer, trying to place his face, the realization that the guy is Nico Hischier hits you. He's practically the face of hockey in New Jersey, how could you miss that?

You watch as somebody hands him a beer and he takes a sip, his head tipping back slightly and his eyes beginning to take in the people around him. A couple of girls ask to take pictures with him, so he obliges. Some guys go over and talk to him about the game that night, but nothing really caught his attention until he glanced around the room and saw you sitting at a corner table, already looking at him.

Immediately, you break the eye contact, hoping that maybe he wasn't actually looking at you, but he pushes off of the wall and begins to walk in your direction.

"Holy shit he's coming over here," Your friend squeals, adjusting her hair so that she looks presentable.

"Shut up," You hiss, not wanting to seem like a crazy fangirl.

Nico gets intercepted by a guy with a Devils jersey on asking for a picture, but he immediately comes to your table afterwards, pulling a chair out and taking a seat.

Something about how he didn't ask if he could sit with you hit you wrong. Sure, he was famous and good looking, but that didn't mean that he got to do whatever he wanted.

You shifted your weight in your chair, eyebrows knitting together trying to figure the guy out.

"I saw you looking at me over there," Nico nodded his head to the spot where he was at earlier.

"And what about it?" You deadpan, your friend glancing between the two of you.

"I thought you would be interested, but apparently I thought wrong," Nico chuckled, putting his hands on his knees and pushing himself out of the chair to walk off. He took a few steps and stopped, turning towards you once more.

"I'm sorry..." He chuckled, running his fingers through his locks that hung just above his eyes, "...you now who I am, right?"

And that was the icing on the cake for you. You don't typically judge a person by the first couple of things they say to you, but he was so unbearably arrogant that it made your skin crawl. He might have been the captain of a successful NHL team, but the fact that he expected you to know who he was was gross. He was a human. He wasn't some god that graced you with his presence like he thought he was apparently.

"Hm, no I don't think so. Who are you again?" You chuckled, but it held zero emotion behind it. The audacity of this guy completely baffled you.

Nico bit his lip, realizing that he somehow struck a nerve within you. "Oh, I'm sorry, I just assumed-" He started, but was cut off by your harsh tone, "Well you know what they say about assuming? It makes an ass out of you."

You collected your purse and your friend as you left a dumbfounded Nico behind at the table, scratching his neck trying to figure out what just happened.

"What was that about?" Your friend nudged you as you made your way out of the bar and down the street.

"He acted like a pretentious bitch, that's what," Pulling your coat tighter around you, you arranged for an uber to pick you and your friend up and take you home, deciding that it was time to call it a night.

-----

A few weeks passed after the encounter with Nico at the bar. It never really crossed your mind much, other than the fact that you roll your eyes every time he was shown during a game that you watched. The whole ordeal just really disappointed you because he was very attractive and seemed to be sweet in all of his interviews and moments with his team, but actions speak louder than words and his actions at the bar were loud and clear.

You were currently walking into a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that was near your apartment, preparing to have an intense study session since finals were approaching soon. The cozy ambience felt warm and welcoming, the perfect combination for you.

As you were beginning to zone in on the material before you, the bell from the door sounded, signaling a new person in the shop. Out of habit, you glance up and notice a familiar person making his way to the counter. He didn't seem to notice you at first, so you debated on gathering your stuff and leaving. However, nobody was going to have that kind of hold on you. If you wanted to study in this coffee shop, then that is what was going to happen. Even if there was a douche hockey guy.

You watched as he ordered and gave the barista his card to pay. Since he still hadn't seen you, you decided to shift your attention back to your notes, seeing that's the whole reason you were here.

You thought you got off without having to interact with him, but quickly realized that was not the case when the sound of somebody clearing their throat near you interrupted you studying.

"It's a small world, isn't it?" He flashed an innocent smile, watching as your cheeks heated, much to your displeasure.

"Seems to be," Your answer was short and to the point, hoping he'd get the hint that you were busy.

"Um, is this seat taken?" He motioned toward the seat across the table from you. Maybe he learned his lesson from last time?

"Nope," You moved your bag out of the seat so that he could sit there.

There was a few moments of awkward silence before Nico decided to speak up.

"I'm sorry about the other night. My name is Nico," His outstretched hand hovered above the table, waiting for yours to meet it.

You could have been rude and just ignored him, but there was something about the way that his little dimple indented and the softness of his eyes. He was just a beautiful person.

"Who?" You joked, causing Nico to laugh, his whole body shaking with him.

"I'm teasing, it's nice to formally meet you," Your hand connected with his and you could have swore there were butterflies going rampant in your belly.

"The other night...I don't want to make an excuse for being an ass, but it was right after a win and I still had an adrenaline rush, the boys were around, and I honestly didn't realize how rude it was until I was trying to go to sleep that night. I don't want you to think that the fame went to my head or anything. That couldn't be far from the truth," He fidgeted with the rubber bracelet that decorated his hand, making eye contact with you a few times.

"Hey, we all have our moments. You happened to catch me out of my element. Bars are not quite my scene," You giggled, recalling the nightmare that was the bar that night.

"I didn't get a chance to tell you the other night, ha, but you're beautiful. Like wow," He sat back in his chair, sipping his coffee as he grinned at you trying to control your blush.

"Why thank you," Your laugh caused a train reaction from him.

The two of you talked about so many different things. The topic of how he got into hockey came up, and then what brought you into the bar that night, the conversation just flowing effortlessly. There was never another an awkward moment after that initial one.

Before either of you knew it, 2 hours had passed. Although you should have been studying, the time spent with Nico was nice, something that you could get used to.

"I've really enjoyed this," Nico nudged your leg with his, causing tingles to erupt from the spot where he touched you.

"Me too. You definitely made up for what happened at the bar," You winked, causing him to chuckle in response.

"The team has a Christmas party coming up and I happen to be dateless right now," A cheeky grin formed as he began to gain the courage to ask you on a date.

"Well that's quite the predicament, isn't it?" You knew where he was going with it, but you decided to play along with him.

"Yeah, it is. You wouldn't know how to fix that, would you?" He licked his bottom lip before taking it between his teeth.

"I mean, there's dating apps, fangirls, I'm sure you can find somebody who would love to go with you," Smirking, you finished the last bit of your coffee that was now cold.

"There's also girls that you meet in bars who happen to go to the same coffee shop as you..." Nico trailed off as he watched your response.

"Mr. Hischier, are you asking me to be your date?" You feigned shock, covering your mouth with your hand in attempt to hide your smile.

"Wait, who are you again?" His eyes squinted mischeviously as you rolled your eyes and handed him your phone so that he could put his phone number in.

"I would love to be your date," He punched in his number and felt his phone vibrate in his pocking, signaling that you had texted his phone.

"I've got to go study for my final, so I will see you later," You announced as the two of you gathered your things and walked out together.

Nico gave you a tight side hug, one that was unexpected, but definitely wanted. His cologne was magical and he was just cozy. You walked towards your apartment, a smile etched onto your face as you immediately recall the whole conversation.

Nico glanced at his phone as he headed to his car, deciding to read the text that you had sent him:

"You're pretty cute yourself. Like wow," It read and Nico couldn't help but giggle and smile as he climbed into the driver's side of his car, shaking his head and thanking God that he was able to impress you this time.

#nhl imagine #nhl fic #jack hughes #nhl fanfiction #quinn hughes #trevor zegras #alex turcotte #cole caufield #jack hughes imagines #nico hischier #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier blurb #nj devils #new jersey devils

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scarybabe · 3 months

Note

After 300, what’s your next goal?

no more goals 🥳🥳🥳

I’m a very goal oriented person so it made the most sense at the time to make big goals for my weight gain, but after having weight gain/loss goals díctate my whole life for literally over 7 years, I can’t wait to just exist without weighing myself and hoping for a certain number.

First time I gained weight, by the time I hit 185 I was SO burnt out (it took a lot of effort and I did not have a feeder) I went straight to weight loss, and even though my goals started pretty modest they spiraled out and became a source of constant strife for me. even though I was able to maintain a low weight for ~3 years, it was never enough.

Truthfully I DO feel “enough” at my current size. If I could snap my fingers and gain 50-100 lbs I would in a heartbeat but I’m exhausted of weighing myself, being frustrated at my body for resisting change, and punishing myself for not being able to make my body bend to my will. In that aspect, goal-oriented weight gain occupies a similar mental space as when I struggled with a restrictive ED despite being totally happy with my current body shape and size.

I’m SO close to 300 lbs and I love my body, I’m happy with my appearance but I want to improve my physical strength and focus on my happiness/sustainability of this lifestyle versus pushing myself (often to the point of feeling physically sick) to see a number on the scale that is honestly arbitrary because at my weight, big fluctuations are normal (hello 💩??).

7 YEARS IS A LONG TIME to constantly be trying to change my size/shape and not be able to just exist without affirming myself on a scale. Can’t wait to just be chill and happy with my body the way it is for the first time in what feels like forever and continue to enjoy my kink. I can’t help but envy other popular feedees who don’t have weight gain goals and are just along for the ride - while I don’t have any regrets I feel like if I had gone that route I would be way happier and less stressed.

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outro-jo · 10 months

Text

skz and their black cat partner

pairing: skz members x (gn) reader

type: headcanon?

warnings: none really

request: yes?

notes: i got an interesting request and i wasn’t sure how to go about it until i saw this svt reaction and so i went more this route

how i personally define a black cat personality: dark energy/vibe usually accompanied by a dark aesthetic but doesn’t always have to. not super fond of affection or prefers affection on their own terms. sassy with good quips and comebacks. has an interest in “darker” topics such as horror, the occult, “dark” psychology, etc. chronically unbothered. FIERCELY protective once you gain their love/loyalty. occasionally unhinged and feral (gets the zoomies whether physical or mental/verbal). big scorpio energy tbh

not taking requests at this time/clearing out inbox

masterlist | info

————————————

chan- think of how he is with lee know and seungmin sometimes. yeah. like when you’re sitting there like 😐😒, he’s squishing you and sticking his face in yours affectionately. you’re his baby. there are times when he respects your space but for the most part he’s all over you. most of the time he’s the protector but there have been a few times he’s seen your protective side and the pride he feels???? omg

lee know- omg he loves it sm. he already has the sunshine to his grumpy with some of the other boys. so you’re just like him. his fav thing though is when you get a burst of energy (zoomies) usually at the end of the day and you’re just goofing off with him. he LOVES to tease you. not rly the way chan does where it’s all cutesy but he just kinda pokes at you… physically and metaphorically. he just loves having someone he can chill with and really be himself.

changbin- so he likes to play that he’s this dark boy but he’s really a softie. he gets kinda nervous sometimes when you’re too quiet that he’s done something wrong but you do this thing where when you’re sitting together you take his hand and put it where you want affection at that moment. like you’ll just hold his hand or put his hand on your head and he just :> “oh so you do like me???”

hyunjin- he’s finally found someone as sassy as him. the funniest thing (for others really) is when something happens and you both kinda share the same look of confusion and disgust (judgement). everything is just really calm and lowkey with you, which he loves but then when you’re both alone you kinda bounce off the walls together.

han- beast boy x raven (gn) vibes. like he is an absolute SIMP for you. he thrives with a darker, kinda emo or goth partner. even if that’s not rly your aesthetic, he just likes having a partner that’s more lowkey to balance him out but whenever you do get your bursts of energy he always matches it and it’s kinda magical. you’re the one usually teasing him and it’s funny bc it’ll either fluster the hell out of him or like he didn’t even catch it. you 1000% become like a security blanket in human form for him.

felix- grumpy x sunshine. now, he’s not the type to poke fun at you or anything or tease you when you’re in your more quiet, grumpy moments. he just kinda sits there like the sunshine he is and loves you through it. damn, is he cute. he has you melting instantly but you obviously can’t show that. he loves to cuddle you even when you’re stiff as a board, unsure what to do with affection. felix also does this super 🫠🫠🫠 thing where he randomly tells you you’re pretty (✨gn✨) AND ITS ALWAYS WITH THE CUTEST FACE SCRUNCH and then gives you a little peck leaving you like 🧍🏻😳

seungmin- you two actually have similar energy but he’s like the dog version? i wouldn’t necessarily call him a black lab or anything, he’s just kinda the puppy version of you. (idk how to make it make sense. iykyk) you two just kinda vibe together and enjoy each other’s company without having to say a lot which is super nice. you just have this like rhythm and comfortability with each other that is just so ✨✨✨. there’s also this insane sixth sense with each other where you both feel out what’s going on in the room and know what to do without saying a word to each other. the amount of times where y’all have been hanging out with friends only to get up and leave without any notice to anyone else to be like, “yeah, we’re gonna go” bc both of your social batteries have drained and you two just need to go watch some tv. you’re both also incredibly protective of each other when necessary.

i.n- he just finds everything you do so adorable and endearing. think wednesday and enid but he doesn’t rly have the enid aesthetic, just vibes. you have more of a dark side which he admittedly kinda loves. you could be sitting there sharpening knives and he’s like, “aren’t they the cutest!” (exaggeration but you get the idea) you just exist and he’s your biggest fan though. omg you smiled at him once (kinda sarcastically) and it made his whole year.

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tvgals · 11 months

Text

‘ CHILL OUT ‘

pt.3

READ PARTS 2 AND 1 BEFORE READING THIS !

— e42! miles morales x black! fem! reader

synopsis — you’ve been cheated on, you’ve been lied to, and you’ve been heartbroken but you damn well ain’t gon be wallowing in self pity forever.

“you’re not mad?” jess asks you, her face covered in surprise. “nope.” you shrug, grabbing your bag full of snacks and walking out of the store, jess trying to follow up behind you. “on god?” she inquires, biting the inside of her cheek. you kept on walking without any response. “i take that as a no. look, please don’t say anything to jaya. she really trusts me and-“ jess is cut off with you heaving a sigh. “you’ve been talking shit too, huh?” you confront jess, well..not really..it’s more of a yes or no question. “what? ahah! why would you say that?” jess chuckles nervously, twiddling her thumbs.

“i’ve known jaya since sixth grade and i been living in brooklyn since i was born. i know when people talk shit about me, i’m not an idiot. so i will ask you one more time,” you take a deep breath. “have you been talking shit?” jess sighs and stops walking, turning around and walking the other way. that was enough of an answer for you. “fuckin’..” you mumble, walking back to your dorm. everything fell apart within the span of two days. you learned your boyfriend cheated on you, your so called “friend” was talking shit about you to someone new. this was terrible. you missed miles, as much as you hate to say it. you wanted him to hold you and have him tell you he loves you and all of this never happened. you look on your key ring and see the key to miles’ dorm room. you change routes and head over to his room, hoping it’d just be him so his roommate wouldn’t have to hear the oh so awkward conversation. you walk up the stairs leading to the dorms and find yourself outside miles’,contemplating on leaving. before you could think anymore, you insert the key into the lock and walk in, the smell of miles’ cologne hitting your nose. you walk into miles’ room to see him on the bed, seeming as if he’s sleeping. you knew this was a dumb idea. you bite your lip and turn to leave.

“come back..” miles mumbles, rolling into the wall to make room for you. “miles-“ you groan. “just come here. please.” you take your shoes off and lay next to him, trying to not make bodily contact with your ex. in his bed. you and miles sit in silence for a while, listening to the bustling sound of traffic outside and the occasional laughter of children walking down the street. “miles.” you whisper, turning to face him. “yeah?” he whispers right back. “what really happened?” you ask, watching miles hands inch closer to your own.

“if i tell you this you won’t do nothing stupid, right?” miles turns to you, cocking a brow. “promise.” you tell him. miles sighs. “y’know that party i went to like a month ago?” you nod. “i was walking ‘round talkin’ to people, and yo’ lil’ friend jaya came up to me talking bout how she wanted to get put on with me — so i said no cause i already got a girl, right?” you nod along while miles talks. “then she was talking ‘bout how she was better than you this that and the third and i’m like, ‘what?’ you feel me?” you scrunch your face up. someone has to be lying. it’s either him or jaya. “wait wait,” you interrupted him. “jaya said you called her phone?” miles scrunches his face up and looks at you crazy.

“forreal? nah, she’s lying to you ma’.” miles chuckles lowly, pulling you into his side. “are you sure?” you question him, ignoring the fact he told you he did inafct cheat.

“mhm.”

you couldn’t help but think he was lying too, miles was prone to lie. like the time he said he would come home at 9 and came home at 2:30 in the morning or the time he told you he’d never lie to you, but he did, and you couldn’t help but think he’s doing it again. “you’re a liar, miles.” you whisper into his stature.

“i wouldn’t lie to you-“ “but you would. you’ve done it countless times and you expect me to fall for it again. well i won’t, miles morales,” you tell him, pushing yourself off of the bed and walking out his room. “baby, come back.” miles says sternly, getting up and following behind you. “no. you can’t force me to stay here wit’ yo lying, cheating ass. you told me you cheated,” you pointed an accusatory finger into his chest. “and you wanna sit here and sweet talk me? well it’s not gonna fucking work.” you sniff, turning around and walking out the door.

you were gonna get your revenge and fast.

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

TAGLIST ; — @venusluvslove @mangolog @ohmaiscool15 @ohsanghoe @iiilovemilfs @garnetj @guapaneeseb @nekoweb @samndwich @cloudniteee @azadabts @elitesanjisimp @theyfwkayla14 @lennielane @kelesisworld @aaliyahlia-babyy @dorkmuffin27 @markleedreams @violxtbxbyy @pinkluvrr @yourrfavzxri @noraloralei @anoungsoneandonly @neteyamsmunch @1lennii @

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idkfitememate · 5 months

Note

Hi, I was wondering if you could play around in Chasm? Like a Lucklight Fly! Creator. Guiding Xiao and the others whe in the chasm in his interlude.

- 🌾

The darkness of the Chasm swallowed up any and all light around them. The small group had been dumped into darkness originally, sure, but this was true,

Utter

Complete

Blackness.

Everyone could barely see in front of themselves, constantly bumping into each other (which was a solid pain for Shinobu and her K.O.’d boss), so the part had officially come to a standstill.

Yanfei had tried to start a fire… only to reveal some of the worst looking creatures they’d ever seen gripping the walls in sleep, so that plan was down the gutter.

So, they were stuck. Great.

Any elemental power would’ve probably been to bright seeing with the creatures that stuck themselves to the walls, so at the moment? They were very screwed.

…

…Of course, that’s what they would’ve thought if they haven’t seen a small light before them. Tiny and blue, it flew towards them, gently glowing, though not enough to illuminate the walls. Getting close enough, they realized it was a-

“A lucklight fly?” Yelan questioned. “Now what is a small thing like you doing all the way in here?”

She had assumed they were long past the point where anything besides hostile monsters would reside. So seeing you was honestly a bit of a shock.

“This is our chance!” Yanfei whispered. “If there’s a lucklight fly, then there must be a way out close by! Come on… show us where you can from…” she said as she shooed you away.

Naturally you could understand them, but you were just a little offended at being just an escape route (you were more than happy to lead them out, but for a price), so you were genuinely considering turning off your light.

But, you would be the bigger person in this case and turned around, leading to small cheers behind you.

As you lazily flew through the darkened cavern, you made sure you were still in sight of those behind you, turning every once in a while to make sure they were still behind you. You’d scoff when you saw they fell behind.

Eventually, you found yourself and your new ‘friends’ in a lighter cavern, away from the whatever the fucks were in the darker area. You could hear the sighs of relief as you flew towards Xiao.

Buzzing around his head, you heard small ‘awe’s from the women, thinking he had befriended you. Instead, he reached in his pocket, took out one mora and a small candy, and gave them to you.

You hummed in delight as you then began to ascend. They looked at Xiao in confusion.

“I’ve known that lucklight fly for years now. They never do anything without reward.”

All jaws went slack. Then they whipped their heads to where you were.

“…Xiao.”

“Yes Traveler?”

“How long have you known them.”

“Well over a hundred years now.”

“… And have you?-“

“Yes I have payed them every time we’ve met.”

“…Huh.”

And while they continued to sit in silence, you chilled in your large tub of mora, nibbling away on your piece of candy.

I hope you enjoyed! This is honestly a cute idea, but I haven’t heard/done anything to do with this quest in so long!- I had to look up so much stuff ૮꒰ ˶꒦ິ꒳꒦ິ˶꒱ა♡-

#🌾 anon <3 #anon <3 #asks <3 #Lucklight Fly!Creator

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throneofsapphics · 5 months

Text

midnight panic

Rowaelin x f!Reader

Request: dark!Rowaelin x reader angst to fluff, she wanders around the castle and they can’t find her and think she ran or something.

Summary: Rowan and Aelin find you missing in the middle of the night

Warnings: darkish rowan/aelin, sleepwalking, hypothermia, fighting, toxic relationships

Word Count: ~3.2k

A/N: this is a standalone, but also fits between parts 4 & 5 of my dark poly!rowaelin series (have your little girlfriend), but you don’t need to read the actual series to understand this one!

Aelin squinted, the light from the full moon hitting at the perfect angle to shine directly on her face. Keeping her eyes shut, not wanting the sleepiness to disappear, she turned back towards her, reaching her arm over to pull her back into her side, to cuddle into her warmth again.

Aelin’s hand hit the bed, the space beside her warm - but empty, her eyes shot open. Majority of the time, she slept between her and Rowan. Lifting her head, she wasn't on his other side. Things had been … testy, lately. She couldn’t shake the feeling that y/n wanted out, wanted to leave the two of them, to escape to gods-know-where. She listened carefully for sounds in the bathroom - or even the sitting room, but nothing. How had she left without them noticing?

“Rowan,” she said, trying to keep her voice low enough she wouldn’t startle him. Wouldn’t trigger the battle-honed instincts. A grunt, and he rolled towards her, reaching his own hand out and - his eyes shot open as well. Rowan checked the bathroom, and she peeked out onto the balcony - empty. Nothing was out of place, no missing items, if anything she’d left with only the clothes on her back.

“What the hell,” she muttered under her breath.

“She was here an hour ago,” Rowan said, all traces of sleep gone. A good bit of distance could be covered in an hour, especially if she’d shifted into her animal form.

I’ll check inside the castle, she said silently

I have the city, he assured her. In bird form, he’d be able to cover more ground. Signal if you find her. If we don’t in two hours, meet back here.

One they’d used throughout the years - a pulse of magic, strong enough the other could recognize, but subtle enough to not cause alarm to the general public.

It was midnight, and absolutely freezing. There was snow on the ground, ice covering the windows, the temperatures well below freezing. Even inside the castle, a bitter chill set in. Within minutes, they were dressed warmly and armed with their usual assortment of weapons. Rowan propped the window open, and with a flash of light a white-tailed hawk soared into the night.

Aelin knew all of the routes to take to avoid any guards or sentries. It went without saying that they’d keep this under wraps. When they found her, there’d be hell to pay. She raced through the halls, checking her workshop, the private library, every place she usually liked to spend time. Every scent was faint, she hadn’t been there in the last few hours. Each minute she grew angrier and more worried.

Tracing back, on impulse she checked on of the older passages out of the castle - and caught her scent. Running, she’d tried to run. Breathing deeply to tamp down her anger, threatening to flow over into her magic, she focused her senses. There’s no way she’d let her get away. A mating bond was for life. There’s nowhere she could run that her mates wouldn’t find her, even if it took years.

Rowan flew over the city, backtracking through every route she could take out, searching for any trail of her scent. He spotted Aelin, following a path out of the castle, and shot down, shifting to fall in step with her.

“She went this way,” Aelin said quietly, and he picked up on the same trail. Fae, at least she hadn’t shifted, that would make this much easier.

This was familiar, something they’d done in their time before her. They were going on a hunt.

Did she really think they wouldn’t notice? He needed to figure out how he’d given her the impression he was that stupid, and fix it.

They trailed her out of the castle grounds, past the gates - a guard currently sleeping on duty. He’d quickly find himself out of a job in the morning, but he didn’t have the time to address that now, instead sending a sharp wind towards him when they were out of sight. A shield wrapped around them, hiding their scents as they stuck to the shadows, tracing her steps.

She led them out of the city, just past the gates, right to the edge of the forest. His anger was rising to dangerous levels, and he knew that. Rowan prayed she wouldn’t fight them.

Aelin held a hand out, as they paused just before a clearing.

They’d found her, and it wasn’t what he expected.

Barefoot, in only her nightgown, not a weapon or any kind of provisions on her, she walked back and forth along the edge of the clearing. She crouched every few steps to pick up something, but her hands came back empty. Something was wrong - there was a daze in her eyes, murmuring random phrases under her breath, low enough he couldn’t hear. She didn’t drink any alcohol that night… Could someone have slipped her a drug? No, they ate all of the same food in their rooms, and he always made a point to check for any kind of poison.

Following Aelin’s lead, they slowly approached her.

“Y/n,” Aelin called. She didn’t react, didn’t even turn around. Aelin repeated her name - louder. Still nothing.

A warm flame caressed her skin, starting to warm her back up. Gods, she’d be hypothermic by now. He’s surprised she hasn’t passed out on the ground.

All Rowan wanted was to sprint towards her, to grab and shake her, to find out what the fuck she was thinking, but instinct had him moving carefully and slowly, keeping his footsteps purposefully loud.

Aelin met his eyes; what do we do?

His breath caught as she turned, but no recognition flashed through her eyes. Actually, it was like they weren’t there at all.

Aelin tried calling her name, again and again and didn’t get a single reaction. Nothing to register she was aware they existed.

An exasperated sigh, and she closed the distance, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. Y/n screamed, stumbling backwards, her ass hitting the ground, hands scrambling on the rocks to try and get away. A wall of flame, but not one that would burn her, blocked the path. As she reached the warmth, something in her calmed. Almost like she’d recognized Aelin’s magic, even wherever she was right now.

Did she ever mention sleepwalking? Rowan asked her.

Not that I know of.

That doesn’t mean it’s not possible. There’s a chance she would hide something like this from them, probably not thinking it was important. He’d bet a decent bit of gold that’s exactly what’s happening right now. Gods, they’d be putting locks on everything now.

After five minutes of trying to reach her, five minutes of her increasing distress, five minutes of fear starting to fill the air, he gave up. Palms already bloodied, wiping them off on her nightgown, he crouched as close to her as he could get.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, and pulled the air from her lungs, catching her before her head could hit the ground.

Mercifully, she stayed asleep as they ran back to the castle, moving as quickly as possible while staying hidden. Aelin kept the flames going, kept slowly warming her temperature back to healthy levels. Rowan had thrown her over his shoulder, one arm securing her legs in place. It didn’t look comfortable, but it was the quickest way to get back. Comfort could come later, after she was home, warm, and safe. Her mind whirled with the things she needed to do; find a way to secure the room, run a warm bath, hope she’d wake easily, and figure out if she was hiding this from them.

They made it back without incident, taking all of the hidden passageways through the castle. Nearing one in the morning. She’d been outside for two hours. Anything could’ve happened to her. Especially considering how gods-damned vulnerable she was. It wasn’t her fault, not really, but Aelin was still pissed off.

Not how they’d thought, but they came so close to losing her without even knowing.

She felt warm water around her, her muscles tense and aching. Wasn’t she asleep? How the hell did she get into a bath? It took more effort than it should’ve to open her eyes, but she saw Aelin, right there, watching her every movement. Relief flashed through turquoise eyes, followed by … anger or resentment.

“Do you know what happened?” Aelin asked, voice rough.

“What do you mean?” She moved her foot up and down, her leg feeling weaker than normal. The water was warm, she knew that, but a shiver still ran through her and she wrapped her arms back around herself. The bath heated a few degrees, and she felt Aelin’s magic running through the water. Soothing and comforting.

“We found you in the gods-damned forest,” Aelin hissed, struggling to keep her voice low.

The door swung open, revealing Rowan. She noticed they were both fully dressed, weapons still sheathed. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Have you ever sleepwalked?” He asked mildly. A dangerous kind of mild, especially considering the rest of his body language, and the anger she could feel radiating down the bond.

“Not since I was a child,” she admitted. Green eyes darkened, fixed on her, like he’d located his newest target. Her throat bobbed, chest tightening. It was never good to be on the receiving end of that look.

“And you didn’t think to share that?”

“It’s been years,” she focused on keeping her tone quiet and calm, on staying steady, even as her hands threatened to shake. She didn’t like this side of them. Darting her eyes to Aelin, she found herself on the receiving end of that same look.

Liar, her eyes seemed to say.

“I never lied,” she knew what their reply would be.

“Lying by omission is still lying.”

She was tired, aching, and still dazed. Her mind could barely focus enough to actually get a grip on the situation. The forest. Sleepwalking. Lying. It was too much effort to speak, to keep her eyes open, darkness swirled in her vision.

“Stay awake,” fingers pinched her cheek, and she startled, water splashing over the sides of the tub. Fire evaporated it before it could reach the ground.

“I’m trying,” y/n mumbled, running a wet hand over her face. The water heated again. How long had Aelin been doing this with her? “I don’t understand,” she gripped her hair with both hands, yanking at it. Frustrated. None of this made sense.

Hands gripped her own, tugging them away from her hair. She was lifted out of the bath, towels drying her, leaning against someone as they slipped a nightgown over her - too weak to stand on her own. The next thing she knew, she hit soft and warm sheets, cradled between two warm bodies, and let sleep take her under.

Every so often, her name would be called, eyes blinking open, gazing up at either Rowan or Aelin, they’d give her a small nod and she understood that - she could go back to sleep. There wasn’t enough space in her mind to question what was going on, it was easy to listen to what her mates said, to sense and follow their intentions.

Aelin met Rowan’s eyes in the bathroom; she’s too confused.

We won’t get anything out of her tonight, he finished her thoughts.

Seeing the state of confusion, the distress, the vulnerability, all made it easy to just take care of her, to shove away the other emotions for now, to focus on making sure she’s safe. Free from anything that could harm her, including the sleepwalking. But, the major concern now was making sure her body recovered from her little adventure. Neither of them slept that night, Aelin didn’t try - she only grabbed a book and tried to focus on it. Inevitably, her eyes would switch to the clock, waiting for the next half-hour to wake her. It probably wasn’t necessary, or recommended, but she had to know y/n would wake.

When dawn broke, she finally felt like she could leave the room, Rowan still keeping a careful eye on her. Just a week away from Samhuinn, the days rapidly got shorter and shorter as they approached the coldest months. They’d get maybe ten and half or eleven hours of daylight today. The sun always disappeared too quickly for her liking.

A fire roared in the sitting room behind her, and she busied herself making tea, adding extra honey to y/n’s. She was out in the cold for a few hours, and her voice did sound hoarse earlier, Aelin figured she might have a sore throat. If not, she had a sweet tooth anyway.

“I’m perfectly capable,” Aelin heard y/n’s voice rising, “I can get out of this damned bed on my own.”

“Don’t fucking move,” Rowan snapped at her. She agreed with him, and carefully balanced the three cups.

Pushing the door open with her foot, she found Rowan standing over the side of the bed, ready to pin y/n to the bed if she tried to move again. She was propped up against the headboard, fists clenching the comforter. Aelin could tell y/n woke up ready for a fight. Good, she wasn’t feeling particularly calm either. But first, tea.

Aelin came back in, but y/n knew she wouldn’t be on her side. It was two-against-one now. Even as Aelin shoved the cup of tea into her hands, taking up the space next to her on the bed, legs crossed, and hands cradling her own cup. Silently, Rowan took the other from her, and dragged his chair closer to the bed.

Y/n knew exactly what the cups would have. A good amount of sugar for Aelin, plain and boring for Rowan, and based on the scent - honey for her. She’s not sure how, but Aelin picked up that her throat was sore. It was enough to soothe some of the sting from the impending argument.

Sure enough, honey exploded on her tongue - more than usual, but it was soothing her throat, and she wouldn’t complain. Complaining would only make her situation worse. She debated just accepting blame, letting them win this one, but truly - she hadn’t done anything wrong. There was no indication to think she’d end up sleepwalking again. Gods, she’d forgotten about it.

“I haven’t sleepwalked since I was seven years old,” she kept her eyes on her cup, swirling the liquid to give her something to focus on.

“If we’re going to talk about this, you need to look at us,” Rowan said too calmly. Fuck.

Throat bobbing, she looked up at them. Seeing the gleam in their eyes, she went right on the defensive. “I was asleep, how the hell is this my fault?” Rowan stiffened, and she looked to Aelin.

“The problem is, you didn’t think to tell us,” Aelin’s voice was neutral, but she knew that was the sign of her growing anger.

“You never asked,” she hissed back at her.

“Watch your fucking attitude,” Rowan snarled.

Closing her eyes, a few deep breaths later, she tried something different, “my parents always told me it only happened when I felt safe, when my mind - even asleep, thought I couldn’t come to any harm.”

Emphasizing that she feels safe with them, that even though it was dangerous - the deepest parts of her mind believed she couldn’t come to any harm around them. At least she’s hoping that’s what they’d read out of the situation.

“We thought you ran,” Aelin said quietly, her hand reaching out, and y/n slipped her palm into hers, giving her a light squeeze. She could tell Aelin had already softened, that her anger was slowly ebbing out. Rowan, however, would take a bit more time, and maybe some more soothing.

“I’m not running,” she murmured. It’s the truth, she doesn’t want to leave, even if she craved some space away - something she could never tell them. Truly leaving them, she doesn’t think she could ever do that. Her heart and soul might not survive it, even if her mind says it could be better.

Rowan was still assessing her, and she forced herself to meet his gaze, and she read the words in his eyes instead, the silent communication; you didn’t think.

I’m sorry, she answered.

Are you really?

That I put both of you through that. Rowan seemed to be waiting, waiting for her to add something. And myself, she tried. He gave her a short nod, and she understood; conversation over.

She’d expected a much larger fight, but gods she’s glad it didn’t come to that. Y/n stretched, trying to place her mug on the table, but Rowan was there before she could get halfway, snatching it from her hands to place it there himself.

Another realization struck her. Rowan told her briefly that she nearly froze to death. Now they’d be absolutely insufferable until they were satisfied she was healthy again. Knowing them, it could take much longer than necessary. Maybe this was her punishment, she met Rowan’s gaze again, reading the gleam in his eyes. Yes, it’s definitely her punishment.

She debated reaching back into that part of her, trying to shift into her fox form - where everything would be easier.

Rowan - the bastard, sensed that. “Try to shift and I’ll rip the air out of your lungs.”

“A bit dramatic,” she huffed, but it put an end to that idea, and her attention switched to Aelin, who looked tired. A bit of guilt crept in, she’d been up all night for her. “Will you take a nap with me?”

She is tired. Sleep sounded very, very nice. Aelin latched on to the idea, almost chucking her mug at Rowan before sliding in next to her.

Aelin tugged her into her chest, their bodies molding together, legs tangling. Aelin ran her fingers through her hair, humming a tune she didn’t recognize. It was sweet, seeing Aelin in her fussy mode. At least this part of it. “Sleep, my love,” she murmured, placing a kiss to the top of her head. She heard Rowan rustling around the room, but every time she tried to look, Aelin tucked her head back in. Based on the movements, she figured it out pretty quickly. He was setting up something on the various doors in the room, some kind of noise or object would fall to alert them if she made it out over there. On the off chance both of them were asleep and didn’t notice.

Without having to ask, she knew there would be locks on the doors by the end of the day. Locks she wouldn’t be able to access the key to, at least during the night. It felt vaguely like a cage, but the bed dipped again, a strong arm wrapping around her waist, Rowan’s strong chest pressing against her back.

“Rowan,” she murmured, struggling to stay awake, “how the hell did I get past you?”

A low growl from behind her, and she hid her laughter, tucking her face into Aelin.

“I’m the one that found you,” she chuckled, hand resting on the back of her head, like she might protect her from the glare she could feel coming from Rowan.

Y/n jumped as he pinched her arm, letting out a slightly-embarrassing squeak, but heard Aelin slapping Rowan’s hand away, chiding him.

#rowaelin x reader #poly!rowaelin x y/n #rowaelin x y/n #rowan whitethorn x y/n #aelin galathynius x y/n #rowan whitethorn x reader #aelin galathynius x reader #poly!rowaelin x reader #poly!rowaelin #throne of glass fic #throne of glass x reader

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Text

LANDLESS GULL (I)

|| COV MASTERLIST || PREVIOUS: PROLOGUE || NEXT: CHAPTER II ||

PAIRING: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Three years later, you find yourself in a similar situation. But will new revelations put more of the past event into perspective? Or will your anger overcloud your judgment?

WORDCOUNT: 9.7k

WARNINGS: Implied stalking, angst, illegal activities, self destructive tendencies, insinuations of PTSD, sleeplessness, violence, abductions, talks of death, drugs etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The routine was the only thing that saved you, and it had never once wavered. Not in two out of the three years since the death of your father.

Wake up at five, sit in silence until six, and leave the house by seven.

Though you were in your last year of college, the wallet in the pocket of your sweatpants was still bare of the plastic of a standard driver’s license, so, you take the same long route you did every morning; feet hitting the concrete. The black iron under your grip leaves you shivering as you lock the front gate to your family’s estate, the end of the long walkway a grand, overgrown, sight as you take one last glance.

Hucking your backpack higher over your shoulder the elusive black form of the resident stray cat darts from one of the overgrown and thick bushes to another; the steadily browning leaves a barrier of dying flora.

“Don’t kill the finches, yeah?” You huff quietly, eyes dull and heavy with fatigue as the morning air chills your skin. Even if it was getting colder as the seasons changed, your mind never once went to the prospect of calling a cab.

The thought of someone you didn’t know driving you somewhere…you frown as you think it over, shoes stamping on top of weeds sprouting from the broken sidewalk as the utter stillness of the morning grows long. No. No, It was easier to walk or take the bus. A train, maybe.

But walking lets you think; makes you tired.

So, by eight AM you were always at the Café an hour's journey away, cheeks chilled and body quivering like your bones were made of ice. The winter was worse, so you didn’t have it in you to even consider complaining.

Hector smiles at you when you walk through the old front door, dodging the umbrella holder slightly in the way as your nose sniffles. You pointedly stare at his large mustache instead of into his eyes, sighing lightly.

“Ah, there she is!” He exclaims. The excitable Café owner had told you that his family had come up to Chicago from New Jersey only a decade ago, which would explain the still prominent accent. “Just in time, eh? C’mon then, I got a nice hot one ready just for you like always, Sweetheart.”

“Trying to make me wife number three, Hec?” You slyly remark, walking over the hardwood floors and itching at the skin under your eye. Lids flicking open and closed as a call to sleep seeps into your brain, you take comfort in the familiar atmosphere.

It was dimly lit, the business, relying more on natural light than anything. The scent of coffee and baked goods stuck to your nose, waking you up as you pull the thick cotton canvas of your jacket closer and look around as you shuffle to the counter. Shelves lined with bags and small homemade treats make a quick smile grow.

How does he find the time to bake all of that?

Hector laughs, but you pay little mind. In your coat pocket, your fingers play with a coin, thumbing the engraved face slightly. A slow glaze of memory spreads its fingers over your eyes when you spy a family picture on the counter—the mustached man with his two daughters.

“Hell, if all it takes is fresh coffee cake and two espressos, my odds are lookin’ pretty good if I can say so myself.”

You snap back to the present with a stiff neck, blinking quickly. Clearing your throat, you roll your orbs and remove your hands from your pockets, rubbing them together and creating friction when the lack of heat starts to burn.

“No offense, but I think I’ll stick to my oppressively single ways, Big Guy. You have better luck with the lady down at the bank anyways. What’s her name,” you stare at Hector’s large nose, raising a brow as he moves his body to the side and grabs his utensils. “Cassidy? Crissy? It’s something with a ‘C’.”

The man’s filling up your drinks and pulling a piece of fluffy cake from the display case, rushing about as if he’d never known peace in his relatively normal life.

Hector was in his mid-forties. Balding. Large and stocky—not exactly someone you’d envision running a business like this all on his own and actually enjoying it. His pasty complexion reminded you of a carton of milk left in the sun, but he got on well enough with the locals to a point where everyone on this street knew him personally. Above all, Hector was a people person. Speaking to him was easy, and the constant burning anger in your chest loosened when he was around. Let you breathe.

All things considered, you quite liked the man.

“Clarissa,” Hector enunciates, putting everything on the counter as you pull out your wallet from your back pocket. “And, yeah, she’s the security guard down there. Beautiful damn woman, Kid.”

Your lips quirk as you take the items in crowded hands carefully, slapping two tens and a few crumpled fives to the counter. As you’re turning and walking to your seat, you call over your shoulder.

“Like a woman who can beat you up, then?”

“God, do I.” You share a chuckle together, and, knowing your routine, Hector begins to whistle under his breath and wipe the front counter clean of crumbs.

Always taking the corner seat next to the large front window, you slip into the wall booth and put everything on the table grunting before shucking off your backpack. Besides you, most of the morning customers just came and went as they pleased, picking up what they needed and leaving—realistically you should as well.

Majoring in history and minoring in business left you deep in work and covered to the neck with projects; already sleepless nights didn’t help when the large classrooms of the University of Chicago got too loud to stand, the raised speaking of students like screaming in your ears. You always skipped morning classes, particularly the large ones for your own sanity. Attendance was tanked, but because the work was all posted online your grade hadn’t suffered.

You'd gotten it up since the first year, at least. That was all that mattered.

Taking a sip of your first cup of espresso, you let the caffeinated liquid hit the emptiness of your stomach and sigh. You place it down on the woodgrain, closing your eyes for a minute and tilting your head down. Around the beverage, your hands twitch at the warm material, feeling your own blood pump in your veins and the loose shirt under your jacket sag as warm air comes to create a dichotomy of senses. Hector always kept the Café warm, but it was never enough for you.

Everything always felt cold.

Blinking back to the present, the Tv situated atop the small bookshelf in the corner spews the early run of the news as you gather your laptop from your bag and set it down; eager to get to work.

“...As we experience the anniversary of the death of—” You blink, fingers pausing over the keys as half of your password is typed out. Staring at the blinking black bar, you hear a violent inhalation of air from the front desk.

“Oh, fuck, Dear, I’m sorry. I forgot that it was today. Here let me–”

“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head harshly and tiling your gaze in Hector’s direction. You stare hard at his dirty apron. “No, it’s okay. Leave it on.”

Your voice is stiff, digging into that well in your stomach of barred teeth and barbed wire. Blood instead of water and a bucket made of bone that dips into crimson liquid.

“But…” He trails, and your hands hover above the laptop. You notice a tremor before picking up your drink once more, downing a good portion of the scalding liquid with a gulp. You clear your throat against the burn and lower it.

“If I had an issue with it, Hec, I’d tell you. Trust me, I already know what the date is. Lived it for three years to the day.”

The man grumbles, itching at his round chin. Not too keen. He picks up the remote near the cash register and lowers the volume all the while he sends your hunched form glances with creased brown eyes.

“We remember the countless donations to those less fortunate than himself, the man always seen with a smile on his face greeting visitors, and the tragic end he met as a result of a robbery gone wrong.” Your jaw clenches, hands curling in as you glare at the blinking black bar with hidden hatred. A cruel smirk slashes your lips. Robbery gone wrong, now that was funny. You never knew how anyone believed that. “...Admissions to the Museum of Natural History are at half-price all week.”

The news anchor moves on and your fingers spread to rest atop the smooth keys, lungs tight.

They had been talking about your father, of course. The fabricated story was like a knife to the chest every time someone brought it up. Acquaintances at school, professors. Taking a peek outside, you see groups of random people walk past wondering for an instant if they’d come in and recognize you.

Your dad was incredibly well-known when he was alive.

A robbery, your sneer grows as you log into your laptop, face falling to a blank slate as you clink on a plethora of named files. Pathetic. Of course, the CIA would spew something like that.

“What’s going on? Please, Dad, what’s happening?” The world is swirling with technicolored lights. Amber eyes. A hand on the top of your head.

The words pop up as a document loads, bolded and black. You shake off nausea and take down more caffeine, finishing off the first cup with muted disgust. Pushing it farther down the table, you move the second closer.

OPERATION: KINGFISHER

OVERSIGHT: STATION CHIEF KATE LASWELL, TS/SCI

OPERATIVES: CLASSIFIED

STATUS: ACTIVE

MISSION REPORT: MONDAY, 0823, CHICAGO, USA: THREE YEARS PRIOR:

All the rest was blacked out in long streaks of dark highlighter, the image fuzzy. A sharp needle inserts itself into your nerves, every slam of your heart like a gunshot as your sides pinch with disappointment.

No. Your jaw clenches.

How long had you been trying to get access to all of the government documents that were relevant to your case after you figured out the CIA was behind your father's and your abduction? A full year at this point? So many sleepless nights and under-the-table deals. And the information that mattered the most was still a level above the fabricated station you had given yourself to slip past lines upon lines of code like a snake in the grass.

You want information on Private Samson Row. The name you had figured out belonged to the person who had pulled the trigger on your father. You’d sleuthed out the others’ names as well through a straight week of only coffee and red-eyes. But you'd done it.

Captain John Price, Lieutenant Ghost, Sergeant John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, and Sergeant Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick.

Private Samson Row.

What had given them away to be a government body was the one-word phrase that Price had barked after the shot was only an echo.

“What in the fucking hell are you thinking, Private?!” The leader's voice yowls and grunts as you slowly open your eyelids, lashes fluttering over your cheeks. “We needed him alive, you Muppet!”

From then it was history.

Blatant irritation stems in your veins at the brick wall that now presents itself mere black lines away from a reason as to why this all had happened, fingers flinging across the pad to fly through the fifty-two-page file. Not a single word was visible.

“Son of a…” You strangle the curse under your breath and go to dig your fingernails into the back of your neck until crescents form. Blazing white pain and a shifting of sinuses.

If it wasn’t obvious, the laptop with you now was rarely used for schoolwork. In fact, you never even planned on going to campus today—no one expected you to, so it was better to feign brokenness instead of icy fury.

“Kate Laswell,” scoffing humorlessly, you shake your head at the only portions of the document filled in, “I keep seeing your name on everything. Christ, with the intel that I’ve read up on involving you, I’m surprised your personal file wasn’t more difficult to crack open. Only took me four days. ” You mutter to no one and nothing numbly.

But it seems an answer is given.

The bell atop the front door swings, a small tinkering of tarnished silver metal and a creak of rusted hinges. Feet that stamp lightly, but press firmly. Bleeding contained purpose.

Your body stills; lungs going immobile.

When you were young, you could memorize the sounds of the staff going down the stairs at the mansion. Tell who was who just by the pace and the weight on the creaking wood; it was a game that you were sure you could still play even years later in that practically abandoned estate. The slightest sound made you snap to attention when you were alone.

Just as this one did. But that wasn’t because of paranoia.

“Ah! Hello, Sir, welcome!” Hector calls, motioning with a hand as the air goes tense. “What can I get you today? We’ve got a little Coffee Cake left if you want, I gotta say, man, it’s my best batch yet.”

It was because you knew him. Those feet.

This can’t be right.

A throat clears. “Sorry, Sir. Not today.”

That voice. Your eyes shutter wider, eyelashes frozen at the screen of your laptop.

British. Smooth. It was a voice that played in your subconscious at a constant—never leaving. A flash of amber eyes. Blood slashed your vision, coating the world in a sheen of red; gore dripping down your face faster than water. A funeral shroud of pure hatred.

Gaz. Kyle Garrick.

With a quivering hand, your finger slowly clicks the Escape key like it was an intimate partner, watching the document disappear on quick feet and with ruffled clothes into the scene of your wallpaper. Staring blankly at the multiple incriminating folders that meet you, your ears twitch to the sound of a slow inhalation; tapping digits over a pant pocket.

You don’t dare look up.

A tall shadow begins approaching, and you briefly seize. Humming emanates in the back of your head like a kind of drunken sloshing of senses.

Run.

Your heart mirrors the steps that Gaz takes. Against the nature of the cortisol and rampaging adrenaline in your blood, a flicker of your lips betrays a chilled amusement. A part of you had always known this would happen. It’s strange to say, but even as your legs start shaking, your expression is measured; held-back brows, loose lips, and a fluidness to your shifting eyes.

But your mind…

What’s he doing here? You panic. Why…why is he here? They couldn’t have possibly known I was reading up on them, could they? No, no, I’ve been careful.

You can’t move. Your mind can’t function. Every nerve is sparking with a need to sprint and flee. But yet again, your body leaves you frozen.

One of the double chairs in front of your table is pulled out, and a figure dressed in a white shirt covered by the second layer of a fitted blue athletic top calls your gaze. The build of an intensive workout schedule is shown unabashedly, sleeves pulled up to dark elbows that shift the tense forearm muscles. Brown and tan Army pants cause your eyebrow to raise incredulously before the limbs disappear under the barrier.

The frozen shackles on your limbs break and your lips move before you can shut yourself up. Maybe it was the familiar atmosphere, or maybe it was the therapist’s words from that month-long fiasco of court-mandated therapy way back in the beginning.

The coin in your pocket burns, and you long to clench it in your fist until you’re dripping blood like a stuck pig.

“Not exactly trying to hide it, are you?” You look back down at your laptop, opening the search browser and pretending to look up something unimportant. “I’ll admit it, Gaz, I like this instead of having a gun shoved halfway into my vertebrae. Not too fond of it, you understand?”

Silence holds out. A head turns away for a moment as his body shifts in uncomfortableness.

“I’ll be needing you to come with me, Ma’am.” The accent punches you in the throat, the stern order that coasts along like a fish in water.

What gave him the right?

How does one stay calm when your head is like a pot of boiling water? The bubbles roll in great waves of anger and fear as you try and stay outwardly calm with struggling success. You doubted you were able to look anything besides purely rage-filled, but didn’t dare check by looking into the man’s eyes—or even his face for that matter.

You glared over the screen and dug daggers into his bobbing Adam’s Apple, settling on your answer. Sarcasm.

“And I’ll need you to understand that I’d rather choke on this coffee cake.” Your finger points slightly to the untouched plate with a tremor in its bones. “I don’t want another barrel pointed at my forehead, no offense.”

Gaz’s jaw shifts, clenching before loosening, and in his sensitive ear, the radio sizzles to life with a spark.

“Kyle, I’ve got eyes. Talk to me.” The Brit looks outside through the glass, immediately finding the large figure leaning against the wall of a library across the street.

Gaz’s Captain has his arms crossed, beanie-covered head tilted to seem like he’s watching cars that pass by; a gruff-looking man simply people-watching. Everyone misses the bulge of a pistol stuffed into the small of his back—under a brown leather jacket and a black sweater. Price itches at his brown beard with a frown.

“In position, Sir. Speaking with her now.” The man at the front desk of the Café watches him closely, pretending to clean a spot on the back counter that seems to never go away despite the multiple passes. He wouldn’t be a problem if it came down to that.

“Copy. Keep on schedule.” The Sergeant wasn’t sure why he was here—why out of all the others in his Task Force, Price had decided he needed to be the one to engage with you.

“Roger that.”

This was the last thing he wanted to do.

He didn’t know how to convince you to come with him without replaying the scene from three years ago; it was imperative that he didn’t do that. Though it had been necessary…his thighs shifted over the rickety chair. It wasn’t supposed to end like that. Everyone was paying for it.

Gaz’s brown eyes glance to the table, one hand going to fix the position of his favorite ball cap over his head and press it down.

He felt naked without his gear.

Figures I’d be the only one bloody stripped down to nothing.

“Ma’am,” the Brit starts slowly, watching your ears twitch as you burrow deeper into your large jacket. A flicker of hesitation seeps into his heart. With a frown on his tense lips, he could still see your shoulders bunched up; breathing labored. You were terrified—rightly so. “It would be best to listen to me, yeah? No one’s going to hurt you. This is for your own safety but I need you to come quietly.”

Kyle had put all of his cards to the shock value; the hope that your fear of him would prompt you to come along in a shell-shocked reaction and a hesitance of an imaginary weapon. It worked in a few other missions, he’d even done it a few other times in the army, though it was always a hit or miss.

But staring hard at your thin lips, he noticed anger as well and was forced to face reality. This was never going to work.

Your internal timer ends, and all the primal instincts trapped in your mind let loose a vile scream. The memories are too great; too violent. Even this man’s voice is a brand in your soft tissue.

“Listen to who? An accomplice to murder? And ‘not hurt me’.” You snort, reaching up to grab the top of your laptop and close it with a slam. Hector pauses his fake cleaning as you stare at Gaz’s nose and the barely-there stubble that lives over his upper lip and cheeks. “You’ve done a pretty horrible job of that…The only way you’re getting me to go with you is in a body bag.” Your brow raises. “I’m sure you’re familiar with them, hm? I’d kind of hoped you’d already be in one by now if I’m being honest.”

“Listen,” Kyle prided himself on being patient, but the clock was ticking. Laswell needed you at the designated location and that was where he intended to take you in one piece. The injection needle in his back pocket was looking more and more promising if this continued to be difficult, a mixed concoction that only the CIA could put together to knock a person out for a long while. But why did he feel so hesitant to use it? He’d also been the only one to suggest someone try and speak to you first before forcing you to go along with them.

I guess this is what happens when I try and put in my two damn cents. Stick to procedure next time.

“I don’t think you understand the position you’re in—”

“The position I’m in is entirely you and your little friends’ fault.” You growl, voice breaking and eyes turning to look outside. Snapping when you see his lips part, “Don’t even try to deny it.”

Kyle’s mouth closes with a clench of teeth.

Trapped like an animal you have half a sense to gnaw your own leg off. There was a hunch in your mind as to what was happening—the files you’ve read that weren’t blackout out gave in-depth mission details; play-by-plays. These people worked in teams. Always.

Your eyes dart with frantic knowledge as Gaz sits tense, a subdued annoyance flaring as his hands tap the table and thinks deeply.

You find Captain Price easily and the agony grows. The stocky man shifts in the morning light, the familiar body leading to a slashed remembrance of folded arms and black balaclavas. His stare was like a burning piece of wood shoved directly into your eye sockets.

Alleyway in the back, your feet shuffle, tense. You had to get out of this. Take the corner and run to the busier intersections. Try to keep calm. Breathe.

Easier said than done. Kyle was the same man who had put a gun to your head with the intention of pulling the trigger—your life was nothing more than a bargaining chip. Would he do the same again?

Yes. No one was saying he didn’t have a weapon on him now; the only difference was this time you didn’t know why he was here in the first place. The easiest answer was the documents, but was it that simple? Why send the same people after you?

Not that simple, but it is illegal. The thought of going back to a small room; a rope around your wrists…your hands go to itch at the healed skin, still sensitive despite the years. The Sergeant clocks it with a pulling frown and tight brows.

“Ma’am,” Gaz’s voice snaps your vision back to the table, and you go to take a drink of the remaining cup of espresso to calm your nerves. You send a glance at the heavy backpack beside you and blink. “I didn’t have to come and speak to you, alright? I’m doing this to try to find some standing. This isn’t a ploy, but you have to follow me.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Bloody…no.” Kyle grunts, itching at his neck as his earpiece goes off. He looks sideways.

“Kyle, this isn’t working. Stick ‘er.”

“I can get her to come along,” he mutters harshly, not noticing one of your hands going to place the drink down while the other sneaks to the strap of your bag. “There’s no need to—!”

The force hits him right in the neck, and his head snaps back with a heavy jerk. His chair falls backward from the weight, sending him sprawling in a tangle of limbs and rushing feet over the floor. A heavy crash emanates throughout the building and the wind is knocked from his lungs as brown eyes bug out of the sockets.

“Hector! Call the police!” The front door is slammed open with a violent noise of shaking glass and a bell. Shrieking hinges.

“Bloody fucking hell!” Kyle shouts, shoving the backpack off of him and ignoring the sharp pang in the back of his skull. He recovers quickly. Hot irritation spikes as Price barks into the earpiece; the Sergeant scrambles after you with fast force.

“After her!”

Your feet slam to the concrete as the laptop stays tucked into the crook of your elbow, chest conforming to the press of it as you puff out quick breaths. Inside your ribs, the blood rushes out to your head, creating a pound like a drum.

Shoving aside others on the sidewalk, shouting sounds out from behind you before the dark shadow of an alleyway meets your snapping vision like a blessing from above. Pushing past an older man, you take a sudden turn into the darkness, the morning chill momentarily getting pushed back by the fire under your skin. Wind rushes past your ears.

Faster, you tell yourself, feet flying over stray garbage bags and puddles, don’t let them catch you. They can’t catch you.

Easier said than done. They were trained soldiers. SAS in league with the CIA.

Panting, you clutch your laptop tighter and feel cold sweat drip down your spine before a yell echoes from the entrance behind you.

“Hey!” It was Kyle’s voice, stern, but the sound of another set of feet told you who else was in pursuit. If you were being honest, the Captain scared you far more than the Sergeant did.

Your eyes go unfocused as reality sets in.

“They came back for me,” muttering, you see the brief alleyway end up ahead. “They tracked me down again to finish the job.”

“Bravo 7-1 she’s comin’ to you!” You don’t register the grunted words until you’re already taking the corner on the opposite side of the street, about to disappear into the expanse of a crowded downtown rush.

The wall of muscle sends you sprawling out on your back, the laptop flying from your hands in a wide display of just how fast you’d been running as discomfort ripples up your spine as the ground meets you. The pain that blossoms in your nose is sharp and immediate; a groan exiting into the air as you close your eyes tight to push back the shock and the momentum that had just been immediately halted. Nonsensical words exit you in slurring huffs.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” A Scottish accent hits your pulsing ears, as your shaking hand covers your eyes, teeth bared as a dull ache stems from the back of your head. Rocks poke into your back. “You alright down there? Didnea expect that.”

A hand snaps to the collar of your shirt, hauling you up easily as your bearing has yet to come back to you. The word spins.

“Ow,” your lips release a whine, face turned down as you blink away black dots. Large feet covered by brown combat boots become clear as the running slam of the other two gets closer.

Starling, you snap your head forward and attempt to rush off with barely functioning feet.

“Ah, ah!” The Scot laughs, and a locked fist stays rooted into the textile of your clothes. “Can’t have that, now.”

You look up at a strong man with pale skin—brunette stubble over a sculpted jaw and a scar over the chin. Long lips that curl into a smirk to show off white teeth. If you had to guess, this was John MacTavish. Soap—otherwise called Johnny.

You’ve seen the photos in the files, but you have no rush to look into his bright cerulean gaze anytime soon, but you see wisps of his mohawk sitting on his forehead.

“Get your hands off of me.” You growl, feet straining to stay steady. Your lids blink quickly to gain control as, like a newborn foal, it’s like your body doesn’t know how to control itself. “Bastard.”

Jesus, my head’s yelling at me to sit down. The hell is this guy made out of? Stone?

The Scot only chuckles as Gaz and Price catch up.

“No can do, Little Lady.”

Kyle lets out a deep sigh as he stops, having seen the entire scene play out when you ran head-on into the older man and tries to tell himself to feel bad—he did slightly, but the mirrored pain in the back of his own skull found some sort of redemption.

Girl’s got an arm on her. He rubs at the back of his head.

“I think that makes us even. Wouldn’t you say, Ma’am?” The Sergeant huffs light-heartedly, staring at you without so much as breaking a sweat from the short pursuit. The Captain shakes his head, going to pick up the laptop on the ground as your teeth clench.

“Call Ghost. Get him over here for the Exfil.” Civilians watch, but like they usually do, no one steps in to say anything or to spare more than a glance. “ASAP.”

“Shut up.” You scowl at Gaz’s chest, replying to his comment. Jerking yourself out of Soap’s hold, he lets you stand fully by yourself before he presses large fingers into his earpiece to mutter something out. The Scot still eyes you closely. There was no use trying to run anymore. “It was the least you deserved. Or are we forgetting how we met in the first place—should have dumped coffee over your head too.”

“Now that’s overkill, isn’t it, Love?” He can’t help but snap. Perhaps it was the dull thumping in his skull, or perhaps it was just you. “Manners never a prospect in your home?”

No one tested his patience quite like this and he’s only just re-met you. Your anger was justified, the Sergeant knew deep down, but he’d never expected this. In the brief time, you had insulted him, thrown a bookbag at his head, and then insulted him some more. Maybe the Captain had been right when he suggested all those weeks ago that it would be better to just knock you out right off the bat.

Still could…Kyle twitches his nose, huffing to himself and shaking his head.

You bare your teeth. “Shove that overkill and that stupid nickname up your—”

“Enough. Both of you.” The Captain interjects, growling out as a black van pulls alongside the road. Walking to it, Price shakes his head, fingers pressing into his nose bridge as he enters the passenger seat. “Fuckin’ hell.”

You fall silent and fight back the burning heat in your cheeks as the lack of ability to escape becomes evident to you. What else could you do? Scream? No—they’d just shove you in the car and put a gun to your spine again.

Every option led to you getting into that car. That…that compacted black car with tinted windows and filled with the men you hate the most.

Will Private Row be in there? A pang of horror enters you. Will he…?

Your father’s blood is forever stuck into the fabric of your flesh like a tapestry. Lining the stitching of your pores and the embroidery of your genes.

“Go on, then,” Soap prompts, a hand pressing into your shoulder blades like you were an unruly calf. Your eyes narrow, lips pinching down into a tight frown.

Today was supposed to be easy. Simple. No college, no questions, and certainly no abductions. Your dad was always on your mind—what happened? Why did the Private shoot him when in every report you had read interrogations of that kind took hours upon hours to finish?

If I keep my cool, you reason, feeling all of the eyes on you as you grab the car handle and pull it open with a pop, maybe I can get answers as well. Straight from the source.

Your eyes search the interior and a great weight is lifted. No one else besides the driver and the Captain, who are separated by a wall and a small window in the front, is present. No Private Row.

Thank God.

What would you have done then?

These last three years were a learning period, and when you hop into the vehicle and shuffle to the far right, your hand delves into your jacket pockets; the one connecting with the coin, its metal cold to the touch. Your finger skims it, pressing into the groves until an indent forms in your flesh. But there was one thing you learned in the time you spent destroying yourself to get even a sliver of information on your abductors. They were always playing games.

Games of intellect, of mental fortitude and knowledge. It was a chess piece being moved and hoping yours was in the line of fire so the king could be checked. Your unease is still present, the quivering fingers and the snapping gaze but if you can keep your head on, then maybe—

The car door on your side opens.

“Excuse me, Ma’am. Can’t have you by the door,” Gaz mutters, and your lips release a stifled scoff. But you do as you’re told, watching from the corner of your eyes as the tall body scoots inside, easily situating itself in between you and the door they were apparently afraid you’d throw yourself out of.

They’re going to lock it anyways—what's the point? You could call them paranoid, but that would just be hypocritical. When the last sliver of outside light is cut off as the door closes, you flinch at the loud noise and take a steadying deep breath. Soap sits on your opposite.

You’re completely stuck in the middle.

Kyle watches as Ghost sends a glance back. The Sergeant nods stiffly and the car peels out. Johnny leans back, arms crossed, and watches the world as it passes by while those brown orbs stay locked on you. The subtle shaking of your shoulders; the way your eyes bug and the pupils stay small.

Sweat stays on your eyebrow ridge, and Gaz thinks about how close you’ll become to a snowball if you pull in even farther. The man clears his throat in dismissal and a small sliver of regret. After all, you are a mostly innocent party in this.

He’s about to open his mouth and ask if your head is okay when a deep chuckle sounds off from the front of the car.

“Well, you’ve been busy. Laswell was right.” Your ears perk, mind forcing back thoughts of the walls closing in around you as Price’s gravel voice sounds out. The car smells like gunpowder and leather. “How’d you manage this, then?” You blink at the interior window and say nothing.

You’d seen the bear of a man take the computer; had no doubt he could find a way into it, though you had never thought it would happen that fast.

Your lips thinned.

Kyle and Soap exchange glances, curiosity sparking as Ghost drives them to where Laswell told them to meet with the package.

“That’s none of your business.” The comment exits you in a string of whispers, defensiveness sparking.

“Well, it’s my business when my name’s on it, eh? How long did this take to pile together?” Your mouth stays shut as the Captain’s visage looks back at you from the rearview mirror with narrowed lids.

“Sir?” Gaz asks, confused.

“She’s got files on us—on all of us. Kate too. More than she thought.” The Sergeant looks down at you in surprise, eyes going slightly wider.

“What in the hell does that mean?” Soap questions, hands gesturing out from his cross-body hold as you sink even deeper into yourself. Bitter tears bite at the back of your vision.

“It means someone’s been digging where they weren’t supposed to.” It’s the first time that Ghost has spoken, but it was all that was needed. Your body shivers at the Manchester accent; the numb brutality of it.

But you say nothing, and the ride is silent besides the way all of the hard stares nearly spoke words out loud.

Everything just felt like a blur of sound and color. Separate; removed. If you tried hard enough, you were back in the Café with Hector—eating that coffee cake you never even got a bite out of and chugging down espresso that you were already craving again.

Your finger digs deeper into the coin in your pocket.

The cops would show up. There was no doubt that the past New Jersey resident hadn’t called them when you told him to. But there was also no doubt that the CIA would step in and take jurisdiction. It was what they did when your father was murdered—they’d spun a story as you sat in a room that belonged to a detective and sobbed in an inconsolable state. Reporters and news crews outside.

Nothing we can do, you were told, it was a robbery. Out of our hands, but we’ll try our best to find the culprit.

You already knew the culprit. The man in the corner. His name was Samson Row and he had been nervous. He had a trigger finger.

Your eyes harden as they glare at the floor and your jumping feet. For your father, you would get as much information as you could, and then leak it if you had to—if these people let you live. But before that, you wanted to know why. Why had he died? You’d do nothing until that was answered.

Swallowing down saliva, you speak as the car turns off the main road, heading farther and farther away from the parts of town you knew. Your lungs go stiff.

“So where’s Row?” The air shifts as your hoarse voice coldly utters, “What? Is he not part of your little group now? Figured he’d be here to finish off the rest of it, he only did half a job last time.”

Kyle looks to the side, an elbow resting on the window sill. Soap clears his throat awkwardly as his great body shifts.

“Hm,” Price grunts out. But if you were looking for an answer, no one gives you one.

Hatred flairs. What gave these men the right to think they could just push you aside like that? They put a gun to your head! Killed your father!

The rabid sense of justice and entitlement grow until your jaw is clenching, unease mixing with agony. You deserve answers even if it kills you.

Your mouth opens, and your instinctually watering eyes stay stuck to the floor.

“I–”

“Laswell’ll explain,” Gaz’s quiet voice leaves you tense, muscles wound up as if you had forgotten he was there. A barrel flashes over your sight and you want to shift away but know you can’t.

Kate Laswell. So that’s who you’re going to meet.

“...Good,” you lick your lips.

About time.

It’s only ten minutes later that you’re let out of the vehicle, an underground parking garage and its dim lighting making your pupils widen to accommodate the darkness. Gaz gets out first, keeping the door open for you by the frame and you pause before following after, keeping a wary eye on him.

“Head alright?” You frown and stare at the Brit’s nose.

“Hope yours hurts even more.”

“This way.” You follow after the Captain’s voice, leaving the Sergeant behind to gape, blink, and slowly shut the car door. Ghost slips past with a hidden amusement and the group continues on.

This is going to be one hell of a mission.

To you, it was clear that this was a military base.

The entrance needed a keycard, and the vehicles stored underground were armored besides the one that you’d been brought in. The hallways were lined with tile and the staff that walked past were all dressed in clothes ranging from fatigues to full-on issued uniforms. People would try to meet your eyes, but you always looked away before they were able.

“In here.” Price utters, sliding an identification card through a reader before a faint clicking emanates out. The brunette tilts his head firmly as he opens the door.

You blink, but unlike the strange and heated interactions with Gaz, you hesitate to get on the Captain’s bad side. The chilled eyes digging into you as you state at his scarred hands… Your body shivers and you slip past the men into a brightly lit room.

Even without a weapon pointed at you, their eyes still felt like knives. Their words like bullets. Everything reminds you of three years ago, and try as you might, all you want to do is go to bed and forget about this.

Still the adrenaline hadn’t crashed, and when it did you knew you were going to be out of school for a week. Shaking. Sobbing. Rolling on the floor refusing to eat because what if they were right outside the door of your bedroom?

As you expected, the door closes behind you with a lock being set in place. But what you didn’t expect was to not be alone in this medium-sized room holding only a table and…

Your gaze widens on the figure in one of two chairs. Slim, yet fit, her pale skin sits under a simple white blouse and a lanyard over her neck. Hands intertwined and sitting over a stack of physical files in manila folders as a wedding band glints.

Dirty-blonde hair forms strands of bangs with the rest held back like a hostage near the top of her back, wrinkles in her forehead and around her lips. Without thinking clearly, your eyes make contact with hers, and you’re left violently flinching away, blinking rapidly and tilting your head down to force away amber and gold. Your heart seizes, but you recognize that shade of blue you’d just seen.

Gunmetal. So, this was Kate Laswell in the flesh.

A soft sigh meets the air.

“Please, sit.”

Biting your lip wearily, you start forward, hand connecting with the extra seat before you slowly pull it out. Your fingers tap the material before you hesitantly lower yourself into it, eyes going to any possible exit beyond the door behind you.

There was none.

“I’d like to apologize for the stress, but you can imagine that we wanted to cause the least amount of panic possible. To both you and the public.” Your vision sits on her lanyard, watching the picture jump as she moves to sit farther upright. “Kyle was the one to suggest speaking to you first, though I didn’t think it would work.”

You slouch.

“It didn’t.”

Kate blinks at your frame, studying the ragged look and evident sleeplessness. She would almost call it sickly. A frown grows over her serious face.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Where’s Row?” To hell with subtlety, you decided.

“It’s not as simple as that.” The woman doesn’t miss a beat, shaking her head back and forth slowly. “I’ll need you to listen to what I’m about to tell you.”

“...And why should I do that?” Your brow raises, voice gaining ice. “You’re responsible for my father’s death. You know that? You had oversight for that Operation.” Laswell stares at you, you can feel it. “Hell, you had oversight for a lot of Operations. What was the number… forty-five and counting? But that’s really just a blanket number, isn’t it?”

You can’t help the comments, they fall from you quicker than blood, and the back of your head burns something awful. Lights dance.

“John told me you had government documents on your laptop. A number on all of the members of One-Four-One.” Kate sighs quickly, motioning to you with a hand. “I have to admit, I did expect something like that to happen—so I made sure to let them know that you most likely already knew they were SAS.” A pause. Your hand goes to itch at your nose, peeling back skin as a way to ground yourself. But you’d be lying by saying you weren’t intrigued and a bit in awe. You’d underestimated how much Laswell actually knew about you. Who was to say they hadn’t been keeping an eye on you this whole time? Who are you kidding, of course they did. You curse yourself internally. “But unfortunately, that’s not why we’re here.”

Your fidgeting halts; eyes narrow. The Agent moves back, taking up a file and spreading it open, you watch with rapt attention.

If not the stolen documents, then what?

“Do,” pictures meet light, and your interest peeks, “these individuals seem familiar?”

One was of a man in a nice suit, expensive looking with a well-trimmed beard of blonde hair and a bald head. Tattoos are inked into visibly pale skin. The photo was taken as he was getting out of a large vehicle, armed guards holding a door open though it looked like he himself wasn’t in need of the entourage.

He was built like a boar on steroids.

Your hand grabs the page and brings it closer, face pulling close in concentration as your hands go clammy. You had no recollection of this stranger.

So what is this about?

The next was of a woman with a darker skin tone, perhaps from South Asia, though you couldn’t be certain. She was dressed nicely as well, in silk skirts and a long-sleeved shirt that wraps around her smaller body. The look is finished off with a thin garment over her shoulders.

She’s picking out spices at an outdoor market, the image partially covered by the lip of a jacket as if someone had been trying to be discreet.

But the guns of the armed guards are still seen as they flank the woman.

You look up, placing the photos down and shaking your head. Pulled in eyebrows causing your gaze to stop at Kate’s nose. “No, why?”

“Because they’ve put a price on your head.” Your body freezes and it takes a moment to register what she just told you.

Eyes wide and lips slightly parted; the ache in the back of your skull burns brighter as you find your breath has stopped. Sucking down a gasp, you bring a hand out of your pocket to scratch at your neck, mind running.

“What…what?” Laswell takes the pictures back, continuing nonchalantly as if your heart isn’t about to explode. You feel faint, and the lights buzz in your ears.

A price on my head?

“Crime syndicates with terrorist connections.” She begins, and you can’t help but listen. “Since your father’s death, they’ve been waiting for you to take up the mantle. Your families held tight bonds in the past—the museum your father was running was a cover to smuggle Yaromir Osipov’s weapons,” Kate points to the man, then to the woman, “and Mala Kham’s drugs. They were later sold at an undisclosed location and a portion of the profits was sent back to fund conflicts. Hired assassinations. Symbolic murders...”

The rest is left as an open statement.

“I…” You stutter, panic palpable. The air was getting thicker; harder to breathe. You can’t remember a time when your own clothes had felt so suffocating to wear.

It wasn’t a question to you as to why you’d restrained yourself from looking anything about your father up in the CIA databases. It was a fresh wound and an incredibly bloody one. The man that raised you wasn’t that man—the one that would smuggle drugs and weapons into Chicago and sell them off somewhere else.

The man you remembered was respectable and above all, kind. Indirectly causing the deaths of people? No, that wasn’t him. Your mind broke at even the barest insinuation. It… it refused to even consider it.

Kate Laswell watches blankly, humming under her breath and nodding to herself. As if she’d just confirmed something that she’d been on the fence about.

She continues.

“When three years passed and you never got into contact, your mother either, their product wasn’t getting sold at high rates anymore. Chicago is a vastly important playing field. The best way to get another house in power is to take out any remaining opposition and reinstate someone else.”

“My mother and I,” you murmur with a hysterical look that snaps into your eye. A sharp rigidness enters vertebrae, hands hastily slam the table in a grand display along with a crashing chair behind you as your feet push you upwards. “She’s in Ireland,” your mother was a traveling nurse, going abroad more often than not and away constantly. You hadn’t talked much after the first year of your father's passing. She left you to your grief and took hers with her. “D–do you have her in custody already or…or—She should be with someone! Is she still just—?”

“She’s in a secure location.” Kate interrupts, her hands raising. She’s calm; incredibly so, and you feel that serenity of her voice leaks into you, your shoulders lessen from their raised-hair stance. “And an Agent I trust is with her. She’ll be back in Chicago soon.”

“Jesus…” A hand spreads over your face, digits on the table clenching. While your mother and you didn't talk often, there was no part of you that wanted her dead. Not a single piece.

A sheen of embarrassment floods your blood at the scene you’d just made, but that doesn’t stop the confusion.

“But, wait,” your hand lowers, and you frown at the lanyard, “why would you care?” Kate places the photos back into the folder and closes it. “And why would you murder my father if you felt like this would happen?”

Where’s Samson Row?

“Our intention was never to have a casualty involved with our investigation.” Laswell sends you a glance with her emotionless eyes. “Nonetheless with a witness. It was an unfortunate accident.”

Your face blanks.

Unfortunate accident.

“Then why did your Private,” your mouth spits, hostility immediately pushing past formality, “shoot?”

No hesitation.

“We don’t know.” The laugh that rockets from you is cruel; violent and full of malice.

“What?!” You point at her, leaning forward over the table as your common sense vanishes. “You're the CIA and you can’t even control who you employ?! You murdered an innocent man!”

Kate looks at you with nothing, blinking slowly as you glare at her forehead. Did she not even care? The Agent says your name seriously.

“Your father was many things, but I can assure you, innocent was never one of them.”

“You expect me to just believe you?” You nod sarcastically multiple times, your loud voice no doubt flying under the opening of the door. “Just to, what? Accept that your Private shot him in the head right next to me for nothing? That’s hilarious if you think I’m that dumb.”

“What Samson Row did was against orders. No one here gave him the green light and thus I can’t say why he pulled the trigger. You’re going to have to accept that we don’t have the answers you’re looking for.”

Angry tears are splattering the table, a rampant betrayal. It was getting incredibly hard to not start swearing at this woman, but your father raised you better.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I have no doubt about that,” Laswell speaks lowly, “but I’m not lying to you. If your father kept all of this hidden…then there’s no thought as to if he cared about you,” a delicate silence as your jaw clenches, both hands clenched over the table as your head bows down, salty water bouncing off the flesh. “You should remember that.”

Your mouth opens, but you close it just as quickly. What could you say to that?

“You…don’t know…” Whispering can’t hide the enraged tremor of your tone. “Why?” The hopelessness.

Kate gives you a minute, and when your tears come to a slow stop, she opens her mouth.

“I’ll be providing you a protection detail until the cells overseas can be disposed of. You and your mother will be well taken care of in the safety of your own home.” She continues, “If you can do something for me in return in the meantime.”

A harsh laugh exits and bounces off the walls.

“Why am I not surprised?” Laswell ignores you.

“Your father had sensitive information that searches of his shipping lot and museum office didn’t offer any leads on. While you’re spending more time at your home, I want you to look for them. Anything that involves other dealers or a location to a hub.” You roll your eyes, smirk growing on bitter pieces of flesh.

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” You ask the Agent with a splay of your hand, foot tapping the ground in a rhythmic beat as you stare hard into the wall above her hair. Swiping at your cheeks until they’re raw. “I know you’re not above breaking into houses.”

“After the event three years ago, my superiors are,” a small noise in the back of her throat as she pushes herself up from the table, “less than pleased with how One-Four-One and I are handling this situation. It would look better on paper if you cooperated.”

“Is Samson dead?” Shoving your hands into your pockets, you lean back on your heels, tilting your head as you look at Kate’s collarbone. You can see her take a breath; lungs inflating like plastic sacks.

“Yes.” It’s like a punch to the gut—you have to stop yourself from staggering backward. Your next words are strained as your hands clench. But the woman just watches, intrigue laced in her studious eyes; half-narrowed with a dipped chin.

“How.”

“Do you have any other questions for me?” It was apparent that your inquiries would get you nowhere, at least the ones that mattered to you.

You nod stiffly, cutting your losses. You’d just look into it yourself. “Who’s going to be at my house?”

“Kyle.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“And why him?” Your voice growls, and you have a sudden need to pace around the room as your ears twitch to Laswell’s sighing and the shifting of her papers.

“Sergeant Garrick is trained in VIP protection. I’m sure you’ve read all about that.” Slyness enters her tone.

Of course you had.

Every file on your laptop was a mix of both professional and personal documents—all unimaginably delicate information if it were to get out into the public. For the Task Force itself, as well as their families. It would mean even more death and slaughter.

A nail in a coffin. Blackmail.

“I know that.” You grunt, taking a hung skin by your fingernail in between your teeth and biting down until you rip out portions of your flesh with a dull burn. “That’s not what I’m asking you—he’s the man who put a gun to my head.”

The insinuation is bare to the world.

“And now he’ll be the one using it to point at others.” The Agent slips past you, and your nose picks up the scent of linen and cigarette smoke.

This is the point that you should stop talking. Cut off loose ends and think of a way out of this. But you’d gotten cruel; cold-hearted with little regard for others feelings. What you wanted was the upper hand. You needed it. Some semblance of control in a situation that was so far out of it that the concept itself should be in space. Control was how you’d survived. You recall a flash of a file with Kate Laswell’s name attached and you’re speaking before the connotation fully registers.

“I wonder if your wife knows what you do. How many families have you ruined?” The woman pauses behind you, a hand on the door. Her legs shift. “Do you tell her? Or do you keep her conscious clean as you spread the blood on your hands over to her?”

Scream at me, you plead, eyes small. Yell. Rage. Please, just do something predictable. Let me win something.

Kate looks over her shoulder at you, but your vision stays anchored ahead; back turned away from the door entirely. Eyes blinking; lungs jumping like frogs to find oxygen as if to suck down flies.

“I should thank you.” The words echo. “You’re giving my department leeway to move on Osipov and Kham now that a US citizen is in direct crossfire…” The woman turns back to the door. “I’ll be expecting Garrick to send updates every two days. Try not to kill him.” She walks out the door on steady feet and it stays unlocked behind her when the metal eventually closes with the semblance of a period in a sentence. The almost inhuman silence left in its wake makes your ears ring with noise in the absence of all else.

Alone, mere seconds later, your hand quickly snaps to your mouth to muffle a wail, eyes kept firmly shut in grief as your knees shake. You only barely stop yourself from hitting the floor as the panic finally registers; halfway folded over the table.

A ways off in the hallway, none the wiser, Gaz leans against the wall—arms crossed and head resting behind him. It’s only at the sight of Laswell that the calm man perks to attention like an eager soldier.

Since he knew his charge already, Kyle had stayed behind while all the others of the Task Force had left with various degrees of goodbyes and well-wishes. Pats on his shoulders as he chuckled and made them swear to not have too much fun without him.

About to open his mouth and ask the fast-paced woman how it went, he’s interrupted by Kate’s blue eyes blazing as she glances at him.

“Good luck, Sergeant.” Her still voice is grim. “You’ll need it.” The female Agent walks on without another word, leaving the Brit wide-eyed and staring after.

“...Brilliant.” He fixes his cap and sighs before the sound of his cracking knuckles echoes through the hall. “Just bloody brilliant.”

TAGS:

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onyour-right · 7 months

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Right, well, fucking hell guys lmaooo.

Cate & Sam becoming radicalised makes the most sense. Out of the whole group, they are the two that have been the most manipulated and abused by humans so I don't necessarily fault them, I just hope they don't take it too far. The relationship between Shetty and Cate was heartbreaking to watch play out, because underneath all the manipulation there were genuine feelings and love for each-other there. That moment when Cate called Shetty 'Indira' I actually got chills. Personally, Cate & Sam becoming anti-heroes to the group is very interesting.

Marie & Jordan. I feel like... their scenes together were really cute, and the way Marie went after Jordan when he was pissed, and then they had that half-hearted standoff before Jordan started laughing and kissed her, gave a great insight into their whole relationship dynamic and had me giggling. I also loved their detective scenes. BUT it's frustrating that they haven't had an opportunity to talk about their feelings for each-other, or even acknowledge everything that's happened between them. I mean, I also get that a lot of things are happening and so maybe there just hasn't been the chance for them to talk it out - which, again, I guess is sort of realistic - I just think that you can't ask an audience to fully root for a couple when you don't show the moments that it takes for them to become a them if you get what I mean. I still 10000% love & root for them; they are still my main draw, and Jaz, Derek & London sell those scenes. But I need more...

I feel so bad for Marie. The way she had to relive that trauma of her mother dying and being unable to help. Jaz really acted out in the scene where she was literally begging Cate to be able to help Shetty. That was the only part where I kinda thought Cate was wrong; because out of everyone Marie was the person who was most open to giving her another chance, and then she goes and betrays her like that.

I also liked the dynamic between Neuman and Marie (I wonder if she is the one who is Marie's benefactor) but I'm not putting my trust in her because there's something about her that's kinda suspect. I will say that I liked how she handled Dr Cardosa; I cannot truly believe that he actually thought he was going to walk away from that encounter alive... like c'mon now. I wonder if Neuman will get rid of the virus though or keep it somewhere else???

I expected Shetty and Dr Cardosa to die but I didn't think it would happen in the penultimate episode. Which means that the finale is gonna go even more crazy, and I have strong suspicions that someone else from the main group is gonna die or be locked up. Regardless of what happens though, the dynamics are seriously about to be changed which is quite exciting.

I also dont know how our main gang can go back to that school knowing that it's whole foundation is false, and that they're actually test subjects. It feels like either way they can't win; either they drop out of the school and go the independent route in regards crime fighting, or they continue knowing that it's all a farce and every step that they take is orchestrated.

#anyways #just my thoughts #feel free to state your own i welcome discussion #marie moreau #jordan li #marie x jordan #limoreau #cate dunlap #sam riordan #emma meyer #andre anderson #gen v #the whole situation is just fucked tbh

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3rachasdomesticbanana · 2 months

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Road Not Taken | Bang Chan

Synopsis: When your parents tell you that you're to marry the mayors son, Seo Changbin, you're left with two choices. Do you take the easy and sure route with nothing but green grass or do you take the path that's a bit less predictable and rough?

Pairings: au Bang Chan x Female Reader

Content Includes: Fluff, Forbidden romance, Secret romance, Strict parents, A sexually suggestive moment, Runaway, Happy ending, The Notebook vibes, Rich girl x not so rich guy

•Short but sweet. wc 2k•

an: Inspired by the poem The road not taken by Robert Frost and Chan quoting the poem when he talked about yellow wood in the intro.

“Y/N are you listening? Your father is talking to you.” Your mom sighs and rolls her eyes. “Honestly, get your head out of the clouds. This is a great opportunity and Seo Changbin is a great catch. He's so handsome and strong. Not to mention he'll be mayor one day after his father. You'll be the mayor's wife y/n doesn't that sound wonderful?” She gushes, clasping her hands together happily looking lovingly at your dad, who was the governor.

What is this, some eighteenth century life you're living? Why do you have to marry some guy just because he's rich and smart? Yeah sure, Changbin is great, literally at everything but... You've known him since you were in preschool. Even went to the same prep school together too so you know just how amazing of a guy he is. He's just not your type. He's more of a big brother to you. The problem though, you've always done as you were told. Take up horseback riding even if you were terrified? Yep. Harp even if it made your fingers blister and bleed? Of course. So how could you possibly look your parents in the face and defy them? Your dad looks at you with such a proud expression that you feel like shit for even thinking about going against him.

“Yes.” Is all you can say because the false smile and enthusiasm you give, takes everything out of you.

“That's my princess. You make your mother and I so proud of you. Really, we're so lucky. Isn't that right Grace?” Your dad pats your mother's hand still looking at you and she nods in agreement.

“The luckiest.” She chimes in. “Now make sure not to be late for your piano lessons; your recital is next week.” waving a dismissing hand.

Her large wedding ring and perfectly manicured nails shine in the sunlight that spills through the multiple windows of the conservatory. Removing the white cloth from your lap and setting it onto the table next to your barely eaten lunch, you stand up and leave. The entire conversation replays repetitively in your mind that you don't see your little sister leaving her room and you bump into almost butting heads.

“Shit, I'm sorry sis. I didn't see you. You're not hurt are you?” You fuss over her and she slaps your hands away smiling.

“Jeez will you chill. I'm fine. Where's your head at though?” She questions you, crossing her petite arms over her chest. Her large eyes look up at you and you briefly think back to a few hours ago when you were that carefree. Hopefully she won't share your fate in a few years seeing as she's only four years younger than you.

“Mom and dad just dropped a bomb on me.” Sighing, you lean back against the perfectly decorated wall behind you. “I'm set to marry Seo Changbin.” You finish and your sister's eyes light up.

“Oh my god, no way?” She whispers and covers her mouth. “You're so lucky. I'd give my left ear to marry that man. Have you seen his arms?”

When she giggles you can't help but join in. Just like Changbin, her laugh is infectious. The two of you gossip about boys a little longer in the hallway before you reluctantly make your way to your room to quickly shower and change your clothes before your lessons. Piano lessons were not only important to your mom but even more important to you.

Chris Bang, your piano teacher and the love of your life, secretly for the past two years, makes the lessons worth every second of struggling over the piece you decided to play for your recital. River flows in you by Yiruma has been a favorite of yours since you were really little and because you've heard it so many times you thought it would be easy. It isn't, not even remotely. The increasing tempo is where you seem to struggle and Chris will often tell you “Don't fear a little accelerando baby.”

Seeing his face when you walk in erases all the stress from your body and mind. He's like a hard reset to your mental health. The way his eyes sparkle and even smile along with him, the two dimples perfectly placed on either side of his beautiful mouth and the enveloping scent of smokey vanilla that surrounds you when he pulls you in for a tight hug, it all chases away all the bad and heals you.

“There's my beautiful girl. Gosh, I missed you.” He greets you with open arms that go around your waist when you stroll into him. His lips leave feathery light kisses all over your face making you chuckle softly.

“I missed you too babe.” You happily reply and push his blonde hair back from his brow. In contrast to how heavy your heart felt earlier it feels lightweight now.

His lips find yours turning the sweet embrace into something more intimate. Inside the family library, it's the only space you two are never interrupted. No one, not even staff dare disturb your lessons, not after your mom fired the last person that did so. It was completely uncalled for, the poor guy only came in the room to dust while you were going through the notes and when you messed up your mother blamed him. Now it's a haven for you and Chris. The two of you have spent hours studying each other's body's more times than you've actually studied the music. Thank God that Chris is a good teacher, you're able to show off your progress if or whenever your mom decides to show interest. So when his hands move from your waist and grips your ass you don't stop him.

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“Well now that that part of the lesson is over, what do you say you show me what else your fingers can do?” Chris suggests playfully still breathing heavily above you with a cocky smirk.

“Oh my gosh,” you giggle and cover your face. “you're such a dork but I love you.”

The moment is blissful and if you could lay like this under him for eternity, you gladly would. Unfortunately though, the large black Steinway grand piano sits waiting for you because if your mom doesn't hear any playing she won't hesitate to barge in. So you two unreluctantly separate and get dressed, hands and lips refusing to stray away from each other for too long.

Sitting on the shiny black surface of the piano's bench, your fingers hover over the keys as you inhale deeply through your nose and then exhale slowly out your mouth. The pads of your fingertips lightly press down on the ivory keys in front of you and begin moving effortlessly. Your eyes close upon hearing the sad yet happy music you create. Due to how many times you've played this piece it's become second nature now but when the crescendo approaches you become more focused and tense up.

“Relax babes, you can do this.” Chris whispers in your ear and you breathe him in.

Your fingers move, gradually picking up speed feeling calm and at ease knowing Chris is behind you and believing in your abilities. The worst is over and the tempo slows, ending with a beautiful climax.

“See baby, I knew you could do it!” Chris cheers coming around from behind you to stand beside the instrument and look at you. “Woah woah what's the matter? What happened y/n, why are you crying?” He gently takes your face in his hands stroking your cheeks with his thumbs wiping away the tears that rapidly fall from your eyes.

With the day's news finally getting to you, you break down and tell him everything. About the arrangement and how you are terrified of disobeying your parents but most of all you tell him that the last thing you want to do is be with someone that isn't him. That thought alone fills you with dread and makes you sick to your stomach. Changbin is a good man but he isn't Chris and you could never love another man the way you love him. You're pulled into his strong arms as he consoles you, the soft singing coming from him soothes you until you're able to calm the sobs that wrack through you.

“It's okay baby girl. Don't be sad. I know that I may not have a lot...” He pauses and scoffs at himself, resting his chin on top of your head, still holding you tight. “Honestly the only thing I have a lot of, is the love that I have for you. So whatever path you decide to take I'll always love you.”

“After all this time I still get amazed at how perfect you are, Christopher.” You tell him, voice slightly muffled against his chest, followed by sniffling as you hold back fresh tears that threaten to spill by his words.

He chuckles and his body shakes lulling you like a newborn. Chris's actions and words only proves your point, how can you love someone other than him? There's no one that could possibly take his place, you know that. What you don't know is how you're going to let your family down and tell them that you won't be marrying Seo Changbin. How do you disappoint your parents in a way that won't entirely shatter their hearts to the point where they just cut you off or abandon you? They could never do that to you… could they? That night you replayed Chris's words in your head so much that you gave yourself a headache. Sitting up in bed, after having tossed and turned for a good three hours you ran through all possible scenarios.

If you chose the easy path and agreed to be with Changbin you were sure how your life would be. Exactly like your mother's life. As a rich wife with a simple, boring, predictable life full of other people who just care about money and social politics. You'd spend your days with other wives, expected to dress and act a certain way all while losing a part of yourself if not all. Choosing Chris however, things would be uncertain. You have no idea what the future could possibly hold for you both. There could be rough terrain along the way but you were certain that you would be happy. That you both would get through whatever life decided to throw at you. As long as love continued to bloom and grow like a well taken care of flower, you two would be okay.

Jumping out of bed you look at your phone and see it's just past 5am but it's now or never. Grabbing a backpack from the closet and emptying it of any forgotten items you shove some clothes and a few important items inside. Your heart races and mixed emotions flood through your chest. Fear, excitement, guilt, nervousness and sadness sit comfortably at the top of the iceberg that is you. You keep moving silently throughout your room though, making sure you've got everything that you need.

“Just in case.” You whisper outloud to yourself. ‘Just in case they don't let me come back.’ That thought sits heavy on your heart but it doesn't derail your plans. You've made up your mind.

You're not going to play it safe by marrying Changbin. You've been playing it safe all your life. The uncertainty of taking a path that not many would travel down is scary. All the ‘what ifs’. If you could take both paths some way you would but that's not possible. It's a risk but for love and for Chris, you'd gladly make this choice again. Glancing around the room one last time, a last minute thought springs to your mind and you walk over to your desk to write your parents and sister and note.

“Mom and Dad, please don't be too upset with me. I'm leaving with Chris. I love him and I just couldn't see myself doing as I'm told this time. I hope you can find it in your hearts to continue to love me just the same. If you allow me to, I'll be back someday soon. Sweet little sister go and get Changbin, yeah? He'd be lucky to have you as a wife instead of me anyway we both know that. I love you three. I won't be far but I also won't change my mind.”

With a satisfied sigh you fold the paper in half and set it on your pillow. Your palm lays flat on the surface and you silently say goodbye to the life you had always known for something grander. Love. As the sunrise casts a golden hue on the horizon, you run towards the woods with nothing but the clothes you're wearing and a backpack slung over your shoulder. The sounds of the wildlife waking up throughout the yellow wood around you sounds so beautiful and it keeps your feet moving. The small house fenced in just past the woods comes to view and you smile breathlessly.

Rapping your knuckles on the white painted wooden door you chew on your bottom lip and wait for Chris to open up. Curly, messy blond hair peeks through the crack in the door when he slowly opens it. Almost in unison when he realizes it's you visiting him this early, his sleepy eyes and the door widens.

“Y/n baby what are you doing here?” his eyes go from your face down to the backpack that you now clutched in your hand and he lets out a small gasp that lights you up. “You really chose me?” His voice sounds so small like he can't believe it.

“Yes, I did. How could I not?” you give him a lopsided grin and wink playfully.

He grabs you in his arms and kisses your lips over and over, pecking them with a huge grin on his face. Setting you down, looking down into your eyes with so much love and longing he tells you that he'll make it his life's mission to make you happy every day and to not only tell you but show you just how much he loves you. You could feel your heart swelling from his words and your emotions bubbling up inside. Didn't he know he made you happy everyday already?

Setting your hand into his and interlocking your fingers you look up at him and sweetly smile. “No matter what storms we encounter, I'll always be there holding my hand out to you. I'll never regret the path I've decided to take at your side. I made a choice for love and that will make all the difference.”

The End.

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Sidenote: I wanted to end this the same way the poem ended so there won't be a part 2. Just know they lived happily ever after.

Her sister married Binnie and her parents eventually got the stick out of their asses and were cool with her living her best life as Mrs. Y/N Bang lol ♡ if you've never read the poem or listened to the track Road Not Taken from skz's Yellow Wood album I definitely recommend both.

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