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imagine-knowing-a-name · 9 months

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Spies and Secrets

Summary: Natasha has never met her handler, she couldn’t give you their name or identify their face because she doesn’t know it. When she rants about this to you, her wife, you have to laugh... because you are her handler.

Word Count: 2048

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, lying in the relationship (not in a bad way, just in a spy way), but otherwise it’s just fluff!

A/N: I went back and wrote this idea since it seemed semi-popular. Hope you enjoy :)

»»————-　★　————-««

"Will you finally tell me who they are?"

"This again, Romanoff?"

"Just a first name?"

Fury sighs to make his vexation clear, but that's not enough to dissuade Natasha; she remains determined as ever in her mission and smirks boldly in the face of her exasperated boss.

"Just an initial will get me off your back," the spy continues through his silence.

Fury scoffs and Natasha knows she needs a different approach.

"If it's you, you can just say, Sir."

"Me? You must be losing your touch if you think I have the time for that, Romanoff. Should Hill be taking your next mission?"

Natasha stops and stares with faux hurt while Fury continues on, grinning to his own amusement. He wasn't going to let her keep the upper hand for long.

"If you want to know, ask them yourself!" Fury calls over his shoulder, "Mission debrief. C12-2. 10 minutes. They won't tell you though; above your clearance!"

Natasha groans. As much as she hadn't expected a substantial answer from Fury – she'd been asking him the same question for years – she thought she might be getting somewhere, but no matter which trick she tries, Fury doesn't budge.

On top of that, he'd reminded her that it wasn't home time yet, her mission isn't over until she's briefed her mysterious handler. So Natasha sighs and makes her way to the conference room, still wondering why only her handler chose to shroud themself in mystery. All the other agents meet theirs directly, while Natasha sits in a room alone, waiting for a shadowy silhouette to call in.

The first few years went by without a comment – it wasn't her place to ask – but as she rose the ranks and found her role, her handler, too, remained just above her clearance. Even now, as one of the highest ranking agents, her handler was higher still. Curiosity built like a dripping tap; manageable and menial to start, only to provoke greater displeasure the longer it went on.

"Hi Agent!" the disembodied voice crackles through the speakers. That's the other thing driving Natasha towards irritation, her handler's tone. It's nothing like Fury's commanding orations. No, her handler speaks with an eagerness and informality reminiscent of a junior agent meeting their hero, rather than the commanding officer that they are, and have been, since Natasha first joined SHIELD almost a decade ago.

"Officer." Natasha replies. She had never been told her handler's surname, or even a title she could use to address them. Any attempts she made to learn had been properly shut down, forcing her to stick with the appellation of Case Officer.

"Always so formal," her handler laughs. "As far as I'm aware, the mission was successful, so what's got you so grumpy today?" they continue, noticing an uncharacteristic clarity to Natasha's mood that day.

"If you told me your name, I wouldn't have to be so formal, would I?" the spy snaps back. "And I'm not grumpy."

"Natasha, we've worked together for nearly 10 years now. I know when you're grumpy, and I can throw in an educated guess that my identity is the cause?"

"I've spent my life working in secret," Natasha shrugs, then pauses in search of the right words. "I'm well accustomed to dubious legalities and taking orders from the shadows. I'm also well aware that I would be a risk to security from the moment I joined until I gained the trust of this organisation, so I understood your secrecy."

Natasha stops again, noticing the silhouette begin to fidget; whether out of boredom or discomfort, the assassin can tell the time is right to make her final argument.

"We've worked together on hundreds of missions over this past decade, enough for you to know every detail of my life and mind, while I still know nothing about you. Have you thought about how that might hurt, officer? because it does! to believe I still haven't gained your trust after all this time. That hurts."

The room stills to a silence as fragile as Natasha felt. Her handler's reaction would dictate the situation; any information given could redefine the relationship between the two spies, just as another brush off would leave Natasha spiralling further into this curiosity.

A sigh finally echoes through the speakers; its long pause circling the sole inhabitant of the room. "It's above your clearance," the voice admits. Natasha slumps; she should have known better. "But-" The speed at which Natasha perks up draws out a small chuckle from her handler, before they continue with an audible smile, "I'll talk to Fury. See what I can reveal."

Natasha settles in her seat, unable to keep the broad smile from her face. "I do trust you, Romanoff, I hope you know that… I just don't think I'll be who you expect."

As a trained spy, Natasha wouldn't let that last line slide, immediately thinking of its hidden meaning. But before she can ask further questions, her handler clears their throat. "I think it's time we actually start the mission debrief."

»»————-　★　————-««

Natasha can't wait for the meeting to end. She understands the need – giving her side of the story, answering questions, sharing the intelligence she'd gained – but it drags on without incident and without any further comments on her handler's identity, so she'd much rather be at home.

What reason was there for her not to do this from home? Her handler calls in from wherever they are, so realistically, Natasha could also pick up from wherever she is. Ideally at home, after a relaxing shower and a little time with her wife. Natasha supposes that's where the issue may lie: you, her wife, who has been led to believe Natasha is a security guard and nothing more. If you overheard a debrief, not only would SHIELD's confidentiality be compromised, but you might never forgive her lies. Natasha's home office was soundproofed though and, because of that, the assassin would take the risk if it means extra time with you.

Throughout Natasha's homeward journey and all through the mission debrief, you are the only thing to occupy her mind. Her mission finished in late afternoon, so she had planned how she would surprise you and spend the evening together upon her return, but then the debrief cropped up, and by the time her key is in the door, the sun has long since set, leaving her to wonder if you're even still awake.

You are. Just about. Your pyjama clad figure appears in Natasha's sight and you rush down the stairs to meet her by the door.

"You're home!" You beam as you wrap your arms over her shoulders and take her cue for a kiss.

"I am."

"How was your mission?" you tease. You know how seriously she takes each assignment, always doing prep work in her office ahead of the trips; she treated them akin to a secret mission and you never missed your chance to rag her for it.

One of your favourite methods of teasing is to liken her to James Bond, which only gets more realistic when you catch her mouthing along to the movie lines.

"Top secret. Can't tell you," your wife jokes back, her smile threatening to burst off her face.

"No injuries this time?"

"None at all."

"Good girl." She preens. "Have you had dinner?"

"Not yet, I came home as soon as I was done. Couldn't wait to see you."

"Sweet talker," you laugh and kiss her again, then take her by the hand, "I put some leftovers in the fridge, you clean up, then you can eat and share your 'top secret' thoughts."

The evening's plan formed just like that; you reheat the noodle dish while Natasha takes a shower, before the two of you come back together to sit at the dinner table.

"So, how was it really?" you ask her.

"The job itself was alright, no problem." Natasha replies, but by the way she's stabbing the noodles with her fork, you can tell something else is coming. "But my bosses…they just won't tell me all the information. Say it's 'above my clearance'."

"The cheek of them."

"Don't mock me."

"I'm not, I'm not! I promise, love," you say, though you can't hide your barely contained laughter thanks to the prominent pout on your wife's face. You school your face back into an expression of neutrality before you talk again, "that sounds annoying. Do you need this information?"

"No," she sighs, "it's just a matter of trust."

"Well, you must be working with idiots for them not to trust you after all this time."

"Mm, you reckon I should tell that to them?"

"You definitely should."

The smile comes back to Natasha's face as she shakes her head, "you're going to get me fired, sweetheart."

"You're too good for them to do that. Just keep it up, you're going to be leading them one day, I'm sure of it. Then all the secrets are yours."

»»————-　★　————-««

Another week, another mission. And with another mission comes another mission debrief. Natasha asked for her handler's identity three weeks ago and still knows nothing more. With how poorly her recent mission went, she doesn't even feel like asking the question again.

"What went wrong, Romanoff?" that same anonymous figure asks her, and Natasha can only groan: what didn't go wrong?

"We were ambushed to start with; whoever gave us the heads up got their information wrong, or someone sold us out. Either way, the plan went to shit the moment we arrived and the team went to shit by throwing mole accusations around. Splitting up only made it worse; nobody trusted their teammates to do their parts and it resulted in a mad scramble. My orders were ignored, but my team members were injured and I take full responsibility."

"That won't be necessary, Agent," the voice hums, "as leader, the responsibility falls on you, yes, but it is each agent's responsibility to trust in you and follow your plan, and you will not be faulted for working with idiots who don't trust you."

Natasha starts to defend her team, before the familiarity of the phrase has her searching through her mind for a recollection. What she does remember is a long shot, but she'll lose nothing by asking.

"Do you have a wife, Officer?"

"I do," they reply.

"Is she a redhead?"

"She is."

"Works for SHIELD?"

"Why, it's almost like you know her," the handler goades. If one had an illustrated list of all of SHIELD's employees, they would know that the short game of 'guess who' still left a couple dozen potential employees in the running, but the teasing and testing tone is the final clue Natasha needs to make her assumption.

"Y/N/N?"

"Hey love," you reply, with as much adoration as you can muster, glad to finally be rid of the voice modulator while you talked to your wife.

In front of Natasha, the screen flickers before the silhouette that had become so familiar to her is replaced by another familiar sight in another familiar location: the smiling face of her wife…in her office.

Natasha's face falls at once, striking you with panic that this wouldn't be the gleeful revelation that you'd expected; that is, until the assassin speaks again. "Is that my desk?"

"It's your whole office, my love. I'm not taking these calls from our bedroom."

"Is that why it's sound proofed?"

"I gave the approval for that, if you remember, and it's certainly not because you're taking SHIELD calls at home; you haven't even had one while we've lived together!"

"That's because you organise it straight after the mission so I don't have time to go home!"

"Because that's where I am! you'd be suspicious otherwise."

Natasha falls silent for a moment. You know her well enough to leave her to her thoughts, only twiddling your thumbs as you watch her through the screen.

"So can I do debriefs at home now?"

"I don't see why not," you shrug, "remember I still have to take notes though, so I get the desk and no cuddling until after."

"No chance of that."

"Come back now, Romanoff, and we can put it to the test," you challenge.

She accepts. "I'll be there in 30."

"I know."

»»————-　★　————-««

Tagging: @supercorpdanbeau (since you mentioned you’d like to read it on the original post!)

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x you #black widow #black widow x reader #black widow x y/n #black widow x you #marvel #mcu #fanfiction #ikan writes

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fkinavocado · 23 days

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a very indulgent exploration of what could've, should've been...

Don't Worry Darling (SPIN-OFF) - Masterlist, Author’s Notes & Warnings / alternatively, read on wattpad

Part One (word count: 6.2k)

“... Jack? Excuse me, Jack? Is that really you?”

The man reluctantly stopped in his tracks and turned around, recognizing the woman but having forgotten her name. “Oh… hi there, uhm…?”

“Emma. It’s Emma. You remember me, right?”

“Yeah, you’re, uhm… you used to work at the hospital…”

Emma approached him, noting he wasn’t keen on breaching the gap himself. Poor fellow, she thought. He looked a mess. She was surprised she’d even recognized him. “Oh, I’m still at the hospital! How are you, Jack? You know, we’re all worried about you. Why didn’t you take us up on our offer, hm? We’d have loved to help you any way we could… It can’t have been easy. Gloria told us she came over once with a home cooked casserole but no one answered the door. She assumed you’d moved. Which is good, we thought. But we couldn’t get a hold of you, you must’ve also changed your number…”

Jack wasn’t really making eye contact. His gaze downcast, a hoodie atop of a beanie on his head and an oversized, worn out puffer jacket that almost swallowed him up. He looked very poorly even hidden behind all that. His facial hair unkempt, as was his hair tucked underneath his beanie, seemingly longer strands of it all messy and straw-like peeking out. His glasses loose at his temples. His face was hollow cheeked and she really feared he wasn’t looking after himself properly at all. But what really stood out to her was the bouquet of flowers he was carrying.

“Yeah… I moved out of there. Too many memories.”

“Those were her favourite… pink roses,” she mused. “You miss her so, don’t you, Jack? You can’t even bear talking to me about her, you poor man, even after all this time… What must you be going through… do you– agh. This is so insensible of me to even ask. Forgive me. But if it’s any consolation, us at the hospital haven’t given up hope. We still think she’s out there, somewhere, our Alice…”

Jack cleared his throat and took a step back. “I should get going…”

“Of course. Do take care of yourself, Jack. And if you ever want to reach out, you know where to find us. Take all the time you need.”

“Thank you,...” he stammered a bit, not knowing what else to say. He walked for a while in the wrong direction, just in case the nosy woman decided to follow him.

He hadn’t moved. That would’ve been near impossible, and since he managed to dodge the bullet while the police were sniffing around for the longest time, he figured there wasn’t any reason to do so anymore. But he couldn’t have her know that, which is why he never answered the door to the other woman with the casserole either.

After making sure she wasn’t following him, he resumed his walk home. He wished he could find some type of work from home. He’d be saving so much time and money on the commute, plus he’d always be there, which was quite imperative, all things considered.

What if there was a power outage? The one time that’d happened, there’d been dire consequences. Consequences he hadn’t had to endure. And he simply couldn’t allow that to happen again.

There were so many things that could go wrong while he wasn’t home.

Plus, if he worked remote he could take on a full shift. As it was, he had to work part-time, which wasn’t nearly enough to make ends meet. But the commute and all the prep he had to do were taking up too much time, time he didn’t want to waste here.

Finally arriving home, he made sure to secure the front door- the lock and all 3 of the bolts.

Checking the computer screen, he only had 40 minutes left. The woman had made him late, what with all the detours he had to make to be sure she wasn’t following him.

Canned tuna it was, then. Again. No time for cooking. Not that he had much in the fridge anyway.

He always felt antsy between the time he got back home and logging in. He wanted to get everything done and out of the way as soon as possible- cooking, laundry, cleaning (more like tidying up, the apartment was far from clean even by his standards), everything on autopilot, peeking at the computer screen every now and then to make sure he didn’t miss his log-in window.

With 20 minutes to spare, that was his que.

“Oh!” He rushed back to the kitchen to retrieve the flowers, then using the keys that he wore on a chain around his neck for safekeeping, he unbolted yet another set of locks on the bedroom door.

There she was.

His heart always swelled in his chest seeing her there, safe and sound. Everyday day, without fail, a sigh of relief escaped his lips once he entered the bedroom. He’d probably never stop worrying while he was away for work.

“Darling, I… miss you all the time…” he hummed the lyrics to a song he used to sing to her often, placing the flowers in a vase by the bed. “Got you flowers, your favourite! Even that pesky Emma from the hospital remembers they’re your favourite. You’re so loved, hm? My precious girl.” He sat on the edge of the bed and reached to caress her supple cheek. “But I love you the most.”

Jack knew he did. Who else would do all this for her? Nobody! He tended after her, emptied out her waste bags as well as checked the respective connecting catheters were secure in place, cleaned her up, all without so much as wrinkling his nose. He replaced the IV, taking note that there was some bruising on that arm so he made sure to switch, he removed her compressive socks and massaged her limbs thoroughly before putting them back on, even made sure to hydrate her lips though she was getting all her nutrients through her IV, hell- he thought of everything. He did it all for her happily, and would do much more if needed.

She’d done so much for them, too.

She still did!

But long gone were the days where he’d see her come home from back to back shifts at the hospital, with barely any time to get some sleep in before she had to head back, all because she had to support the both of them all while paying off her student loans.

Medschool was so expensive. Had he met her before he’d have talked her out of that career path. He’d have talked her out of any career! No. That was his job. He was the caretaker. He was the breadwinner. It’d been like that since the beginning of time. It was only natural for the man to provide. The fact that she’d had to for all that time had been killing him, every day that he had to sit at home and wait for her to get back from the hospital only to see her defeated, exhausted, drained beyond belief.

Resident doctors were paid shit but strung out to the max. Especially surgeons.

Meanwhile, Jack had struggled to find a job for the longest time. Unlike her, he hadn’t gone to college, let alone university. His parents couldn’t afford it at the time and he knew better than to tie himself up in student loans. He’d had odd jobs but nothing really ever stuck. He had no real skills, and every entry job demanded some form of higher education nowadays.

Plus, someone had to do house chores, cook and clean. And they couldn’t afford help.

It’d been eating him up inside. It was all backwards!

All up until he’d met someone online and got to talking over a game of World of Warcraft. This guy swore up and down about this dark web programme he’d found, but it was all very hush-hush, and Jack had to put in some serious gameplay time until he managed to extricate the info out of him.

The guy was very paranoid about telling him and even used a code system for what to look up. Jack took the lead and before long, he fell down the rabbit hole of what he now knew to be the Victory Project.

He got so immersed trying to digest all this new info being thrown his way all of a sudden that he nearly got caught listening to one of the podcasts when she’d gotten home from the hospital one day. He’d even forgotten to call the plumber. Boy- had that pissed her off.

She was already on edge all the time. Never had any time for him anyway- but if she got upset over silly little things she shut him out completely.

He felt emasculated. Rejected. Reduced to a housewife.

Jack smirked to himself, as he tended to her whilst pondering all that. Securing the straps back around her wrists he mused at how things had changed. “I fixed it for us, I told you I would. Now you’re the one who’s waiting for me just as we speak. And I don’t even come home to you in scrubs, do I? No, I come home to you all handsome, suit and tie and ready to get my fill of you. Never too tired for you, am I darling? You’re such a great cook, god knows my mouth waters just thinking of all you’ve slaved over for us to feast on, but all I wanna do is feast on you instead. Aren’t you lucky?”

Jack watched her expressionless eyes for a moment as if waiting for her to answer him back, and promptly remembered to apply her eye drops, noticing they looked extra blood-shot than normal. He then finally got comfy in bed next to her. He couldn’t wait a moment longer. He was hard already just in anticipation of the way she’d excitedly open the door for him. The door to their lavish home, and their extravagant life together that he’d earned for the two of them. Him.

He fixed the device around his own eyes and turned it on, taking her hand in his.

“Welcome to the Victory Project. There are currently 72 active users.”

Nothing beat this. The pleasant, warm afternoon air sweeping through his perfectly coiffed hair as he rushed to get home to her from the Victory Headquarters. Here, the weather was always perfect… whereas, in the apartment, he had to keep the heating on a lower setting, the bill was ridiculous during the colder months. He always had to wear layers and layers, but not in the bedroom- no, he kept a radiator in there. All for her. He had to switch it off for safety reasons while he was away at work but it wasn’t like she was aware of her surroundings anyway! All the more reasons why he had to find something remote so he could work from home and clear up all these little things that bugged him about the whole arrangement.

But he didn’t want to think about all that, not while he was here. No, here, those problems didn’t exist. This was his preferred reality, this was what he chose to believe was real. All the rest was just a means to an end.

He could feel all his exhaustment leave his body the closer he got to the house. He seldom wondered why she couldn’t have done the same for him coming back from the hospital. Why she couldn’t just leave all that baggage at the door and be glad to be home, back to him, where he waited for her like a lovesick puppy with separation anxiety.

He knew the answer to that now, of course, and that was all Frank’s merit- the brain behind this whole thing. He’d listened to his podcasts for a long while before he enrolled into the program. There was no way she could ever respect him within their given dynamic at the time. The roles were reversed and she couldn’t allow herself to be a woman to her man.

He’d fixed it, though, and boy, had Frank been right.

Every day, without fail, he knocked on the door coming home from work and there she was- all smiles and carefree and so eager to please him, in any way he saw fit. All because she respected him now. He was the man of the house, he was the breadwinner, he put a roof over her head, he got her all her little heart desired and kept her satisfied and happy.

Which is why when nobody answered the door he was a bit taken aback.

Using his key that he’d rarely ever had to use himself to unlock the door, he let himself in and carefully inspected the silent house.

He knew, realistically, that there was no way something could’ve gone wrong- there was no crime in Victory. No one had broken into their home. But still, he searched the house tentatively. “Alice?”

Everything was spotless, and most striking of all, he couldn’t smell a trace of the homecooked meal he’d so been looking forward to. That tuna was enough to sustain his physical body, but not his large appetite.

Reaching the bedroom, he furrowed his brows with worry upon finding her… sleeping. Passed out on the bed, clad in her street clothes. She’d seemingly come back home from town exhausted and must’ve stretched her bones a bit by the looks of it.

He contemplated waking her up. Maybe crawling between her thighs and having her gasp awake at the feel of him lapping languidly at her folds. He loved waking her up like that, and she did too. She loved being loved on, and Jack absolutely loved pleasuring her. She was so much more responsive, so much more sensitive to his touch, he could pleasure her over and over for hours on end. Probably ‘cause of all the practice he was having on a regular basis. And maybe he adjusted some settings regarding his stamina while creating his profile too, but at the end of the day, why not? He did it for her. All of this was for her!

Jack grunted to himself before closing the door to the bedroom so he wouldn’t perturb her sleep, deciding last minute to forgo his initial plans. Funny he’d been reminiscing about how things used to be just in time for this to happen all of a sudden.

It must’ve been a glitch in the system or something. This wasn’t in line with what he’d designed for themselves. Here, they were never tired, ill or imperfect in any way. Jack made a mental note to look into this after he logged out.

In the meanwhile- he’d never tried his hand at cooking here, where presumably he’d be a lot better at it than he was in reality.

Just like with everything else.

Alice blinked her eyes awake. She took in her surroundings and hesitantly stood up on the bed in the dark room, letting her sight adjust.

How did she get back here? Not here, here. She had an inkling of how she’d managed that- but back to the house, from the Headquarters. She couldn’t remember making the trek back.

Maybe she didn’t have to.

Maybe this was the default setting she woke up to everytime after entering… the simulation. Because, what else was this if not that?!

How long was she out of it? Judging by the darkness surrounding her, a good few hours. Perking her ears up, she could hear music- so Jack was home too.

She cradled her knees to her chest, trying to let it all sink in. She hadn’t had time to properly digest what had happened, in her unconscious state.

Hell, she was surprised she could even remember.

But this explained it… explained all the fuzzy deja vu-like flashbacks she kept having. Explained her brain fog and all the things she just couldn’t follow through in her train of thought. Explained why she sometimes couldn’t account for most of her day until Jack came home from work, almost as if she’d been on auto-pilot.

Explained all the vivid “dreams”.

They weren’t fanciful dreams, idealistic wishes of a progressive feminist world for which she’d gotten shock therapy at the Victory’s doctor’s orders.

They were her memories.

Waking up tied down to that bed… her own bed, from another life, had been traumatic, but she clearly was still in shock to be so calm about it.

She hadn’t been calm initially of course- not when she couldn’t move her arms or blink her eyes shut.

She’d managed to slip out of the confines, her wrists weak and frail and barely recognizable, yanking her IV out of her vein by accident- she hadn’t even known it was there!, all in an effort to get those things that forced her eyes open off of her face.

She’d been hysteric. Tried to muffle her own screams, because she didn’t know who was around to hear them. Tried to calm herself down, but the more she noticed, the more she hyperventilated. Like the fact that had both urinary and rectal catheters sticking out of her. Then she noticed how emaciated she looked, almost like she couldn’t even recognize her own body. She couldn’t feel her limbs, she felt numb and achy all over, bruises all across her skin from sitting still for so long. Her throat was hoarse, she couldn’t really scream that loud even if she wanted to.

She’d fumbled out of bed and immediately collapsed to the floor. She was too weak to stand, and she prayed she hadn’t broken any bones in her fall. She sat there crying in a fetal position for god knows how long, thinking of all the fractures she’d fixed in the OR, and all her knowledge that had gone to waste.

All her life that had gone to waste!

This room, this bedroom- her old life came back to her in a flash, flooding all her senses. It felt like everything was finally clicking into place, and despite how miserable and utterly devastated she felt, it was a relief to finally figure it out.

With the way nobody came rushing into the bedroom, she knew she was alone. Unless Jack was at this computer, headphones on– oh god. She felt her mind split into two trying to reconcile the fact that these two very different men were one and the same!

She was alone strapped to the bed- which could only mean one thing. He wasn’t constrained like she was. He hadn’t been forced into this. Unless they were being kept separate… both victims of this sick mindfuck.

Because… surely– surely Jack couldn’t be behind this.

… Could he?

Scrambling for the door, determined to get some answers, she reached for the doorknob.

When she couldn’t get it to open, she mustered up all her strength to stand up- but still- it was no use. It was locked. And with the way it felt it looked like the door had been tampered with, bolted shut from the outside, not just locked.

She was trapped. A prisoner in her own home. She eyed the windows next and even if by some miracle they weren’t bolted shut too- she knew she was too weak to try and use the fire escape. She’d surely succumb to her death trying to evade. She needed a plan- a better plan.

Her brain was scurrying to come up with something-anything, all the while dry heaving at the sight of her waste bags still attached to her by those catheters and the overall stale smell of the room, but she knew that with how dehydrated she was, vomiting would take her out completely at that point. She head to keep it together, had to–

She’d heard what she recognized to be the front door. Her blood froze in her veins. She didn’t know who it was, she had no idea who was behind all this. She had no clue where Jack was, if he even was part of this– her heart told her no, he couldn’t have, but at this point she had no way of knowing what was real or not, let alone what this all meant.

She couldn’t risk being found conscious. She was clearly being kept in a comatose state, treated as one such patient at least, and the fact that she’d woken up from that induced state was definitely not intended to happen.

She remembered what had happened before she woke up like this- she’d reached the infamous, off limits Victory Headquarters. Because a plane had crashed in that direction, and the trolley driver didn’t believe her nor wanted to take her there!

She’d made the trek all the way there… it’d taken her ages, in the scorching sun- and finally, finally, she’d reached the imposing building, in hopes of finding some help or at least some answers at that point!

Next thing she knew, she’d woken up strapped to this bed. Her bed, in her old bedroom, from her old life that had been stolen away from her!

She needed to gather as much information as possible, and the only way she could do that was to get back into that bed and pretend she never came to.

There was no other way.

She hurried as best she could, barely making it back to the bed, made sure she was laid out in the same outstretched position. By some miracle, the catheters were still in place, their respective bags on the floor by the foot of the bed. The hardest part was fixing whatever that contraption was over her face and around her eyes. It dug deep into her flesh and she remembered to wipe any traces of tears from her face when new ones began rolling down her face. She was surprised her body could even produce them with how parched she felt. She then inserted the needle back into her bruised vein– which was sure to get infected at this rate, whoever was doing this to her was amateur at best, or they didn’t much care to keep her alive. She didn’t know which prospect was worse. She slipped her wrists back through the strap loops, hoping it wouldn’t be obvious she’d gotten them a bit loose when she struggled her way out of them.

And then she’d waited. And waited. And waited. All the while a bright red light scanned her eyeballs systematically, no doubt whatever was used to induce her into that trance or whatever it was that created the optimal parameters for the alternate reality to take place. She couldn’t even wrap her mind around it. She couldn’t even begin to understand how it worked- all she knew was that it was all too real to be just a dream. No. That was a controlled environment. The world simulation came to her again.

Her whole body froze as she’d heard the lock, then what she counted to be 3 other bolts on the bedroom door. She could only see directly above her, and that barely- but she could hear him when he came in.

Smell him, even.

And it wasn’t the smell of expensive cologne she’d grown used to, but a more familiar smell. A smell that felt more real, more ingrained in her subconscious- that of clothes he’d dug out of the laundry hamper to wear a few more times when everything else was too dirty even for his own standards, mixed with canned tuna and the faintest amount of deodorant that did nothing to mask the fact that he’d skipped showering for a day or two.

Her heart sank when she heard him hum to himself the song that had been stuck in her mind for ages- the one she’d been humming herself but couldn’t remember where she knew it from. This is where she knew it from. It’d been their song, in a way, a song he’d made up just for her.

“Darling, I… miss you all the time… Got you flowers, your favourite! Even that pesky Emma from the hospital remembers they’re your favourite. You’re so loved, hm? My precious girl.” She felt him sit on the edge of the bed and tried her best not to flinch when he leaned in to caress her cheek. “But I love you the most.”

She could feel her eyes well up with tears. Tears she couldn’t even blink away.

He then started tending to her and she mustered up all of her willpower not to lurch at him when he’d gotten her out of her restraints- she knew she was no match for him, not in her weakened state by any means.

He was doing this to her. It was him! All while declaring his love for her. She felt her heart break into a million pieces, all the while forcing herself not to make any movements and break her cover. Not even when he cleaned her with wet wipes up and checked the catheters, emptying the waste bags. God- she wished she was dead. For a while she zoned out completely, much like rape victims. She just let it happen to her, dissociating from her body completely, mentally checking out.

He’d eventually poured what must’ve been eyedrops into her sockets and that brought her back to reality. Whatever reality was anymore…

And then… to her utter shock, she felt him get in bed next to her. The familiar clank of the device she’d placed back onto herself could be heard and she realized he was putting on the same headgear.

He was… joining her? He was willingly putting himself through this? Sure, he wasn’t forced into it against his will, there was nobody strapping himself to the bed, nobody feeding him through an IV and treating him like a comatose patient.

But he was entering the simulation the same way she was. Through that headgear.

Is this what he did everyday while he was “at work”? Was this the infamously secret Victory Project that she couldn’t even ask him about- exiting that alternate reality and coming back here?

She heard him switch it on and then the whole room went dark before a projector of sorts played a familiar black and white scene on the ceiling, above the bed. She felt him interlace his fingers with hers and she was done for- she couldn’t fight it. Whatever this was, it was working fast, making her slip into unconsciousness almost immediately.

Followed directly after by her waking up in her other bedroom. Unrestrained. Nothing to force her eyes open. Clean. Rejuvenated even.

But scared shitless.

Traumatised.

Heartbroken.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, trying to make sense of it all in the darkness. Thankful to be able to move freely, thankful to feel like her old self, but well aware that it was all an illusion, that her real self was held hostage somewhere god knows where. Helpless, frail and alone.

She felt conflicted. Why was he doing this?! Why had he done this to her? She’d heard him say he loved her most. Heard he’d brought her flowers, even though she couldn’t even see them. Felt him tend to her, he was doing a lousy job at it but was keeping her alive and she could tell he was trying his best, being gentle, careful, thoughtful even when the reality was he didn’t have to. Not when, for all he knew, she was unconscious.

This was insanity.

There was no other explanation. No other justification. She understood the nuances- could see why this was- on paper- a better life. But it was fake! And most of all, it wasn’t her choice!

She’d been forced into it, against her will, without her even being aware of it! Her life had been robbed away from her. Her family, her friends, her hard work. The only common denominator… was Jack.

She didn’t know how to go about it, but if there was any chance of her escaping, she had to play dumb and pretend she knew nothing.

She wasn’t sure how she could face him knowing what she did, but she had to. She had to buy time, enough time until she could put her plan into motion.

She didn’t know if she’d succeed, but she had to try. She had to. She had to escape, claim her life back, good or bad.

She got off the bed, marvelling at how strong and healthy she felt, as opposed to how she’d collapsed on the floor in her real body. That alone emboldened her, she had to go face the music.

And face the music she did. Jack had put a record on, blasting it at high volume with little consideration to her being asleep. No surprises there.

But as she approached the kitchen, she took in the sight of him… cooking. Or, trying to cook.

Apparently, you couldn’t tweak everything in this alternate reality. Or maybe he didn’t care to fumble with his cooking skills. Because he’d definitely perfected some of his other skills–

“You’re awake!... I didn’t have time to set the table.”

“What’s going on?” She watched him scurry around the kitchen, trying to do a dozen things at once and failing.

“Well, I’m making you dinner. Now, we were supposed to have five courses. Unfortunately, I think we’re down to about three.”

She took note of the mess, especially the way something was about to catch on fire on the stove.

“That– don’t look at that. That course is officially off the menu.”

That’s when it clicked in her brain– the fucker had switched up his accent! He had a British accent here! Oh, she could laugh if she didn’t feel like murdering him. She reminded herself it wouldn’t be the real him she’d be murdering, though. No, for all she knew if she harmed him in any way here, she might end up trapped inside this simulation forever if her plan failed. Or until her real body died, with no one to tend for it, even as poorly as he was, in the real world.

She had to thread carefully. “What happened?”

“I got a little aggressive with the seasoning.”

“How long have you been home?”

“Uh, a few hours.” He proceeded to make even more of a mess in his attempt to jump from one dish to the next. “Okaaay. Nope. Don’t look at that. That’s– Okay, so I’m making that roast, you know the one you made for my birthday? Only with a few changes…”

“I was here when you got here?”

“Yeah. Asleep in the bedroom. Do you put carrots in a roast?”

“How did I get home?” That was a reasonable question. Last thing she knew of this reality was she’d reached the Headquarters. She needed to know if anyone knew about it.

“Trolley, I think.”

“Wait, so he came out and got me?!”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Jack, I got off the trolley. I saw a plane crash.”

“Alice, I think I would’ve heard if there was a plane crash.”

“No, Jack, I saw it…”

“They tend to be rather loud…”

“... and I started walking–”

“–and hard to miss.”

It was dawning on her that she wasn’t going to milk any info on this out of him. He was going to pretend the plane never crashed, of course, whatever that even meant for this simulation. Or maybe the plane crashing was only visible to her version of this altered reality. She couldn’t know for sure. But he seemed unconcerned otherwise. She didn’t think he knew she’d gone there. She really must’ve re-entered right back into the bedroom, after all, she, along with all the other women, were never meant to go up there, the Headquarters were off-limits.

Meaning that was probably from where the men entered. Since they were the only ones who came and left. The women were probably all bound to their own respective beds back in the real world, they were never meant to leave the simulation. It made sense why she’d found herself back in the house- where she belonged. And it made sense if that was where the man entered and exited since that’s where they all allegedly went everyday for “work”.

Her heart sank at the realization that it was highly probable that all the other women were victims, just like her. Unless everything and everyone else was a simulation around them.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

She tried not to flinch when Jack finally noticed she’d zoned out whilst trying to process all of this, and touched her shoulder, taking a better look at her.

“No…I don’t know–I’m not…”

Before she could react, he pulled her into his arms. That smell of expensive cologne hit her again, overriding the smell of stale clothes and canned tuna from her recent memory. And his embrace felt so familiar, so comforting, that for a moment she allowed herself to pretend like this was the person she knew to love her. The person she couldn’t wait to come back home from work everyday. The person that made her smile and laugh and moan and cry tears of happiness. She knew him well, she loved him with all her heart. And she was reluctant to accept that this man was the same that was keeping her strapped against the bed. Because that was the reality of it.

But this version of Jack that was holding her felt so real as well…

“I had a really weird dream. A really weird dream…”

“I’m sorry.”

Her heart sank. Was he, sorry? She buried her face deeper into his chest and held her breath, stifling a sob as tears flooded her eyes immediately. She wanted to break down in his arms and ask him why he’d done this. She wanted to give him a chance to explain himself. Wanted for him to somehow, magically, make it all better.

But she knew there was no way for him to do it. There was nothing he could say or do to justify what he’d done to her, even if his intentions didn’t seem as evil as they truly were to him.

Because she knew Jack. She knew he’d probably convinced himself somehow that this was the only way out of the miserable life they were living- and be it as it were, it was her life! He’d had no right to steal it from her like that.

“Do you know what weird dreams make me? Hungry.” He fed her a carrot he was holding jokingly then turned her around as she chewed absentmindedly, her mind racing, still taking in the reality of what her life was. Or the alternate reality, more like it.

Jack cupped her face, searching her eyes and declared solemnly, “Alice, I want to be honest with you about something.”

She almost choked on the carrot she was chewing on. Was he–

“I don’t think these mashed potatoes are gonna work.”

She swallowed, a bitter taste in her mouth at her naivete. “That’s because you need to boil them first, baby…”

“I knew it… I knew there was a step missing. Such an idiot,” he smiled bashfully.

She laughed at that. A manic laugh, but he didn’t seem to notice. Not at how incompetent he was at such a basic life skill- who the hell tries to mash raw potatoes?!- but at how hopeful she’d been for a moment there, believing he was about to confess everything just like that, out of the blue.

“Let me put a pot on…”

“No, no, no–”

“Come on, let me–”

“Make us some drinks. Relax.” He pulled her out of the kitchen and into the lounge, declaring “I am your chef tonight!”

Lord knew she desperately needed a drink at this point, so she sighed heavily, getting to it, when he stopped her in her tracks, “hey!”

“Hm?”

“You love me?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She replied like she used to, back in the real world. Something she didn’t remember ever doing here, but it just came to her by reflex now that her memory of her past life had come back to her fully. And for some reason that she couldn’t explain, she meant it, still. “The most.”

Jack seemed pleased with her answer, and resumed his ‘cooking’. Alice turned to the whiskey bottle and downed two doubles, one after the other.

How was she ever going to get free when her stupid heart had meant what she said?

She couldn’t allow herself to be fooled by this false reality any longer. Couldn’t allow to slip into his arms again and pretend he loved her when this was anything but love.

So she waited. Waited until he fell asleep that night (thankfully all the “cooking” had seemingly tired him out and he didn’t try anything)- praying this meant he was truly asleep.

Got dressed, tiptoed out of the house and geared up for a long journey to the Headquarters. She couldn’t risk taking the car and waking him or the neighbours up, alerting them with this unusual behaviour. There weren't any trolleys late at night by any means- everyone was sound asleep.

Everyone but her.

She was no longer asleep.

A/N: i've been meaning to get to this for the longest while! hopefully it scratches some itches we've been left with. i had fun writing this first part. more to come 👀

💕 like & reblog if you enjoyed this, lovelies, and most importantly, please come share your thoughts on it here 💌

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#dwd #don't worry darling #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles writing #harry styles smut #jack chambers #florence pugh

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anundyingfidelity · 2 months

Text

I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy/Ben (Part VI)

Series summary: After the events of the Seven Tower, you present Grace Mallory a new secret project you're working on already to develop a cure to Compound V. The only problem? You need Soldier Boy for that.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader.

Word count: 2.5k.

Warnings for series: set after S3 (spoilers), some OOC!Ben, some depressed!Ben, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slow-burn, language, PTSD, reader has Compound V (she's no Vought supe tho), Soldier Boy being an usual asshole, reader is a fucking liar.

Warnings on this chapter: some suicide thoughts, very suggestive stuff, nudity, sexual tension barely starting, misogyny coming from you know who lol.

Notes: i was eager to drop this so here it is. hope i can make justice to the slow burn/slow sexual tension. aaaa as always thanks for reading!! ily all!

this fic tags: @k-slla @syrma-sensei @mostlymarvelgirl @cheynovak @drasticemotions @soldirboy @deans-spinster-witch

☕ if you like my writing, support me with a ko-fi !

get yourself in the taglist!

GEN MASTERLIST! — SERIES MASTERLIST!

Part VI: Don't Lay Your Red Hand On Me

“Where the fuck are we going?” Ben asked, checking the picture outside the windshield.

The sun was already setting down, and there have been hours since you started driving. At least he had been able to see the damn sunset again after being caged for so long.

Despite his questioning look and not trusting you completely, both made it to your car in the middle of the mess of blood and headless corpses around the building, with him naked under the effects of your invisibility powers. Somehow, you still managed to reassure Soldier Boy it was to protect him. In fact, as you guided both out of the place, you were scared of your abilities not working properly to have him covered. The last thing you wanted was the cameras to have a look at him, escaping with your help.

Now, with Soldier Boy dressed in his clothes and you still wiping some of the dry blood from your skin, you drove without a destiny in mind. Just somewhere you could take him far away from Homelander and Vought. He was, in fact, your top priority and needed to be protected, even if you knew you were nothing compared to his strength and abilities, you still had the urgency of him trusting you, to feel like you really cared. And you did care, but for the wrong reasons and those, he didn’t have to know.

“Far away,” you responded, picking up your phone with one hand as you drove through the highway.

“That doesn’t tell me anything,” he insisted, looking at you switching your attention between the device in your hands and the road.

You dialed Grace, ignoring his voice. She didn’t answer immediately. You cursed under your breath and dialed again. No answer anew, just the ring and the automatic voicemail message. Well, fuck. You had to play with what you had.

“Hey, it’s me,” you began the message. “Please call me when you can, I have to inform you of something. It’s urgent, please call me back.”

Ben rolled his eyes, annoyed as fuck for your silence towards his demands. “You’re gonna tell me now what the fuck is going on? You’re a fucking supe and everyone is dead back there! And not ‘cause of me.”

“First, nothing to fear from me. Okay? You’re the one who’d kill me in a blink. Second, I don’t know!” you yelled as a response, clearly irritated. “I don’t know shit! I know we need to run and that’s all. So just shut up and let me drive.”

“Christ on a cross, you women are fucking irritating,” Ben fumed. He saw a cheap motel by the road and he would’ve guessed you were going there because you slowed down and pulled up in the parking lot. He sighed. “Home, shitty home.”

“Got any ideas? Because I’m all ears,” you stopped the engine and got down the car, taking the sports bag with you. The supe rolled his eyes and before he went out, you came right to his half open door. “Stay here, I'll check in.”

Ben shut his eyes, watching you closing the car door with a loud thud, and you left to get a room. He felt the need to storm behind and shout out what he really thought of your stupid ass bossing him around. If it wasn’t because he wasn’t really half the way out of the fucking car, he should have been arguing and insisting for some real answers. But for some reason he stayed back. When you came back after a short time he followed you to a double bed room you’d be using just for the night.

Once you entered, you decided a shower was first thing on the list, and then you had to communicate with Grace as soon as fucking possible. Checking around, you were thankful to find a couple of towels in the bathroom, while Ben settled on his own space, lying down on one of the beds.

He observed you thoroughly as you studied yourself in the dirty mirror hanging on the wall. The disgusting grimace you made told him you were looking for more blood to wipe off. And before he could speak again you turned to see him.

“I'm gonna take a shower,” you announced.

He raised a brow. “Mind some company, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes as you started to unbutton your blouse, his eyes checking shamelessly the little exposed skin didn’t go unnoticed by you. “Don't even think about it.”

And with that, you just disappeared inside the bathroom. The noise of water running compensated both of you for the silence. He turned on the cheap TV to have some noise for himself too, deciding he’d go for a shower after you. Probably if he was in a different mood would have just tried to get in your pants. Ben was getting so damn stressed out. First you took out his weed, then you announced he would have medication for his fucking stress disorder or some shit, and later, agents and employees of the facility just started to die violently without reason. He thought if any of you would be next while you walked him out.

It was too much to handle right now. He needed something to take it all out. Something, anything, somebody. Just to release it the only way he knew: with sexual pleasure. He didn't understand yet what the fuck was happening. Did you really care about him? You could just have left him there to handle everything by himself and run away. Yet, you took him out of the facility and he, once again, had a glimpse of your courage. Maybe a little. And he started to like that. Suddenly, he heard the shower being turned off and minutes later you came out of the bathroom sooner than he expected, dressed in the same clothing, drying the droplets on your face and wet hair.

“I’m gonna get some dinner, stay here” you announced, taking your phone and the room and car keys. “The door will be locked, don’t do anything stupid.”

Ben scoffed, standing up before making his way to take a shower himself. He faced you directly, just a couple of inches separating both of you. Your gaze challenged him to step closer. “I’m not a fucking animal.”

You hummed, without looking away from his eyes. “Sometimes I doubt you.”

“Locking the fucking door won’t do shit, why you keep doing this?” Ben asked, visible confusion on his features. He really looked tired as hell. Tired of your bullshit.

“It’s not because of you. I perfectly understand that, just wait for me here.”

With that, you turned on your heels and left the room. From the other side, you locked the door. Ben let out a deep breath. He knew it was easy to tear it apart, and again, run after you to have damn answers for once. But instead, he decided to calm himself a little and get rid of his clothes. Inside the shower, he let the warm water take care of the burdens he was carrying, without knowing, on his back. He wondered if he’d been better dead by now, if sleeping in a chamber was a greater choice than this, just running along with you, a woman, who just seemed to fuck him up even more instead of playing real like you had promised. If he knew how to kill himself, probably would’ve done it already. He was getting sick of hiding, of being a fucking experiment, to be under someone’s else’s orders… The worst part of it all is that he never had the right to choose on his own faith. Not even his own death.

Out of the room, you were a few feet away from the door you left behind when your phone started to ring softly. An unknown number appeared on the screen and cautiously you answered, making your way to the car, getting inside on the co-pilot seat.

“Hello?” a voice you knew too well started to speak after some seconds of silence.

“Grace?”

The woman on the other line breathed out. “Yeah, it’s me. Uhm, couldn’t attend earlier, sorry…”

“It’s okay,” you shook your head, as if she could see you face to face. “We’ve been compromised. My lab assistants, the nurses, scientists, guards… Everyone is dead.”

“Fuck,” Grace hissed. She sounded exhausted. “Where is Soldier Boy?”

“I took him out, checked us in at a motel. Can’t go back to my old place. Not yet.”

“You have the copies of the project, right?”

For a moment you felt she was doubting you, but you answered anyway, surprised she would even ask that. “I do.”

There was a little silence coming from her. You continued. “I don’t think I told you yet, but… Fuck, I received a visit from Homelander a couple of days ago. He crashed into my apartment… He knows.”

Grace cursed under her breath. “Y/N, we’re playing with fire here.”

You swallowed thickly, feeling your heartbeat raising. “What’s going on with you? Something happened back there?”

“Victoria Neuman came, saying she wanted to talk to me. She kinda threatened my life, and I’m on the run… Now I can make the puzzle.”

“You think they might be working together?”

“Probably. Senator Bishop was found dead, and guess who is running now with Robert Singer for vice president.”

You chuckled. The whole situation was so ironically clear. “Victoria, that stupid, smart bitch.”

“I’m gonna get some information on her, I know some people who’d know more than I do. I’ll call once I find something.”

“Okay, I’ll wait for that. Do you need me to do anything?”

“Just keep Soldier Boy busy. Work on that injection as soon as you can,” she ordered.

You nodded to yourself, taking a look around the empty lot. “Yes, ma’am.”

After a somewhat long time, Ben saw you entering the room and locking the door. You left a paper bag and water on the nightstand by his bed, where he laid down like he was having a nice day on the beach with only a towel around his hips. He noticed you looked down at him a little longer than usual, but he wasn’t going to let that slip. A sleazy smirk formed on his lips.

“My eyes are up here, sugar.”

You turned away your gaze for a moment before looking back up at him again, confident this time as you locked up your eyes with his half-lidded ones.

“Stop the pet names, Soldier Boy.”

Ben stood up on his feet slowly under your eyes following his moves. His muscular frame towering over your figure as the towel fell to the floor, revealing his bare figure to you. He was growing fond of the way you didn’t step back, ever, from him.

“Well, you never complained back there. Speaking of,” he took the bottle of water between his hands and took a sip from it before his green orbs focused on you anew. “I think you owe me an explanation.”

“I already told you. I don’t know shit.”

“Fucking lies,” the supe hissed. “Tell me now.”

You shrugged and crossed your arms on your chest, tired of him. “I have nothing.”

“Sweetheart, you never shut your piehole during our sessions. Don’t back up now,” he dared, stepping closer to you, eyelids narrowing.

Neither Ben or you dared to look away. You had to act like it, for your good. What if Soldier Boy found out that probably Homelander was behind all of it? It was going to be the end of him, his son; the fucking abusive experiment would be gone with a blast. But Vought was still around. It wasn’t just about Homelander or personal payback. It was more than that.

Homelander was barely the tip of the iceberg. And you were afraid Ben would never understand the mission. Would he say yes to use his blood to create even more experiments after all he went through, even if you explained everything? You knew his answer. The next step was getting it from him and it was going to be the hardest thing ever. But you could think of that later. There was nothing that a small cut accident couldn’t do.

“I’m not talking because I have nothing to tell you, Ben,” you lied, looking at him with your brows knitting together. “I wish I knew, but I’m just as scared as you might be.”

“I’m not scared,” he replied a little too fast. “I want to know why you took me out.”

“Why not?” you insisted. “You deserve another chance.”

And I need you alive to find a cure to this curse.

Ben scrutinized your face. This time, he couldn’t read through you. What did he know though, was that he was tired. A burning ache was forming inside him once again and he needed to release it. He was used to sensing your heartbeats, the blood running on your veins, and still now there was no glimpse of you reacting to his teasing. Any other woman would have thrown herself at him, he was used to it. Now, there wasn’t anyone. Just you, paying no attention to his perfectly sculpted body and his cock between his legs. It had to be the fact that you were a supe. Not as powerful, but still. A clear advantage in the cursed world you all lived in. He took in your body, thinking into luring you to give in and imagining how it would be to have you crying under him, moaning his name exactly like numerous women have. Just for the night.

“Don’t think about it, Soldier Boy,” you voiced out, like if you read his nasty mind. “I’m not gonna do that.”

His eyes went back to your face. “Y’know, I used to have lines of women like you during my days. Countless lines of rich whores, waiting to have a good fuck with me. Pretty ladies whose husbands would leave unattended, cute little secretaries, bombshell Hollywood actresses… All of them, just wet holes ready for me. I’d take them all.”

You chuckled at his pathetic little speech. If that was his way of getting you to bed, it wasn’t working. Not now, not never.

“I’m not just any rich whore, Ben. I don’t want to fuck you, you can use the bathroom to take care of your little problem down there.”

You saw how his jaw clenched as he held his eyes with yours.

He smirked. “Maybe not today, pretty thing. But you’ll see.”

“Be my guest.”

Ben turned around, giving you a clear view of his ass as he locked himself inside the bathroom. The sound of the shower running was not enough to cover his moans and grunts as he jerked himself off. You just decided to sleep. There was a long drive waiting for you in the morning.

#soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy imagines #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy fanfiction #the boys amazon prime #the boys series #the boys tv #jensen ackles fanfiction #soldier boy/ben

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mosaickiwi · 5 months

Note

Hey! Just a heads up, english is not my first language, so sorry if something sounds off! But first let me just say your writing is so good and the way you write [REDACTED] gives me so many feels like i can't even :') About the request, i've been kinda up to the neck in work (college likes to bury us in group projects, reports, exams, surgery preparations and hospital shifts all at the same time because time? what is that? :'D ) so if it's okay, could i ask for some [REDACTED] comfort where +

mialuna4 asked: + Angel, who's been trying to compromise by working close to him, finally gets a bit to properly relax with them? Thank you, take care of yourself and I hope you have a wonderful week! (Hope its okay to send this in two parts)

Thank you! School + healthcare work is tough so I hope you've been taking care of yourself as well. <3

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

~A Little Free Time~

“I can't believe I'm done,” you sighed with relief. Even though you’d started in the morning, the sun was already setting by now.

The last assignment you had was finally finished. At least for the moment, there was time to unwind. [REDACTED] was quick to take advantage of it. Your bed creaked as he got up. The moment you shut your laptop, he dragged your chair away from the desk.

You weren't sure what you expected, but you were grateful when his hands came to rest on either side of your temple. Cool fingers began to massage in small circles to soothe the headache you hadn't noticed until then.

“Feel better?” you heard him say after a few minutes of bliss. The ache faded as you let out a pleasurable hum in response. “Good.”

His touch disappeared and your seat was gently spun to face him. You reached out for them, taking the chance to stretch as best you could once you were finally standing and tangled up in their embrace.

God, you'd been sitting in that chair for hours. “I never wanna use my brain again,” you jokingly whined into his chest before looking up. “Sorry it took so long.”

“S’alright, Angel. I missed you.” Dark hair brushed against your cheek as he leaned down to press his lips to yours. You were surprised by the fervent, almost desperate kiss he gave that took your breath away.

“But you've been here with me the whole time?” you wondered out loud once they pulled back to let you breathe again. Your work had absorbed the majority of your focus, but you were certain you would’ve noticed if he left the room outside of the breaks he made sure you took.

He didn’t answer right away, though the yearning in his eyes spoke for itself as he scooped you up in his arms and settled down on the bed. Your boyfriend didn’t miss you so much as your attention.

It’d been an exhausting few weeks. You couldn’t remember the last time you really got to do anything but work or projects, especially with him. All you could manage was letting him sit in the room with you.

Now that he had you situated in his lap, [REDACTED] seemed much calmer. His arms crossed over your front as if you were a doll he wanted to cling to. You felt the warmth of their breath tickling along your neck as they took their time to kiss and nibble any spot they could find. “Fuck, I really missed you,” he repeated in an aching whisper that you weren’t meant to hear.

“I missed you too,” you laughed. “There’s still a little bit of light out. Wanna head somewhere?” You couldn’t really think of anywhere to go, but surely you’d find something to do at the pier. The shops always stayed open well past midnight there.

He only groaned and rested his forehead on your shoulder. “Yeah. Jus’ let me recharge.” From the way he spoke, anyone else would think he was the one who’d been busy. You knew he was just happy to have you back.

You reached up to lightly rub the top of his head, and you swore you heard him purring. “On second thought, let’s just stay here.”

“Whatever y’wanna do s’fine with me,” he muttered into your back. But the way he clung to you kept you right where you were.

#14 days with you #14dwy redacted #momo reqs #sounds like ur in med school?? wishing u luck <333 #PLEASE take ur time to rest cause i know those schedules can be brutal #either way recharge ur batteries!!#also delayed posting this a bit cause of day 3 announcement yesterday 👉👈 sowwy

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averageanonymous · 4 months

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Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale go stargazing, and Aziraphale wonders just how much Crowley remembers from before his fall.

A fluffy little bit of post-series happiness.

☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

“Shame you can't see more stars from London,” Crowley laments with a sigh, easing back onto the fluffy quilt beneath them. He folds his hands under his head, crosses his legs at the ankles, and gazes up at the darkening sky. A red glow lines the horizon, and the stars are just beginning to peer down from the heavens.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale agrees from his right, still sitting up, legs folded beneath him. “It would certainly be more convenient. Although, surely there's somewhere closer we could've gone.”

“If you're going to stargaze, you have to do it properly,” Crowley counters, “No light pollution.”

“But Nevada?” Aziraphale insists.

“Sierra Nevada mountains,” Crowley agrees with a nod, “Stunning views. One of the darkest places on the planet. And we've never been.”

When Aziraphale still doesn't seem convinced, Crowley sighs, “Come on, angel, it's an adventure.”

Finally, Aziraphale smiles, “It is that. I do hope Muriel manages the shop alright, though.”

“They'll be just fine,” Crowley reassures him.

Comfortable silence falls between them. Not true silence, but the silence that exists where humanity is absent. A silence punctuated by cricket song and the rustle of rodents through the grass, the flap of bat wings and the murmur of a gentle breeze through trees that tower all around.

They listen and they watch and Crowley decides he would rather prefer it if the angel were down on the blanket with him. He brings one hand from under his head to tug on Aziraphale’s sleeve. Aziraphale glances down at him in question, then gives him a humoring smile when Crowley jerks his head towards the spot on the blanket beside him. With a sigh of his own, Aziraphale stretches out, his head settling easily on Crowley's arm.

“That's better,” Crowley says, nipping Aziraphale’s ear playfully.

“Oh, stop that,” Aziraphale scolds him, making no move whatsoever to actually stop the demon as he presses teasing kisses to his neck. After a moment, though, Crowley settles back, his focus returning to the sky. Well, most of his focus. There's definitely a portion still very much aware of the angel tucked into his side, a nudging mental voice telling him to forget the silly stars and pay all his attention to the wondrous work of art lying right beside him. But he does his best to ignore that part. They did come a long way, after all.

More and more stars appear above them, as though layers upon layers of gauzy curtains are being drawn back one by one, each unveiling a new spread of glittering gems scattered across the black velvet sky. The dusty band of the milky way stretches from horizon to horizon.

“Look at that…” Crowley marvels, breathless.

Aziraphale looks at the glittering sky, then turns his gaze to Crowley. Crowley's bright eyes are lost in the beauty of the canvas above them, his expression almost reverent. Aziraphale’s brow knits slightly as he looks at the demon, an expression caught between reminiscence and profound sadness. Crowley notices it out of the corner of his eye.

“What's on your mind,” Crowley asks easily. Aziraphale starts slightly at being caught staring.

“Just…remembering,” Aziraphale tells him honestly, but there's more caution in his voice than Crowley would expect.

Remembering what, he wants to ask. But he doesn't. Crowley waits. He can tell there's more Aziraphale wants to say. If he's quiet, it'll come out sooner rather than later.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale finally turns towards him. He rests his arm over the demon's narrow frame and gently asks, “how much do you remember… From before…?” The exquisite tenderness in Aziraphale's voice softens the question. Crowley still stiffens, though. He can't help it. Whatever he was expecting, this wasn't it. Aziraphale feels his tension and immediately walks the question back, “You don't have to answer that, love, it was, well, I know it's not fair to ask.”

“No, nah, s'alright angel,” Crowley says softly after a moment, his arm tightening around Aziraphale, “We've never talked about it. Hard to believe after six thousand years…”

He's quiet for a long moment, then shifts himself until the two of them are lying face to face on the blanket. Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand in his, threading their fingers together, then props his head up on his other arm, looking down at Aziraphale, but his gaze is lost somewhere in the past. Aziraphale waits patiently. Finally he says, “It's impressions, mostly, more than any sort of actual memories. The Fall…sort of burns away most of the specifics.”

Another long stretch of heavy silence.

Crowley's voice is hushed when it comes, “I remember God,” he pauses, then continues, “and bits and pieces of creation. Faces, conversations, most all that's a blur. I remember… early on, feeling…bliss, I guess. Peace, at any rate. Knowing I was a part of something. Of course that was before-”

Crowley breaks off a bit abruptly, looking back up at the stars.

“Before what?” Aziraphale prompts, squeezing Crowley's hand.

Crowley groans, “Ahhh well, before you.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, and Crowley grins, lifting their linked hands to brush his lips over the angel's knuckles. “Bet you thought I forgot, eh?” Crowley teases, “The Pillars of Creation, I think it was… First time I met you. I remember you helping me, got me asking questions. I've not got a lot of memories, but…guess you made an impression on me.”

To Crowley's surprise, Aziraphale’s face crumples in dismay, his blue eyes pained. He looks away as though he could hide it. “Crowley,” he says quietly, his voice nothing less than devastated, “I'm so sorry. I never meant to… I only wanted to-to help, and you were so joyful, so exuberant and- and you didn't know about-”

“Shhh no, no, no, stop all that,” Crowley interrupts him quickly, gathering him into his arms. He chuckles quietly, brushing his nose playfully against Aziraphale’s to encourage him to lift his face, to meet his eyes. When he does, Crowley insists, “Angel, I didn't fall because of you. You know I wasn't ever going to last as one of you lot. It's not your fault. You…opened my eyes a bit, maybe, but I made my choices.

“And you know I wouldn't trade a thing,” Crowley continues quietly, adamantly, pulling Aziraphale even closer, his breath warm on Aziraphale’s skin as he speculates, “because being a demon is the only reason I got to be on Earth with you all these years. If I were still an angel, I'd probably be stuck in some corner of the universe running routine maintenance on dark matter and black holes and-”

Aziraphale kisses him then, and Crowley is more than happy to let the remaining threads of the conversation spin away like leaves caught in a whirlwind. The angel, for all his public decorum and proper manners, always kisses him like he's starving for it. It makes Crowley feel like a star on the brink of a supernova, the rush of emotions like a celestial tide pulling him out into a starry sea. He smiles against Aziraphale’s lips.

Aziraphale's hands trace up his chest, dance over his collarbones, trail the column of his throat before threading into his hair. Each touch of fingers to skin races down his spine. His breath sounds haggard in his own ears as Aziraphale trails kisses along his jaw, fingers in his hair pulling his head back gently.

And then, after not nearly enough, and with one last gentle kiss to Crowley's lips and another to his brow, Aziraphale settles back.

Crowley is about to growl his dissatisfaction with this change of direction, but Aziraphale shushes his complaints before he can even voice them. He tips his face up to the sky and then looks back at Crowley with eyes as bright as any star. “We did come a damn long way to look at these stars,” he chides warmly.

“Hnnnn,” Crowley grumbles, but he too settles back into the blanket, arms around his angel, legs tangled together, and turns his face to the sky.

☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

Thanks for reading!

Have you ever gone legit stargazing in a place where you can see the Milky Way and shooting stars? It's literally one of the most amazing things I've ever seen. It makes you feel so small.

#good omens #crowley #aziracrow #aziraphale #fanfic #aziraphale x crowley #gomens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fluff #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale

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aesteraceae · 10 months

Text

Since I'm not there...

Summary: In which d (predicably) goes feral over the lollapalooza performances and (unpredictably) writes their first ever Dom chan fic.

Or: You've seen Chan's Lollapalooza performance and have some thoughts about his outfit.

Notes: y'all I wrote this like 20 minutes ago and I hope u can tell how insanely unwell I am. Chan is.... Whoa. Just whoa.

Tags: chan/reader, fem reader, soft Dom chan, sub reader, phone sex, fingering, petnames (baby and sweetheart), patronizing language, aftercare

Lovely taglist: (special thanks to @snow-pegasus @simpracha & @jxsungie01 for indulging my brainrot) @sunnyville36 @toastyseungmo @sstarryoong @decaffedthoughts @bunnypig18 @xcookiemonsteer

You're pacing up and down the house, phone pressed tight to your ear and eyes glued to the tablet screen in front of you, showing a recording of the performance.

---

"Bang Chan!"

He just laughs over the receiver, full bodied and just the slightest bit mischievous.

"I guess you've seen the performance?"

You don't respond at first, just let out a pained scream-like noise as the video replays.

"You are so fucking lucky I'm not in Paris right now, oh my god-"

Chan laughs again, but it's darker, with a more dangerous edge.

"Oh yeah? And what would you do if you were here? You can barely hold yourself together watching a video."

You go still, blinking at nothing in particular, and you can almost imagine his grin at your silence.

"That's what I thought. It's cute that you were at least trying to be angry, though."

You scoff, but it sounds pathetic even to your own ears. "I am angry. I want-" You groan again, biting your lip.

"What? What do you want, baby?"

His voice is dripping with both condescension and amusement, and the pairing goes straight to your hips, pooling warmth there until you have no choice but to press your thighs together.

Still, though, when you open your mouth to respond, nothing comes out. You want to tell him that you want nothing more than to be bent over a couch or desk or hotel bed, split open on his cock while you watch his arms flex above you, but all you can manage is a pathetic sounding whine.

"Aw, baby. Is it too much for you? Too difficult, not being able to have me right now?"

You curse, and retreat to your bed. You have half a mind to fuck yourself on your fingers just to make him as desperate as you are, but your hands stay put on the phone and on your thigh.

"When are you getting back?" You ask instead of answering his question, and he laughs again.

"Tomorrow morning. How about this," There's a slight shuffling on the other end, like clothes being pulled off, "I'm going to send you a photo, and you are going to fuck yourself to it while I jerk off,"

You're already climbing up the bed, slipping lube out of a drawer and pulling off your pants.

"And then, when I get home, I'll fuck you properly, and make sure you have something to remember next time I have to go somewhere, yeah?" His voice is breathy by the end of the sentence, and if you listen closely, you can hear the telltale sound of slick skin against skin.

"Because, baby, I'm sure millions of people want me right now, but you are the only one who gets to have me."

Your phone pings with an alert, and you quickly put the phone on speaker so you can look at it and hear him, one hand already pressing between your legs.

It's a photo, just like he promised.

Chan is lying on the bed, wearing nothing but that fucking white tank top, shoulders glistening with sweat. His cock is hard and flushed and perfect, and you feel your mouth watering as your fingers push fully inside yourself.

"You're the only one who can make me this hard," He whispers, voice brimming with barely restrained pleasure, "The only one who can make me cum, just from the thought of your fingers buried inside yourself, so desperate for me that you can't think of anything else."

You whine, writhing on the bedsheets, and you realize with a breathless moan that you're already getting close.

"Chan," You sob, gasping, and he just laughs at you again, hitching into a moan that makes your toes curl.

"That's it, baby. Come- come undone for me." He moans and growls, and you can hear the slick sounds speed up, "Want you to cum on your fingers, but know that it's not enough, not what you need."

Your back pulls up off of the bed, chest heaving, fingers moving hard and fast, like Chan would if he was here. But just like he said, it's not enough. Chan is thicker than your hands could ever be, hotter than any toy, and a distant memory of him inside you, pulsing and hot and moaning into your ear makes a scream build in your throat.

"Chan, Chan- Please, Please, I need it, need you-"

Chan moans on the line, and he sounds just as wrecked as you feel. "I know, baby, I know. Come undone for me, sweetheart, and I promise, I'll be there soon to give you what you really need."

Tears cling to your eyelashes as you push harder, deeper, dropping the phone onto the sheets to push another hand over your clit, tight circles, and you can't help but think of Chan like this, his thumb circling you, urging you over the edge of a cliff—

"Chan, Chan, Chan!" You shriek as your self control snaps, thighs snapping around your wrists and quivering, throat nearly raw from the noises that follow as you come fully and completely undone for him.

"Yes, that's it, baby, yes-" Chan's voice pitches up and you listen, dazed, as he groans through his own orgasm, and he sounds so perfect that you clench down around nothing again.

Chan comes down faster than you do, whispering soft reassurances as you shake through the aftershocks. You drink some water and clean yourself up a bit, but that's all you can really manage.

"Rest, baby. I'll be back home soon, I promise." Chan whispers, sweet and gentle. Your eyes are fluttering closed as he speaks, but you mutter, "Love you," Before sleep fully drags you into it's hold.

"I love you too, sweetheart."

#stray kids #skz smut #skz #bang chan #bang chan x reader #skz x reader #dahlia writes #i should probably change that tag atp but who cares honestly

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ana-chronista · 1 month

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Meow there 😸💛💛, I hope you are well 💛.

For the kiss prompt i would love bojure 17 ... to distract + 48 ... out of habit, please.

Have a nice day 💛💛💛💛💛

First, sorry for the delay - one of these came easier than the other but I wanted to wait until I could share both! (The one that was harder actually went through a whole premise change...) Secondly, thanks for the prompts - this is my first time writing Bojure! I hope I did it justice.

17 ... to distract

The thing about Jure is that he doesn’t get nervous. Bojan’s certainly never seen that look on him, and he’s fairly sure Jure would need a dictionary definition of the word before being able to confirm that he’s never experienced it in his life. “What time is it now?” No, what Jure gets is impatient. “It’s five minutes after you last asked, Muca.” Right now he’s little more than a vibrating ball of energy, hunched over and drumming on his thighs with his palms. “So why haven’t they called yet?” And Bojan gets it, he really does. The committee had told them they’d call by 11am to let them know if they’d been picked for next year’s Eurovision – because for all that there’s no national selection this year, there’s still a process to follow – and there’s nothing that puts you on edge quite like waiting to hear if you’ve managed to land the biggest opportunity of your career so far or not. Jan and Nace are at least twenty minutes into their stress smoke somewhere outside, and Kris is busy pacing the practice space below, organising and reorganising their equipment while speaking rapidly with someone on his phone in a voice too low to catch. Bojan had retreated to the loft to focus on his breathing, and Jure had joined ten minutes later, muttering something about feeling better from a higher vantage point. The fact is, they’re all more than a little tense as the seconds drag by, and he understands fully, a hundred and ten per cent, what Jure is feeling right now. “They just said around 11. It doesn’t mean they’re always going to be dead on, you know?” But his bouncing on the couch next to him is doing nothing to soothe either Jure or himself – in fact, it’s only agitating them both worse. “You’ve definitely got the volume up on your phone?” Bojan’s not sure he’s ever felt so incredulous as he does in that one moment of looking over at his friend. “Seriously, Jurček?” “Well, I don’t know!” Jure huffs in protest. “You might not.” “Do you not think that’s the first thing I would have checked?” He hates that his fingers are now itching to actually do just that. Irritation flares up white-hot inside of him, gritting his teeth and tensing his muscles. “I don’t know! Knowing you, probably n-” Bojan has moved before he even realises it, the only thought in his head that Jure needs to not be talking right now. Suddenly he’s pulled Jure close by his shoulder and the back of his head, crushing his mouth against the drummer’s to cut him off. There’s barely any time to register anything past the warmth of his lips before he breaks away “Boj-” Before he can start up again, Bojan reels him back in for another kiss, this time less hurried but more forceful. He can take it all in properly this time: how Jure’s mouth falls open for him, how he reaches up to brush Bojan’s hair back behind his ear, how much he pushes right back. Jure’s body has stilled now as though all of his energy is just being channelled into this one point of contact, and Bojan can’t pretend it’s not the same for him. His heartrate steadies and his muscles uncoil. It’s like the whole world has narrowed down just to the man next to him on the couch. In fact, it’s narrowed so much that it takes Kris calling him from the floor below to make him jolt back. “Bojan, answer your phone!” It’s only then that he registers his phone ringing at long last. Cursing, he fumbles to answer the call, answering Jure’s laughter only with a dig in the ribs that makes him squeal and squirm away even as Bojan does his best to sound professional and mature. When he next kisses Jure just five minutes later, it’s in celebration instead.

48 ... out of habit

Bojan can’t remember when, or even exactly how, the whole kissing thing had begun. If he had to guess, he’d put it somewhere within the first few months after Jure officially joined the band, probably at some party or on a night out with the others. He’s not even sure if he made the first move or if Jure did, but one of them must have done, because suddenly the tradition was born. Greeting each other for the first time after weeks apart? A kiss on the cheek. Saying goodbye after a night out? A kiss on the cheek. Congratulating one another after a successful gig? A kiss on the cheek. There were rules, of course, unspoken but still there. It had to be as over the top as possible. Why bother if it didn’t involve sweeping in, grabbing the other one dramatically, and landing the biggest, loudest, longest kiss on the cheek known to man? That was all part of the fun. Then, naturally, it became too funny not to do it all the time. Managing not to misplace a suitcase while travelling? Welcoming each other back to the room after five minutes? Celebrating a win in the never-ending Joker Out Uno tournament? No incident was too small to mark with another kiss on the cheek – jokingly, of course. And sometimes it might evolve to a kiss on the lips instead. Bojan did remember how that one had started, the time he’d come in too quick and accidentally caught Jure’s mouth instead as he turned his head. But the laughter had been instantaneous, and Jure had returned it with even more spectacle, so it was all fine. The rules remained the same for the odd time it happened, though usually it devolved into them wrestling to dip the other one first and laughing too much for them to ever make it to each other’s mouths.

And if anyone had ever asked, he’d have to say he’s never really thought about it. It’s not like he hasn’t kissed each of his other bandmates at one time or another, and he knows they’ve all done the same. They’re all just that tactile with each other, like good friends tend to be. So what if he and Jure have this long-running joke just between them as well? That’s also something that good friends do. And he carries on never really thinking about it – except for maybe the odd plan to ambush Jure in ever increasingly over the top ways – until one night in London. Or early one morning, really. It’s just after three, and while the others had dispersed to their rooms after they all bundled in from the pub, Bojan had decided to sit up for a while to work on the rest of the lyrics for their new song. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but the buzz of enthusiasm had long since dried up once the words pinging around his mind decided that they just didn’t want to go onto the page properly. All he had to show for the last couple of hours were pages of increasingly frustrated scribbles and crossings out. “You’re still up?” Bojan jolts at the sudden noise, head whipping up. Jure is in the doorway, dressed for bed and hair all over the place. He’s clearly just woken up. “I thought I heard something.” he explains before Bojan can muster a reply. He nods towards the pages that Bojan had already given up on, torn from his notebook and now crumpled up and scattered by his feet. “Not going so great, huh?” The sound Bojan heaves in response as he buries his head in his hands is somewhere between a groan and a sigh. Caught up in his own frustration, he doesn’t realise that Jure has crossed the room until he feels the couch dipping next to him and a hand wrapping around his, pulling it from his face. All of a sudden he’s aware of just how much his own hand hurts from scratching away with the pen for so long as Jure smoothes out his fingers, kneading at cramped tendons and aching muscles. But before he can say anything – a protest that he should really get on with these lyrics or a joke that Jure should open a massage business as a sideline – Jure brings his palm up and presses his lips to it gently. The touch is barely there but it lingers for a moment longer than a joke should and Bojan finds that any and all words die in his throat. This isn’t something either of them have ever done before, but Jure’s eyes are still locked with his, calm and almost challenging. And then the moment is over. Jure gives his hand one last squeeze but doesn’t let go as he stands. “Come on. Come get some sleep. This can wait until actual morning.” It sounds so straightforward, so matter of fact, that all Bojan can do is nod and let him pull him to his feet. He’s right – there’ll be plenty of time later, and for now he’s got too many other questions on his mind to be able to concentrate.

#ana answers #fanfic #bojure

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uhohbestie · 1 month

Text

There Are Monsters Nearby [Chapter 15]

🏜 Pairing: Grian/Scar

🧟‍♂️ Tags: zombie AU, zombie apocalypse, lovers to exes, slow burn, eventual reconciliation

📖 Summary: The day after Scar breaks up with Grian, the dead come back to life. Knowing that venturing out alone is a death sentence, the sudden onset of the apocalypse forces them to stick together despite the tensions between them. In the wreckage of the world, they're forced to survive side-by-side, coming to terms with the fact that—try as they might—there's still no one they trust more than each other.

Chatper 15 - With Scar up and walking again, the group decide to move on from their ghost town. Scar and Grian manage to get some time alone on their continued trek north, but can you really reconcile and reconnect over something you've yet to properly talk about?

📝 Words: 10,269

🔗 Link: Read Chapter 15 on AO3

—

“I need you to stop treating me like I’m made of glass,” Scar says in the privacy of his and Grian’s room, sitting on the edge of what’s become their bed as he packs the little he has into his bag. “I know my body. I know what I’m capable of. Trust me, Grian. These babies can go for miles.” He says it with a smile, patting his thigh with ample confidence.

“What if you can’t, though?” Grian asks, arms clutched around himself, saying what he no doubt feels they must both be thinking.

“Then you leave me next to a cactus to die,” Scar replies, flat. “And you hope the next time we meet we’re in a world with magic so I can wizard my legs better with a healing crystal or something.”

His words catch Grian’s attention. A tender curl of hope maybe, nurtured by the past two days of civility they’ve enjoyed.

“You think we’d meet in another life?” He asks, gentler than Scar would’ve expected.

It’s a concept Grian would’ve shrugged off before the apocalypse.

Now Scar finds him clinging to it with curiosity.

Scar gives him a look, caught somewhere between fond and frustrated by Grian’s priorities. Instead of answering, he braces his hands on his knees, leveraging himself up with a wince that he manages to almost completely hide.

“Let’s get going.”

—

Here we are with another chapter of Zombie AU! Dipping back into Scar's POV in this calm before the storm. We hope you like it!

You can read the whole story thus-far linked below!

You may not rest now, There Are Monsters Nearby (on ao3!)

#trafficshipping #scarian #life series fanfic #zombie au #TAMN #TAMN fic

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robininthelabyrinth · 1 year

Note

A prompt: I'm still in love with Second madam nie. Anything from her POV, maybe including her favourite person, nie mingjue?

ao3

"Send Huaisang to my office. Immediately."

Nie Mingjue’s order went out, and no sooner out than fulfilled, even if Nie Huaisang did show up looking disgruntled and a little disheveled, as if someone strong had hoisted him up over his protests, thrown him over their shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and whisked him away when he'd much rather be in his room reading or in a shop buying something. This was precisely what had happened, so Nie Huaisang felt entirely justified, even if his brother frowned ominously at his not-befitting-an-heir-of-a-Great-Sect appearance.

Still, his brother refrained from scolding (for once) and merely said, "Close the door."

Nie Huaisang did, his interest reluctantly piqued.

"Something political that I'm not supposed to know about?" he asked. "Or...?"

"Or," Nie Mingjue confirmed, and produced a letter. "Your mother wrote to you."

Nie Huaisang couldn't stop himself from wrinkling his nose.

Nie Mingjue noticed. "What's the matter? You don't want to hear from Second Mother?"

Actually, no.

Neither Nie Huaisang nor his mother had ever managed to properly explain to the bull-headed Nie Mingjue that certain types of people simply couldn't abide sharing space with another of their own kind - yes, even their own children, yes, even from a young age - and as a result he worked tirelessly to maintain his little brother's relationship with his long-absent, presumed-dead-by-most-people mother over both their protests. His persistence and earnest insistence that familial relationships were important was a little cute, actually, but it did mean that it was awfully hard to skive off without actually engaging.

Of course, the same was true on his mother's side. Nie Huaisang had to suppress a snigger at the thought of his brother hunting down and officiously scolding a fox in some forest somewhere with instructions to write more often.

"Are you going to read it?" Nie Mingjue prompted, and the expression on his face suggested that the answer to the question was required to be 'yes' and also 'right now, in this room, while being watched’. Nie Mingjue would never be so rude as to actually interfere with or eavesdrop on Nie Huaisang's correspondence, but previous experience had already shown him that listening to Nie Huaisang's claims of wanting to read it later or in private would only result in the letter not being read at all, whether due to negligence or it "accidentally" being destroyed in a fire or somesuch.

Damn Nie Huaisang's former self for having used up all the good excuses too early!

"Oh, all right," Nie Huaisang grumbled, and settled himself down to read. At least he could be fairly sure that the content would be about a subject of his liking - after all, the only thing Nie Huaisang had in common with his mother, other than a shared bloodline, was a fondness for his older brother.

Hey, pigface -

(Rude as always, Mother.)

I would say that I hope you're doing well, but I don't actually care (it's mutual!) and I'm sure that if there was anything wrong with you, my darling pork bun would have already conveyed it to me. (Almost certainly true.) He'd be ever so distressed about it, the poor tasty little lamb, so you'd better keep yourself in one piece for his sake, you hear me? (Like Nie Huaisang was going to get anywhere near danger anyway. She wasn't wrong about how much Nie Mingjue would worry, though, so Nie Huaisang reluctantly agreed with the sentiment - he'd be able to point to that when his brother ever so politely inquired as to what his mother had written. See, a positive interaction! They were capable of it! Mostly!)

As for your delicious older brother...(She'd better not say anything about Nie Huaisang stopping him from getting into danger, because that was impossible; Nie Mingjue and danger were practically best friends) well, I will only say, if he dies, you are to avenge him.

(Obviously.)

Now, I'm equally certain that you don't give one fig for my own state of health (completely correct), so I won't bore you with that. I will say that your cousin in Dongying is doing very well (that was good, Nie Huaisang had liked him, though of course he'd liked the fact that the man lived all the way away in Dongying even better) and his musically inclined partner sends you in particular his regards. (He'd probably mispronounced it.) I'll spare you how he mangled it (called it!) and tell you instead that he is still proficient in that song you taught him (aww, how cute). I enclose some little tricks that you might find useful (please no) assuming you ever endeavor to be useful (never!)

Now, onto the most important subject (about time) - how is my tender little zongzi doing? (What a stupid question, she literally saw da-ge when she gave him this message.) He seemed fine in person, but you know he doesn't want to burden people with his troubles (sad, but true) and he is especially cautious when there's a chance that the person in question wants to help out (that's because certain people thought the only way to help any situation involved murder and/or eating people). I expect at least four pages of his day-to-day activities (psst, like Nie Huaisang was going to strain himself to do something like that) in exchange of which I will provide a brand new illustrated set of your preferred brand of picture book (...damn her for knowing his weaknesses).

Stay alive and in your own territory (same to you, Mother), and best wishes to my best little savory dumpling in the world, may he be ever delicious and ready to eat.

(Stop being weird, Mother.)

(Also, he wasn’t hers, he was Nie Huaisang’s.)

"No signature, as always," Nie Huaisang observed, and Nie Mingjue snorted.

"Like anyone could mimic how your mother talks."

Nie Huaisang thought about it, then shrugged in agreement.

"How is she doing?"

Nie Huaisang gave his brother an incredulous look, which (rightfully) made the older man flush.

"I have no idea how to tell," he defended himself. "I just want to know that she's not facing any difficulties, that's all. She'd never admit it if she was."

Only da-ge, Nie Huaisang thought fondly, and also No wonder she likes him so much.

It was, he had to admit, the one area in which his mother had impeccable taste that completely accorded with his own.

His da-ge was simply, unquestionably, the best.

#mdzs #my fic #my fics #nie huaisang #nie mingjue #second madame nie #just a silly thing

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mlmxreader · 2 months

Text

Quizzical | John Constantine x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Hi, I hope it's not too late to request John Constantine with the prompt "It must be magic, how inside your eyes, I see my destiny" of your list? ❞

: ̗̀➛ However he does it is a mystery, but John always finds a way to surprise you.

: ̗̀➛ swearing, VERY VERY mild sex references

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Stretching out on your sofa, John made himself more than at home; his shoes were chucked aside somewhere between the fireplace and the sofa, and his coat had long been tossed to the floor somewhere he didn’t actually care to look.

His tie was completely undone, sitting open against his off-white shirt as he watched you go about picking his things up and putting them away properly; he smiled, tilting his head to the side and watching you curiously.

Of all the beings in the world that he had been with, John kept finding himself coming back to you every single time; he thought at first that maybe it was just the overnight stays, but he soon pushed that aside when he realised that it was something else.

No, you were different. Maybe it was the fact that you didn’t pry, or that you understood almost completely what it was like for him; maybe it was just the fact that you were more open and more accepting and welcoming of him than anybody else in the world.

He put his feet up, relaxing and closing his eyes as he yawned softly; a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth for just a moment too long that you noticed, smacking his ankle to grab his attention.

“Oi! If you’re gonna sit there like bloody King Shit of Dung Manner, least you could do is go and make a fuckin’ butty, would ya?”

John grinned, spreading his legs so that one slipped off of the sofa, giving you more than enough room to sit between his legs as he looked you up and down eagerly. “Now why would I do that, eh?”

You wanted to roll your eyes and to chastise him for not doing anything for you while you were expected to clean up after him, but you could only sigh as you raked a hand down your face and shrugged. “Maybe because I have to put up with Bruce Wayne every fucking day?”

“You wanted the job,” he pointed out. “If you didn’t wanna be his assistant, you wouldn’t’ve taken the job. You said so yourself that you was happy enough working as his social whatever manager.”

“Social media manager,” you huffed. “And I was! I really was! But the money is better, and the hours are… less demanding.”

“So don’t complain,” John chuckled, lying back with a smug hum. “I might be your boyfriend, but I’m not your fuckin’ job advisor.”

You paused, stunned for a moment as you looked at him quizzically; he had never used that word before, and you were almost certain that being your actual boyfriend was not something that he would have ever wanted.

He was John Constantine, for crying out loud - he didn’t do relationships. But when you didn’t answer for far too long for his comfort, he raised a brow, looking at you like he was expecting you to say something and he was hooked on every little noise you would make until you spoke.

“What?” He asked, furrowing his brows. “Cat your bleeding tongue?”

You shook your head, trying to come to your senses as you sighed and attempted to put the words completely together for once. “No, just… you never said that you were my boyfriend before… and I never thought that’s what you… what you wanted.”

John didn’t seem phased as he gestured at the room around him. “Well, what’d you call the bloke who sleeps with you nearly every night, constantly calls, and is always hanging around?”

“I… I dunno,” you whispered softly. “I guess I just never… never really thought about it because you didn’t bring it up or nothing…”

He hummed, squirming to sit upright before leaning back slightly and resting on his arm. “Well, we’re talking about it now, ain’t we?”

“Yeah, I guess,” you murmured. “Is that… is that what you want? To be my boyfriend, I mean, is that what you want?”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t’ve said it if I didn’t mean it.”

You nodded back, chewing at the inside of your lip. “So it’s settled, then… now, go make me a sandwich, yeah?”

John rolled his eyes as he moved to get off of the sofa, but he paused to quickly press a soft kiss to your lips before he moved away; you almost missed his presence when he wandered into the kitchen, but you couldn’t deny that there was something… off about the way he kissed you.

It wasn’t hungry and harsh like it usually was, and it wasn’t filled with heat and neediness like normal. It was sweet and soft, and chaste and unexpecting.

You chewed at the inside of your lip, thinking about what it could have possibly meant; of course, you knew that you would probably have to let Bruce down from now on, as he often took you with him as his plus one to events and galas and such - but now you would probably have to tell him that you couldn’t do that, as you were with John and you didn’t want him to think that you and Bruce were a couple.

“Alright,” John announced as he sauntered back in, wiping his hands on his shirt. “I got the cheese on toast going at the moment, I’ll chuck some jam on it once it’s done.”

You hummed as you looked at him, almost shocked. “Yeah, yeah, thank you.”

“You alright?” He asked, furrowing his brows as he came to sit beside you.

“Just thinking,” you told him softly, dismissively shaking your head. “Y’know, I’m probably gonna have to tell Bruce, I mean-”

“You’ve been going out with him to all that fancy shit for yonks and I’ve never gotten jealous before,” he pointed out. “Don’t intend to, either. Trust me, it must be magic, how inside your eyes, I see my destiny - and it must be magic if Bruce Wayne ever thinks he’s gonna get in your trousers.”

You laughed quite loudly, playfully shoving him. “You’re an ass!”

“Meh,” he slung his arm around your shoulders. “You love me.”

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local-angst-satan-diinosour11 · 3 months

Text

ask and you shall receive! @spiderwebd and whoever else takes intrest in this au!

Starting off explaining what I have so far for the Insane Subspace au we have the start of it all: Rusted Boombox!

“Oh so YOUR the one Medkit finds soooo annoying huh? Typical of you playgrounds really, in that case I’m sure Meddy won’t mind if I take you off his plate and ears :)”

Subspace had targeted and cornered Boombox somewhere while enlisting the help of Hyperlaser to wound him, he also decided that this annoying little brat whould be his test subject of choice for a thing he cooked up with the help of the power of his crystals: rust that eats away at the demon as if they were metal (it does stop after a bit, it’s made to make SURE the target stays down if they manage to live)

after that was said and done the two left with Subspace cackling like the maniac he is, taking out one of the two most annoying phighters was just one step of his plan. Feeling cockier then ever and more confident that the world will bend and break to Blackrock. Hyperlaser, however, felt a small bad feeling about Subspace. He brushes it off as just being the usual Blackrock feelings though

back to Boombox, he laid motionless against the wall. The rust had stopped by now, leaving lasting damage to the gear and the demon that fell victim to the organic material destroying rust. Seemingly dead by then from the injuries

…. However. Despite better judgment, and judgement of his fellow deities, a certain ghost looked around to see if the coast is clear. Walking over to the playground phighter and kneeling down as if to check out the damages.

“hm…. I hope you know, I usually place myself as neutral no matter the demon or faction…” he gave a sigh despite having seemingly no way to “however, I can sense something brewing deep down and your team will be needing your help. Your death will only bring Crossroads to its knees, and the others- or at least I- will not allow this to go on.”

he stood back up

“I don’t usually do this, never found the reason to myself, but each of you have a role to play… and you are the catalyst to doing so.”

The deity raised up his broken spectral sword

“May you use it well, it will keep you alive if you ever were to succumb to your grave wounds agian before you get help or help find you. Mabey you can find some extra use for it who knows. Just keep in mind your the only one I’m doing this for.”

The ghostly deity brings the sword down into the ground in front of the fallen demon and then disappears with the sword, leaving small flecks of white lingering in the air…

…. A single twitch.. then another, until the phighter awoke with a huge gasp of air and a flicker of a large white X going into all corners of his visor before it flickers back off again- well- or at least he thinks he’s awake. He’s not sure as something was clouding his visor, making everything almost a dark orangish brown void. “S..SLING?… SKATE?… A-ANYONE?…” … not an answer. That’s… that’s ok, he could find them soon, right? That or they find him, where ever he is.

He tries to push himself up, having almost little success. Pain shot through him, causing him to give a yelp and almost collapse back onto the ground again. Limping it is he guesses!.. “H..hah, n-nothing.. I-i can’t handle..”

He picks up his boombox with a little bit of a struggle, at least all of them came with the instinct to use the gear thier given! He dosnt need to see his boombox to know how to use it, that he’s thankful for… although it feels… wrong. Almost uncomfortable to hold, some kind of scratchy metal-like surface covered the boombox in various degrees.

He just has to hope it still works.

—————————————————————————

If your wondering how he gets around, Rusty Boombox ends up using music to get a hold of his surroundings, basically letting the beat guide him in a very literal way

The boombox… not AS powerful as it once was (and bearly even plays a song properly sometimes) But it still works, and hits HARD

If I was going slightly off of Canon Compliance for skins (which I doubt have any lore except for ones like Biograft) I whould say the boom box could cause a area attack similar to Pulse wave attack but it goes all the way around him (and also has spikes added onto the visual), like a sour note

Also one of Rusty’s horns had snapped off from the rust on him! Which is… fun.

#phighting #phighting!#phighting roblox #Rusted Boombox #Insane Subspace au #angst crimes #phighting boombox #Everyone is gonna go through it in this au dw #This is just the beginning!#Gaze upon my writing prowess and WEEP (/lh)

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livesincerely · 6 months

Note

possessive jack in the merlin au in these trying times??? (no pressure though i love your work sm any writing of yours at all is enough fuel for weeks worth of my bedtime stories)

The upcoming tourney means that training has increased tenfold, which means that the amount of time David spends repairing, cleaning, and polishing Jack’s armor and weapons has also increased tenfold.

Granted, it could be worse: David’s managed to pawn off the worst of his duties to poor Garth so that he can focus on tasks too important to leave to others—namely the aforementioned armor and weapons. Which is why he’s sitting on the edge of the training grounds with a pair of pliers and a set of Jack’s chainmail, carefully replacing any rusted or damaged links with fresh ones, a gentle breeze tempering the worst of the afternoon sun.

Jack is properly in his element out here, watching with a keen eye as the knights run through their drills, calling out corrections and critiques in equal turns. Every now and then he demonstrates a particular sequence himself, the edge of his blade glinting majestically as it slices through the air.

David’s attention is so thoroughly split between his work and keeping watch over his Most Royal and Most Exasperating Pain in the Ass that it takes him a moment to realize that the shadow that’s fallen over him isn’t from a cloud, but from someone sidling up beside him.

“Uh, hello?” he says, squinting up at the unexpected company. “Can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so,” the stranger says. He’s dressed in a dark tunic with a sword sheathed across his hip, leather braces strapped around his wrists and a plate buckled across his chest. “Do you know if visiting knights are allowed to train on the grounds or should I find somewhere else to run through some drills.”

“That’s a question quite a bit above my station,” David says, recognizing the crest stamped into his armor as from one of the northern delegations. “Sir Sean or Sir Albert would be the ones to ask, to be sure, but in my experience the answer will likely be no. I think there’s a separate area set up in the East Courtyard.”

“Could I trouble you to show me the way?” the knight asks. “I find myself becoming hopelessly lost when I try to navigate the citadel alone.”

“I’m sure I could slip away for a moment,” David agrees, setting aside his pliers. He glances back across the training yards and Jack seems more than occupied, walking one of the younger knights through a disarming sequence. “I understand more than most how difficult it can be to find your way around the castle.”

“Thank you, kindly.” He offers David a hand up, and once he’s on his feet, he bows low over their clasped hands and presses a kiss to David’s knuckles. “I am Sir Camden of Rhodia, and graciously in your debt.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, really,” David says, blushing furiously at the gesture. “My name is David.”

“David,” Sir Camden repeats. “A lovely name for an even lovelier creature.”

He offers his arm as David tries not to stanmer, thoroughly flustered in the face of such an unexpected compliment.

“There’s no need for flattery,” David says, hoping he doesn’t sound as ruffled as he feels. “I’ve already agreed to show you the way.”

“There’s always time for flattery,” Sir Camden disagrees lightly, his expression bright with good humor. “Especially for one as clearly deserving of it as you.”

“O-oh, well—“

“David!”

David turns towards the shout to find Jack stalking toward him at a steady clip, jaw clenched and brow furrowed.

“And where do you think you’re going? We’ve still got several more hours of training,” Jack informs him sharply, as if David wasn’t already fully aware.

“Prince Johnathan,” Sir Camden says, sinking into a deep bow at Jack’s approach. “It’s an honor to finally meet you, I am Sir Camden if Rhodia.”

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” Jack says, crisply polite. He’s got his war face on for some inexplicable reason, the look in his eyes as hard as stone. “And why, exactly, are you attempting to abscond with my manservant?”

“My apologies,” Camden says carefully, his eyes flitting uncertainly between David and Jack and back again. “David had just agreed to escort me to the secondary training grounds—I’m afraid I’m still at a loss when it comes to navigating the castle grounds. Perhaps, if he could be spared for a few minutes—“

“He cannot,” Jack cuts in firmly, offering no further explanation. “However, I’m sure Sir Anthony would be more than happy to show you.”

Tony steps forward as if summoned from thin air, face settled in a polite mask. “It’s right this way.”

“Of course,” Sir Camden acquiesces, nodding politely at the clear dismissal. “Thank you, my lord.”

Jack doesn’t respond, returning Camden’s farewell with a curt nod of his own. The moment the two of them are out of earshot, David swats at Jack’s arm.

“What was all that about?” he demands.

“Getting friendly with the visiting nobles, are we?” Jack asks with a scowl. “I thought you were convinced that one of them was some kind of assassin in disguise?”

“I was just being nice! He’s the one that came up to me,” David defends, though he’s not quite sure what it is he’s supposed to be defending. “And it would’ve been a great way to gather information on the delegation from Rhodia if you hadn’t interrupted.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it now?” he mutters. “Because Sir Camden,” —Jack spits the man’s name like it’s the vilest of curses— “seemed interested in a lot more than a friendly escort.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” David informs him, rolling his eyes.

“I’m being— I’m being ridiculous?” Jack somehow manages to make sputtering look handsome and regal because he’s an ass that way. “If he’d taken any more liberties he might as well have asked for your favor!”

“Oh, please,” David scoffs. “As if I’d give my favor to anyone but—“

He stops, the rest of the words caught in his throat.

Jack wheels on him like a hunter who’s finally caught wind of his prey. The look in his eyes has shifted somehow, that flinty gaze settling into something softer, but no less intense, his irises glinting like twin flames.

“Anyone but…?” Jack echoes softly.

David takes a deep breath, his heart hammering against his rib cage. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs.

“I could say the same thing about you,” Jack replies, and he reaches up, catching the edge of David’s neckerchief between his thumb and forefinger.

“Jackass.”

“Smartass.”

They share a smile, only for the two of them.

Finally, Jack says, “Back to work, Jacobs. And don’t let me catch you flirting with any more visiting knights.”

“So, the Manhattan knights are fair game?” David jokes.

Jack’s smile sharpens. He tugs at David’s neckerchief: just the once, just enough for the fabric to bite into his skin.

“The Manhattan knights know better,” he corrects.

And with that parting shot, he saunters away.

#newsies #jack kelly #davey jacobs #javid #*editor's note #*the writing desk #*ask #bits & bobs #merlin au #I’m not sure if or how this scene fits into the main merlin au I’m working on #but I can imagine something similar to this working as a sort of cold open #anyway #hope you enjoy!!

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aeliuss · 12 days

Text

Not Rain nor Snow

Pairing: Seungmin x afab!reader

Genre: Angst (like seriously, ANGST)

Synopsis: when you moved to s.korea you didn't expect to fall in love. but fall in love you did, and you fell hard. but sometimes love isn't enough of a reason to stay.

Warnings: slight mentions of depression, mentions of pet death, break up

Notes: back with more angst lol. this was supposed to be short but then it spiraled into over 3k words. for some reason i feel like seungmin would be one of the first of the boys to fall in love, even though he's a menace. anyway, hope you enjoy! feedback is always appreciated :) also, let me know if you guys want a part 2!

(also the title is inspired by that one quote that goes, "People are not rain or snow or autumn leave. They do no look pretty when they fall down.)

When you were nineteen you fell in love with a boy who took his coffee black.

Stolen glances and flustered, sheepish grins turned into friendship. He visited the cafe you worked at regularly. Sometimes everyday. But other times, he would disappear for months, without a trace, without a single text. The third time this happened, you asked him if he worked for the Mafia.

He laughed, scratching the back of his neck. He told you he worked as a manager at an entertainment company. That sometimes, he had to go overseas. You were new to South Korea, so you didn't have many friends here, nor did you listen to the music much, so you believed him. And he was a good liar.

He asks you to be his girlfriend a year later at the park, watching the sun set. You were so happy you kissed him on the spot. He didn't kiss you back, so you pulled away, mortified, but he catches your wrist, pulls you against him, kisses you properly. Even though his entire face is flushed like a tomato, up to the tips of his ears. The setting sun bathes him in a golden glow. You think you might love him already.

When you were twenty you finally met his friends. Seven other boys who were nice enough but kept giving you odd glances when they thought you wouldn't notice. One of them cringes slightly when you ask if they also work in management. Seungmin swoops in, hand on your waist, changing the subject so smoothly you forget about their reactions completely.

You found it weird of course. The fact that when you asked him who exactly he managed, he waved the topic off, saying something about how he handles paperwork and that that would bore you. The fact that he never wanted to take you out to popular couple spots, and when you ever did go somewhere public, he wore a mask and a cap so low it hid his eyes sometimes. One time, you could've sworn you heard a high schooler call out his name at the amusement park, but before you could turn around, he is guiding you to the churro stand and you're salivating too much to care.

You let all these things go. Brushed away the creeping doubts in your mind. Nothing else mattered but the fact that he loved you, you reasoned with yourself. He was sassy, and silver tongued, but he was gentle with you. Made sure you ate and slept well when it was exam week. Listened to you rant about the same thing for the nth time and acted like it was the first. Surely, whatever he was hiding couldn't be that bad if he loved you like this?

You were still twenty when you finally found out. Finally mingling enough with the other international students at your university to call a few of them 'friends.' One of the girls smiled when she saw your lock screen--a picture of Seungmin at the beach on one of your dates-- and said, "Oh, you're a Stay too!"

Your curiosity morphed into an insatiable need for answers. You delved into the labyrinth of the internet, searching for clues, hints, anything that could illuminate the shadowy corners of Seungmin's life that he had kept concealed from you. And there it was, in bold letters on your screen: "Stray Kids."

Your heart plummeted as you clicked on the link, revealing a world you had been oblivious to—a world of music, of stardom, of screaming fans and flashing cameras. And there, amidst the dazzling array of idols, was Seungmin, his face illuminated by stage lights, his voice like an angel sent from the gods themselves.

You felt like you had been blindsided, as if the ground had been yanked from beneath your feet. How could he have kept such a monumental secret from you? Was everything between you just a facade, a carefully constructed illusion? Was that why he had hesitated to bring you around his friends, why he only did when you practically begged to meet them?

Questions swirled in your mind like a tempest, each one more agonizing than the last. Why hadn't he trusted you enough to confide in you? Had your entire relationship been nothing more than a convenient distraction from his real life, his real identity?

And as you stared at the screen, at the image of Seungmin smiling back at you from behind the glossy veneer of celebrity, you couldn't help but wonder if you ever truly knew the boy who took his coffee black.

You were twenty one when you told him of your discovery. It's not that you waited long, rather that your birthday was actually right around the corner and Seungmin claimed that he had gotten the day off to spend it with you. He showed up at your apartment bright and early, carrying a bouquet of flowers--your favorite-- and smiling brightly.

"We could do anything you want," he was saying now, sitting on the edge of the tub as he watched you get ready, blinking the hair out of his eyes distractedly. "There's a place not too far from here that sells your favorite food. Opened recently but the reviews are pretty great."

There's a bubble of something sour in your chest, and you grip your hairbrush tightly at the handle. "I don't know."

He tilts his head in that adorable puppy-like fashion that always had you swooning. "We don't have to, if you don't want to. There's this other place I saw the other day, and it made me think of you--"

"I don't think we should go out at all," You say, and he stops, looking confused.

"Really? That's...that's not like you."

Your nails are digging into your palms when you say, "Yeah. Wouldn't want you to be recognized."

All emotions are wiped clean from his face, and he looks at you carefully. You can feel the weight of his gaze, though you are avoiding his eyes in the mirror.

"Recognized?" He echoes but his voice sounds strained now, knee bouncing slightly.

You don't reply. Don't look at him.

He deflates, shoulders curving inward as he presses his face into his hands. "How long?"

Your heart hammers against your ribs, the air in the room thick with tension. "Long enough," you snap.

"I didn't mean for it to happen like this," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. You can't help the sharp, humorless laugh you make as you turn from the sink to finally face him.

"Yeah? How did you mean for it to happen then?"

He looks up at you then, and you see the pain etched in his features, mingling with guilt. "I was going to tell you, I swear. I just…

“Didn’t” You finish. “You just didn’t.”

You swallow hard, the anger simmering beneath the surface threatening to boil over. "Just leave, Seungmin. I can't deal with this right now." You really don’t want to say the wrong thing, but your anger is so intense you know that if he stays here, you just might.

For a moment, he seems resigned, defeated even, as he nods silently and turns towards the door. But just as he reaches for the handle, he stops abruptly, his shoulders tensing. And then, in a swift motion, he spins back around, his expression fierce, determined.

"Fuck that," he hissed, voice laced with desperation as he strides back towards you. Before you can react, he cages you against the sink, his hands braced on either side of you, effectively trapping you.

"Listen to me," he demands, his eyes searching yours for any sign of understanding. "I know I messed up. I know I should have told you about who I really am, about what I do. But there's so much more to this story than you know."

You glare at him, your frustration palpable. "I don't want to hear your excuses, Seungmin. You lied to me, over and over again. How can I trust anything you say now?"

He flinches at your words, but doesn't back down. "Because I love you," he insists, his voice raw. "And I never wanted to hurt you. But I had to keep this part of my life hidden, to protect you, to protect us."

You scoff, incredulous. "Protect us? From what?"

His grip on the sink tightens, his jaw clenched in frustration. "From the fuck ups of my world," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "From the scrutiny, the pressure, the constant threat of exposure. I wanted to shield you from all of that–"

You shake your head, unable to comprehend his reasoning. "You should have let me decide for myself. You should have trusted me enough to handle the truth."

He hangs his head, defeated. "I know. And I'm sorry. I was selfish, and cowardly, and I hurt you in the process.” He sucks in a breath, bending his head down so that you are eye level. “I’m sorry. I’ll tell you everything. Will you listen?”

You purse your lips. Nod, despite the part of you that wants to remain angry. The larger part of you wants him to tell you. So he does.

He tells you about the pressure of living a double life, of the constant fear of being exposed, of the weight of expectations bearing down on him from all sides. He confesses his fear of losing you, of never being able to bridge the gap between his public persona and his private self.

As he speaks, you can feel the walls around your heart starting to crumble, the layers of hurt and betrayal slowly giving way to understanding. You see the raw honesty in his eyes, the sincerity in his voice, and you realize that despite everything, his love for you is real.

You stay in for your twenty-first birthday. In Seungmin’s arms, crying when he tells you how hard it’s been for him, then crying again when he tells you how Stray Kids had saved him from himself. You are a tangle of limbs, of open hearts and whispered confessions. A mess of giggles and groans when you find the edits of him Stay has made. Of soft kisses and softer hands. Of falling into a love in which there is no return.

—-

But all good things must come to an end. You just never thought you would be the one ending it.

You were twenty-two when your phone was stolen and your pictures and texts with Seungmin released to the press. Chan and the management at JYP tried their best to soothe the waters but they refused to be soothed. They raged and raged and raged. And you find that you do not know how to swim.

The hate on you was hard to swallow, but expected. The people–and you refused to call them Stay because they weren’t–hated on your hair, your skin, your features, your voice, anything they could. They said that you were a whore that seduced their precious Seungmin. A gold digger. A slut.

You deactivated all your socials, but although you couldn’t see them anymore, you still heard them. They whispered to you and shook you from your sleep. Every step felt like wading through quicksand, every breath a struggle against suffocating despair. The barrage of hatred and vitriol from faceless strangers on the internet threatened to consume you whole.

Instead of distancing himself, Seungmin practically moved in with you during this time. Took off from promotions to reassure you, to hold you, to love you. He’d sing you to sleep with soft melodies, his voice a soothing balm to your shattered soul. He'd cook for you, clean for you, do anything and everything to ease the burden weighing heavy on your shoulders. It took a few months but you healed. Or you were healing. Until you found out about the hate against him. Found out from a call from Jeongin.

“If you love him, break up with him.”

The blood in your veins stilled. “What?”

You hear him shuffling through the phone line, hear the coldness of his tone. “Break up with Seungmin hyung. Your relationship is hurting him. It’s killing him. Didn’t you notice how he’s changed?” He scoffs. “Of course you didn’t. You're too busy wallowing in your own pity to realize that all you’ve ever done is tear apart everything he’s worked so hard to build.”

His voice is steel. It is the steel of a freight train that is smacking into your chest, making it hard to breathe. You don’t respond. Can’t. On the other line, Jeongin takes a deep breath, his voice softening.

“Look, I know you’re not a bad person. If things were different, I think you’d be perfect for him. But things aren’t different. And if you love him, you want what’s best for him. Don’t you?”

Do you? Or are you so selfish that you can only think of yourself, and what you need?

You observe Seungmin from afar, through your screen, as he had been forced back on his schedules. There are black circles stretched under his eyes, a furrow etched between his brows where there hadn't been before. He smiles at the camera but it never reaches his eyes. He is always the last to arrive but the first to leave. You wonder how you never noticed before.

You remember the whispered confessions, the tender moments shared in the quiet intimacy of your shared space. You remember the warmth of his embrace, the gentleness of his touch, the way he had poured his heart out to you, laying bare his fears and insecurities. And yet, despite the love that binds you together, you can't shake the nagging doubt that lingers in the recesses of your mind.

You wonder if you're doing more harm than good by clinging to him, by refusing to let go. You wonder if your presence in his life is a source of strength or if it's dragging him further into the depths of despair. You wonder if love, no matter how pure and genuine, is enough to withstand the relentless onslaught of hatred and condemnation.

And as you watch him, as he struggles to navigate the treacherous waters of fame and notoriety, you realize that you can't bear to see him suffer any longer. You can't bear to be the cause of his pain, the reason for his torment. You can't bear to hold him back from the life he was destined to live, the dreams he was meant to chase.

So when he calls you one night, tells you, “I need to see you,” in that weary, desperate voice of his, you agree to see him.

—-

It's a crisp, clear night when you finally meet him, the stars twinkling overhead like distant beacons in the vast expanse of the sky. You find him standing on the street corner, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, his breath misting in the chilly air. He looks different somehow, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders, the burden of his fame etched into the lines of his face. But despite the weariness that clings to him like a second skin, there's a flicker of relief in his eyes as he sees you approaching.

As soon as you are close enough, he reaches for your hand, tugging you closer so that he can rest his head on your shoulder, inhaling deeply.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs against your skin, hand releasing yours in favor of your waist, pulling you closer against him.

You stand there in the quiet embrace, the weight of his words sinking in as you wrap your arms around him, holding him close. There's a bittersweet ache in your chest as you realize that this might be the last time you'll hold him like this, the last time you'll feel the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

"I missed you too," you whisper, your voice barely above a breath as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne mingled with the crisp night air.

He pulls back, concern etched into the way he frowns. This side of Seungmin is one that not everyone gets to see. But he doesn’t try to hide it from you. Never has. Instead, he cups your cheek, tilting your face upward so he can get a better look at you. “Are you tired? Sorry, I know it’s late but it was the only time I could get away. You look tired.”

You manage a weak smile. “I’m okay. Just…Just thinking.”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze searching yours for any hint of what's going on in your mind. "You seem distant," he observes softly, his thumb tracing circles on your cheek.

Your hand encircles his wrist, pulling him away from your face. You don’t deserve the comfort his touch brings. You don’t.

He catches your fingers. “You’re cold.”

“Seungmin.”

“You should’ve brought a jacket.” He’s unraveling the scarf around his neck. You notice the slight tremble in his fingers. “Why didn’t you bring a jacket? I always tell you–”

“Seungmin.”

“I always tell you to being a jacket but you never listen–”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

He flinches, and the scarf slips from his fingers, pooling at his feet. Takes a shaky breath and bends down to retrieve it. When he speaks, he gives no indication that he even heard what you said.

“If you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll get sick, y/n.” He says, wrapping the scarf around your neck. He adjusts the scarf around your neck, his movements methodical, almost mechanical.

“Seungmin, please listen to me–”

“No,” He snaps, breathing harshly, his breath fogging up in the winter air. His knuckles are white as he ties the scarf firmly around your neck. “I won’t let you do this.”

You shake your head, pushing his hands away. “It’s already done.”

“Why?” His voice is strained. “I thought we were…I thought…” He lets loose a sound of frustration, unable to voice his thoughts. “Why are you doing this?”

Your heart strains against the ribs that cage them in, and your tongue feels like lead in your mouth and you can’t believe you are about to utter the lies you are thinking. But you do anyway.

“Because I can’t be with you anymore.” You choke out. “I can’t take it anymore, Min. Your fans are batshit crazy and–”

“And I can protect you,” He protests. “I can shield you away from all that, I swear–”

“Well you’ve been doing a shit job at it,” The way he flinches makes you force down a sob. Force yourself to continue speaking. “It’s just not enough. This love…you are not enough for me.”

You unwrap the scarf from around your neck, thrusting it back into his hands, as he stands there, silent. ‘This is for the best, it’s for the best, I’m doing this for him–’

“But I love you,”

You realize you’ve never heard his voice crack before. Not in the way it does now, when he speaks, and you somehow know there are tears in his eyes so you don’t look. You can’t bear to look.

“I love you, y/n, did you hear me? I need you.”

And suddenly you’re remembering that time you were ten years old and cradling your old dog’s head against your chest. He is looking up at you with eyes that plead to be saved, to be healed, but the vet says it’s time for you to let go now. “But Mama, he needs me,” You had cried, and your mother, with infinite patience, had pried your little hands away from the center of your world and said, “He needs you to let him go now.”

He needs you to let him go now.

—---

Seungmin watches as you turn on your heel and walk away. Watches as he clutches the scarf in his hands and then somehow he’s back at the dorm and someone is asking him if he’s alright and there are needles pricking into his hands as he presses his nails into the palms of them

You’ll be back. You’ll come back to him.

His ears ring as he slams his way into his room and the questions follow him into the room, but Seungmin blocks it out with the pillow he shoves over her head. Everything is too much, and not even the pillow can’t muffle the cries in his head, the glass breaking in his heart. He grits his teeth, thinks about how he ruined everything. He ruined it.

Why? Why was he so weak? Why was everything around him dull and boring and shattered?

The blanket is too hot even in this winter cold when he pulls it over him, but he allows the suffocating feeling of it to ease the tension in his body. His eyes are damp, and he chokes on a sob in the pillow.

You don't come.

So, he remains in the room and picks up the pieces of his broken self, thinks about dancing with you, of your eyes. Thinks of a cafe, of black coffee that he never even liked but learned to after you got his order wrong.

His mind wanders through the fog of it, and Seungmin falls into the mattress, sinks into the worn springs of it, and doesn't move. Not for a long time.

(You don't come.)

#straykids #straykids fanfic #skz #straykids x reader #straykids x you #straykids x y/n #seungmin #kim seungmim #seungmin angst #seungmin fanfiction #seungmin fanfic #seungmin drabble #angst #sad

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thesullengrrrl · 22 days

Text

We'll Meet Again

London called, Elaine Byrne answers...without warning.

A/N: Someone's going to make an appearance here because I love that character and I want him to be here. Hope it won't take you out of here or something. Thank you for reading and let me know what you think. AO3 link is here if you prefer reading there. On to the chapter!

Chapter 3: somehow, somewhere

Hammersmith, London

November 2026

Hal Byrne never really drove around London. He always considered this city as a walkable one, and driving is just another way to add more in his carbon footprint. However, her daughter is in his city and sure as hell he would spoil her, even if it means he would get honked at by fellow drivers.

His passengers were the loves of his life—his partner David and his only daughter, Elaine.

“Hal, you know you could go faster,” David urged him.

Hal groaned. “I’m fine, dear. Just talk to Laney.”

Elaine and David shared a look.

“I offered to drive but he wouldn’t budge. He said he wanted to drive you just like he did in New York before,” he shared.

“Dad, you only drove during the summer when we went upstate,” she revealed, smiling. “We always took the subway.”

“Laney! Not fair! I was trying to show—”

“Watch the road!” the two shrieked. Hal managed to smoothly turn the car, and the building was already on sight. There was no parking in front of the hotel, so Hal went to the nearby park where there were other cars parked. When he was properly parked, they got out of the car.

Hal opened the trunk and pulled his daughter’s suitcase.

Elaine watched David and her father tag team on locking the doors and closing the trunk. Both of them are in their 50s, and she does not miss the looks of women whenever she’s walking with them. David has worked as an art director, while her father Hal, works as a professor in Oxford.

The three of them walked towards the hotel, while David was motioning ‘stop’ to oncoming motorists. A doorman opened the door and welcomed them.

“Laney, darling, I’m going to see you on Monday, all right? Call me or David if you need anything,” Hal reminded her daughter as they stood in the lobby.

“Dad, I got both of your numbers with me,” Elaine repeated to her father, waving her phone. They had spent the first two days of her stay in a house in Norfolk where they attended a will-reading of Hal’s great uncle.

They both received a reasonable sum of money and a few books—copies of some classics and modern poetry books. The money was directly deposited on their accounts while a box of books was given to them when the reading ended. Elaine was a little touched by this act. She did not realize that across the pond, there was an old relative that thought of her despite the passing of time and distance.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us?” David asked. “We’re happy to have you, you know.”

“I’m sure. Don’t worry about me,” Elaine assured them.

Hal hugged his daughter. “All right, darling. Your old men won’t bother you and your secret boyfriend anymore. I’ll see you on Monday. Keep safe and call me.”

Elaine laughed. “If I do, you would’ve met him by now.” If you only knew, dad. You could write about this. “I’ll be fine. Love you.”

“Love you too, Laney.”

Elaine hugged David too, saying her goodbyes.

Hal and David walked back to the exit and Elaine watched them until they crossed the street. She will always be thankful that her father found someone to love and loves him back.

She went to the reception to check herself in.

“You’re all set, Ms. Byrne. You’re in room 215,” the kind-looking woman told her while handing her the key with the hotel fob in it. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

She took her duffle bag and headed to her room.

It was spacious enough for two people, she thought.

She hung her coat at the back of the door and strode across the room to inspect it. The bed was decently sized with clean sheets and pillows, and fresh towels at the foot of the bed. The walls were sage green and white. It has a small wooden study table and chair near the window. She opened the windows and it has a good view of London. It wasn’t very high, but enough for her to have a scope of it. The wardrobe was spacious. She tried to place herself in it and was comfortable. Perfect, she thought. Next, she visited the bathroom and was pleased that it had a tub. It was also accented with green checkered tiles, which added to the charm.

Putting the towels on the nearby chair, she laid down on the bed. In a few hours, she may or may not see Rosie. She hoped for the former. It has been a long time and an apology is something she needed to say.

It was only 3 in the afternoon. Rosie told in his letter that they’ll meet at 6 in the evening in the Hammersmith Palais. Wherever that is, she’ll figure it out later. For now, she has to settle her place at the other side of time.

Wearing her coat back on and empty duffle bag, she entered the wardrobe and moments later, opened it up to find room 215 now with different interiors. The room was now cozier with printed curtains and plain cream walls. The desk was now in front of a window, and a few steps from it was a vanity and a stand lamp. A reading chair in burgundy was adjacent to her bed, which is now smaller than her present one. This is good enough, she thought.

She tiptoed until she reached the outside. Room 215 is not her room at this time, at least not yet. When a bellboy almost bumped into her, she just smiled at him and walked to the nearest elevator. She tried not to look as if she’s a woman on a mission.

The elevator pinged and as she walked to the reception, she spotted a tall figure in an olive army dress uniform, writing in the hotel’s ledger. Could it be…?

Elaine went to the nearby lobby chairs to observe who it was. She picked up a newspaper to hide her face, which she found funny but who cares. When she heard keys jangling, she lowered the paper and it was too late. She watched the backs of two tall men in olive uniforms walk beside each other and carrying duffle bags. Damn, I didn’t get to see their faces!

The elderly man beside her cleared his throat. “Miss, could I…?”

She turned to him and he motioned for the paper she was holding. Elaine gave it to him and walked towards the reception.

“Hello. I’d like to check in please,” she requested. The young man in a gray, buttoned hotel uniform smiled at him. His name tag has THOMAS written on it.

“Only for the night, ma’am?” he asked.

“No, until Sunday, please.”

“Very well, sign your name here and payment,” he instructed. Elaine did as she instructed and paid upfront.

As she wrote, she said, “A friend stayed here and she was in room 215. Lovely view, she mentioned. Can I request that same room, too?”

Elaine saw it first. The keys of the room for room 215 are on the board behind the man. She let the man check it, so as to not tempt anything.

“Well, you’re in luck, ma’am. It’s empty and now yours,” he replied as he plucked the keys from the board behind him. He slid the ledger back to his view and read where she wrote.

Handing it to her, he said, “You’re all set. Have a wonderful stay, Miss Byrne.”

“I will, Thomas. Thank you.” she grinned and went back to the elevator.

Now with a secure line from both times, she laid down on her bed for a moment. It wasn’t as soft as the one in the present, but that will do for her. A clock on the bedside table said it was fifteen minutes to four.

After a long drive from Norfolk to London, a nap is in order.

---

It was 5 in the afternoon and Elaine was done showering. Her hair demands a little bit more of time now, since she got it a tad lighter two weeks before. Bunny taught her how to take care of it, and now she’s detangling her hair, groaning. The shoulders of her navy shirt are slightly drenched as she combed. The price of looking presentable, she thought.

Fifteen minutes before six, and she was ready. The brown box coat fit snugly on her and its big pockets were enough to bring her essentials—some powder, lipstick, a hanky, and mints. Her phone was locked in the hotel’s provided safe. One more sweep of red lipstick across her lips and she was all set. She opened the wardrobe and entered inside.

---

Hammersmith Palais

November 1943

Elaine reached Hammersmith Palais at exactly 6 in the evening alone. While walking, she caught a glimpse of herself in a nearby store window. Her navy dress with slight puffed sleeves draped well on her, her heels did her legs a favor, and her hair felt a bit too formal for her liking, but she liked the contrast of her hair against the dark dress. The red lipstick was the main highlight of her outfit, she observed. I look good!

Thankfully, it is only a few blocks away and with other people walking with her, she’s safe.

In 1943, she had to show up and trust that he would show up as well.

Men and women started lining up ten minutes after she came. She started searching the lines if he was there, maybe he lined up already to save time. But he was not there.. She shifted her weight on each leg and wrapped her coat around her more as the wind breezed in the area. I should’ve written to him. Damn it, why didn’t I try to write from the future to the past?

Twenty minutes later, she decided to line up. She still continued to scan the area as the line moved. When she finally reached the doors, she took one last look at the area to see if he was there. Still no Rosie. Maybe he forgot. Made other plans.

When she entered, the lively jazz music welcomed her and the guests, signifying a start of what might be an exciting night.

There was a stage at the end of the room, a bar and tables and chairs on each side of the dancefloor. There was also another area upstairs where guests could sit, dine, and observe dancers. Couples gathered on the dancefloor, dancing, touching, some fully making out under the dim lights. The ceilings were decorated with lights and different flaglets of assorted colors.

Elaine couldn’t help but get absorbed in the excitement. This place felt like its own country, as if there was no war going on outside the walls.

As she sat at the bar and nursing a tall glass of beer, she heard the chair beside her creak. As she turned, she saw a handsome brown haired man in an olive army uniform. The US and winged pins on his lapels gleamed. His hair is tousled due to the humidity of the room making it shine too. His sparse mustache is evident, like a teenage boy’s first mustache. Why do some men not commit to an actual mustache instead of half-assing it! Be better, men!

She did not realize she was staring until he came up quite close to her face and grinned.

“Hi there,” Elaine greeted, a little off guard.

“Oh, an American!” the man observed. “That’s new. Where are you from?”

“Brooklyn,” she shared. “How about you, sir?”

“Manitowoc.”

“And where is that?”

“Wisconsin!” the man declared, a little bit too proudly. “I’m John Egan. People call me Bucky.”

She shook the man’s extended hand with a smile. “I’m Elaine. Elaine Byrne.”

Bucky motioned his hand towards the dance floor. “Wanna dance, Elaine Bird?”

“I said Byrne,” she asserted.

“Ah, I heard ‘bird’. That’s what I’m gonna call you now. Wanna dance, birdie?”

This charmed Elaine enough. “All right, John Egan.”

He finished his clear shot and paid for both of their drinks. Then he extended his hand, which she accepted and they went off to the dance floor. There was still space to move around, so they stood adjacent to each other and started moving to the beat.

She took a glance at the sidelines, checking any signs of another American uniformed officer. Nothing.

Rosie can go find me on the dance floor.

---

When three lively songs ended, thankfully, the band turned into more somber music.

Bucky smoothly slid his arm at her back, while she struggled a little to reach John because of his height. She thought he must be around over six feet. The two caught their breaths for a moment then they moved in closer, almost cheek to cheek. Elaine felt a bit feminine with this tall, broad man towering over her, swaying with her to this soft music. She avoided John’s gaze, feeling a little shy. He must have sensed this and started talking.

With his deep voice, he asked. “What brought you to England?”

“A will-reading,” Elaine answered, without thinking.

“Whose?”

“My father’s old uncle. He asked me to come with him because his partner couldn’t make it, so here I am.”

“And…what brings you to this side of town?” John questioned, this time his breath near her ear.

“I’m meeting a friend…” Elaine trailed off. “But that friend seemed to have forgotten, so here I am. Dancing with you.”

“Good thing he forgot,” John replied, winking at her.

Elaine felt the corners of her mouth pull a smile and shook her head. Bunny would’ve liked Bucky.

“Say, what brought you to England, John Egan?” she asked, deciding to match his energy.

“My job,” he answered. “I’m a pilot.”

That explains the game and air of arrogance, she thought. “Ah. That makes sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have this air of casual confidence, you know? Like you can do anything,” Elaine observed. “And you will do it even though someone tells you not to.”

John’s eyes widened by the observation.

“That’s…something. Well, I’m not God.”

“I know.”

“By the way,” she started. “Any chance you know a guy named Robert Rosenthal?”

His face turned from surprise to recognition. “Oh shit, you’re Rosie’s girl from New York?”

“What?”

John let out a half-laugh. “Few days ago, Rosie and Pappy—that’s his co-pilot—were chasing each other around the barracks because of a picture. It was a picture of him and some girl…”

She raised her eyebrow.

“Or so I’m told,” he added quickly.

Men gossip. They’re just better at hiding it.

“That’s what he’s been saying? I’m his girl?” she scoffed.

“No, he didn’t say that,” he immediately jumped in. “It’s just assumed since Rosie…he’s a pretty focused guy. He never really danced with anyone and when we saw the picture, we thought maybe you’re the reason why.”

“So you really saw the picture?”

He was about to say something when he stopped moving and his head jerked up. “Wait, I think I saw someone.”

He moved them near to the sidelines, to the tables and chairs until they were only a few meters away from a certain table that was a little crowded with women chattering. Breaking away from each other, John held her wrist and led her to the table he was spying on. A couple of excuses to the women later, it revealed a uniformed man, nursing a glass of amber liquid, hunched and seemingly defeated.

“Rosie!” John called. “You came!”

Rosie? Is it him?

Bucky pulled a chair before the man and motioned for his new lady friend to sit on. Then he followed suit. The man before them raised his head and it was actually him!

Elaine trailed her eyes on his features, now slightly worn, bulked, and a little heaviness on his shoulders. His curls are now a bit tighter (too much pomade, perhaps) and his eyes now have dark circles compared to the last time he saw him.

Rosie’s gaze remained on Bucky and slowly, he turned to her. His mouth parted, and the two did not notice until Bucky placed a finger under his chin to shut it.

“Rosie, you didn’t tell me your girl is coming!” John laughed.

“I didn’t…” Rosie trailed off.

“I wanted to surprise him, actually,” Elaine cut off, finally speaking for Rosie who was still visibly confused from everything. He only nodded and then drank the remaining liquid in his glass.

“Really? Well, boy, you really were surprised, huh?” Bucky observed. “So how’d you meet?”

He waved at a waiter, and ordered a few drinks–six shots of vodka and three glasses of scotch.

“Robert and I met on the night before he enlisted for the army,” she shared.

“Robert, huh,” Bucky observed. “In the base, he’s called Rosie.”

“He looks a little unfriendly right now, so Robert it is,” she replied, smiling weakly.

“Robert is in a bit of a sour mood, all right?” Rosie shot back, his voice cutting against the loud music of the band.

His tone startled the two for a bit. Bucky knew this man to be usually collected, but tonight it didn’t seem like it. Elaine on the other hand, just looked at him.

Rosie felt his cheeks warm up, and swirled his glass while looking at the two. “Sorry.”

The trio fell in silence. Elaine stared at Rosie, wondering whether to apologize or just go. Rosie, embarrassed by his sudden raising of voice, avoided her gaze.

Bucky suddenly felt tension in the air that could be easily sliced by a hot knife. He planned on charming Elaine tonight, and if luck is on his side, maybe sleep with her. After all, he doesn’t encounter American women outside of the base often.

However, from the scene in front of him, luck isn’t his. Instead of wallowing, he turned to the band and focused on the energetic music being played and people in the dancefloor—a complete contrast to the current situation.

Elaine started to think about the situation she is in. She’s here in 1943, surprising the guy she ghosted two years ago and now he’s somewhat agitated. What was she thinking? Who does she think she is, just popping down in miserable ol’ England, expecting the guy she ghosted will be happy to see her? Without writing to him earlier?

The band is as lively as ever and they should be, it’s still early! She noticed both men were now intentionally avoiding her. Bucky was itching to dance with the way he was moving, while Rosie was out of sync with his finger tapping. Then, he took one of the five shots of clear liquid (probably vodka) and drank it.

Her gaze shifted between the two men, waiting for someone who would talk. Until she gave up and downed two shots. It’s not called liquid courage for nothing.

She cleared her throat loud enough to catch their attention.

Bucky saw it as his cue to leave.

“Alright," he started, standing up. "I'm gonna go. I think you two have things to talk about."

Rosie and Elaine watched him make his way to the bar while greeting people around him. She glared at him, while he just looked at her, his eyes glassy. Getting uncomfortable, Elaine took Rosie’s glass and finished it.

She winced at the taste.

“That’s scotch, you know,” Rosie commented.

“I know that now,” she croaked, the scotch still burning on her throat. “Can you tell me why you’re late?”

He sighed. “I fell asleep when I got here. I didn’t realize until there was this man knocking on the door, asking for someone named Nancy.”

“And you’re not with anyone named Nancy?”

“Of course not!” he defended. “Now, were you dancing with Major Egan?”

“He’s your boss?” Elaine asked, unbelieving.

“Yes, is that hard to believe?”

She turned and saw Bucky talking happily with a blonde woman. “Honestly? Yes.”

“Were you dancing with Major Egan?”

“Why not?” Elaine challenged. “You were late and he found me. He asked me to dance, and I didn’t want to look like a sad woman in the bar.”

Rosie tsked. “I should've found you first.”

“You found me now.”

“I’m really sorry, Elaine. I set it up and I’m the late one.”

“To be fair, I didn’t write to you,” she reasoned. “But we’re here now. What are you going to do about it, Robert?”

He remembered how she used his legal name when she was convincing him to find a girl while he’s on the battlefield. Elaine smirked at him, daring him.

Rosie stood up and extended his hand. “May I have this dance, Miss Byrne?

She grinned at him and took his hand. “Yes, Mr. Rosenthal, you may.”

The band started playing In the Mood, which made the crowd howl in excitement. They joined the other couples on the dance floor, jovial and excited. Elaine watched Rosie dance with enthusiasm despite being a bit out of the beat.

She grinned at him and continued to dance.

When In the Mood ended, a slow love song played. Rosie pulled her closer, almost cheek to cheek. Elaine inhaled deeply, noting for a second that this was real.

She’s there, and he was there. Close to each other. Holding each other. They danced in silence for a while, just relishing each other’s presence after a while of not seeing each other.

“I heard you’re a pilot now,” Elaine told him, breaking the silence.

“How’d you know about that?”

"I asked around…I was waiting for quite some time, you know,” she teased, a smile obvious. Rosie groaned.

“Well, yes, I’m a pilot now,” he confirmed.

“Fancy man,” she teased. “You’re probably seducing young village maidens with your aviator glasses, promise of America…”

“No, I’m not. I don’t even wear those glasses,” he stated. “If I was, then I wouldn’t be here.”

“Charming me now, are you?”

“Is it…working?”

Elaine slapped his back and laughed.

“How about you? What have you been doing for the past few years?” Rosie asked.

“I work as an assistant now in a publishing house,” she shared. “I tried being a nurse, but they wouldn’t have me. I couldn’t do a tourniquet. One time, I vomited at the same time as the patient. We shared a vomit bowl. It was very intimate.”

Rosie blinked. “I can’t tell if you’re kidding.”

“Just the publishing part is true,” she confirmed.

He chuckled, perhaps in relief or humor. “Oh good, because I don’t think I would trust you as a nurse.”

“Right call. Even if it’s a thinly-veiled insult,” she grinned.

Rosie moved his head so that he could see her face. It still looked the same, except with her now longer and lighter hair. The thin scar below her hair line is almost invisible under the lights.

“I’m glad you made it, Elaine. Honestly, I wasn’t sure you’ll be here. Writing to you is shooting for the moon and I didn’t really expect it to reach you,” he admitted.

She nodded. “I didn’t expect I’ll hear from you, ever. But I had to come, Rosie.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to apologize for what happened. It was rude and I could’ve been more graceful. I’m sorry I left things that way.”

He smiled. “We’re even. Like you said, we found each other now. What are we going to do about it, Elaine Byrne?”

She rested her head on his chest. “This. Just this.”

At a distance, Bucky watched the two slow dance to the music. He turned to the bartender who’s name was Rick, saying, “Called it.”

“He stole your girl,” Rick commented.

“Eh,” he replied, a cigarette dangling on his lips waiting to be lit. “She’s his before we met, Rick.”

The bartender could only shake his head.

---

The two left the Palais nearing midnight. They wanted to say goodbye to Bucky but the bartender told them he exited minutes before. Elaine did not miss the meaningful look of the bartender. Fair enough, he did see me downing drinks with one guy then leave with another.

“Where are you staying?” Rosie asked.

“Brooke Green. How about you?”

“Brooke Green, too.”

Rosie offered his arm to her. She eyed him suspiciously but with humor. What’s next? Is he going to tell me he’d lasso the moon for me and make me swallow it until the beams flow out of me?

“Elaine, you’re staring.”

Her eyes widened. “Am I? Sorry. What are you doing?”

“I figured since we’re staying at the same hotel, we should walk together,” he answered, lifting his offered arm.

“That's so corny,” she commented.

He shrugged. “That’s me, I guess.”

Elaine looped her arm around his and they started walking. She looked up to him, his expression a bit more chipper and relaxed.

After a few minutes, the two reached Brooke Green.

Entering the elevator, Rosie asked which room she was staying in.

“I’m in 215,” she answered. “You?”

“217. Major Egan is in 216.”

“Right.”

When they reached her door, he stopped her from turning the knob. "Elaine."

“What?”

“I should’ve asked this earlier, but can I see you tomorrow?” Rosie invited her, his voice a little shaky.

“Yeah, sure…what time should we meet?”

“How about breakfast?” Rosie suggested.

“No can do. How about lunch?” she countered. She wanted to have some sight-seeing in present-day Hammersmith.

He thought of it for a moment. “All right, lunch it is. We can have lunch outside if you like.”

“All right, I’ll wait for you here by lunch. Just knock.”

“Okay,” he smiled. “Slip a note if you can’t make it or something.”

“I don’t think you’ll like that.”

“Yeah, I won’t. But I trust you,” he stated. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Elaine nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Rosie.”

“Good night, Elaine.”

He finally let go of the door knob and Elaine entered the room. She gave him one last look and closed the door. Leaning her head against her door, a smile formed in her face.

All the messages and calls she may have received during her night out will have to wait. The future is always there, but for now, the past is a good place to stay in—for a few more hours, at least.

#masters of the air #mota fic #masters of the air fic #we'll meet again #rosie rosenthal x oc #rosie rosenthal #oc: elaine byrne #time travel au

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