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maatryoshkaa · 4 years

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young god | chapter 16

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue |

word count: 14.3k

warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, domestic & child abuse, sexual abuse of a minor, descriptions of mental illness, death, dark themes and foul language. once again, all information regarding psychiatric conditions or courtroom procedures are to be taken with a grain of salt.

description: Han Jisung wrestles with the demons of his past as Kim Seungmin faces his own dilemma in the present, with one last chilling threat from Prosecutor Kang forcing Seungmin to make a final, crucial decision. The clock is counting down as your last chance wears thin, and one unexpected declaration is all it takes for things to change—forever.

watch the trailer here!

16| the prisoner’s dilemma.

Jisung was still frozen in place long after the heavy doors had swung shut and erased your face from his sight. His own hand felt foreign as he held it against his stinging cheek, the dull throbbing drowned out by the words still ringing in his ears.

Your friends want you to stay alive. Your mother wanted you to stay alive.

I need you to stay alive.

Bang Chan was watching him from the side, the detective’s eyes filled with equal parts amusement and wariness. Finally, he spoke. “You deserved that, you know.”

Jisung was silent, but his mind was already replaying the scene over and over again. Your anxious eyes, your voice trembling with the effort to stay steady. The slap couldn’t compare to the pain that had etched itself into your features every time he had spoken harshly, trying again and again to push you away. I know I did.

Chan sighed. “How are you feeling?”

A soft laugh escaped from Jisung’s dry mouth. “Dizzy,” he deadpanned honestly. The adrenaline was beginning to die down, but instead of leaving him sick in the stomach and with a pounding headache like usual, Jisung felt almost...lightheaded with relief. “Like...like a kid that just got told off?”

The detective chuckled, letting out his low, signature whistle. “What’d I tell you? That’s love, mate.”

Jisung looked at him now, incredulous. “Getting slapped in the face?”

“No,” Chan smiled, but for once, his eyes were serious. “Someone who cares about you enough to call you out when you’re wrong.”

Not knowing what to say, Jisung turned away, letting the ticking of the clock on the wall fill the strained silence. He could still feel Chan’s gaze on him, but it was no longer the look of a detective trying to dissect a case file. Instead, it held the same strange softness it had when Chan had pulled Jisung aside at the Third Eye, and asked if he was okay.

“I told you once,” Chan began slowly, “that everyone deserves to be loved, and that you’re no different. Of course, things have...changed,” he continued, and Jisung looked down, throat tight as he waited for Chan to finish. “But I still stand by what I said.”

Before Jisung could reply, the intercom crackled overhead. “The court hearing for Han Jisung and the Miroh Heights Murder Cases will be resuming in five minutes. All attorneys, jurors, and participants in the trial, please report to the courtroom immediately—”

“Detective, you should get going,” a security guard spoke lowly to Chan, who sighed and nodded, pulling himself to his feet. As he passed where Jisung was standing, he stopped briefly.

“You’re a good kid, Han Jisung. Even if you don’t believe it yourself...you had better start to.”

“Chan—”

The detective had reached the door when he looked over his shoulder at Jisung. He had the same old mischievous smile on his face again, but his eyes were sad.

“I hope we can grab another coffee together some time, yeah?”

━━━━━━━━

Seungmin’s head was spinning as he pushed through rooms packed with spectators and reporters until he finally stumbled into an emptier hallway. His eyes gleaned the plaques on the doors, searching for the room number the court clerks had given him after Seungmin had overheard their frantic conversation.

“We can’t just end the case here — the media and people’ll riot.”

“But we’ve lost a witness and the lead prosecutor of the case in one day — how the hell is the trial supposed to continue?”

The clerk wringed his hands. “We need to find out if there were any other prosecutors working with Kang on the case — call them in ASAP—”

And so, here Seungmin was — heart threatening to leap out of his throat, charging headfirst into a case that had been ripped out of his hands months ago. He had stepped into their conversation impulsively, and now a thousand warning bells were going off in his mind.

Kim Seungmin was not impulsive. Kim Seungmin always calculated his plans perfectly, meticulously. It was one of the reasons why he had always been at the top of his class, graduating a year early with honours. Always praised for being levelheaded and thorough.

Still, he thought, there had been one person that had seen right through him.

“You’re stressed,” you blurted bluntly, and Seungmin’s coffee cup froze midway to his lips. You were in his office, one of the many meetings you two had arranged in order to keep each other updated with information regarding Jisung’s case.

“We’re all stressed,” Seungmin replied matter-of-factly, unsure where you were going with this, but you shook your head.

“But you try the hardest out of all of us to hide it. Tell me if I’m crossing a line here, but—” you looked at him, tilting your head. “You seem like the type who’s calm and collected on the outside to...hide the fact that you’re still wrestling with nerves, and insecurities, on the inside. Like a defense mechanism.”

Seungmin fell silent. Instinctively, he felt the urge to laugh it off, but in a fleeting moment, his mind wandered to his coworkers— their condescending gazes at who they thought was just a lucky amateur, a young imposter infringing upon a field with people twice his age. Since his first day at the law firm, Seungmin had felt an unbearable desire to prove himself worthy in their eyes, and the anxious feeling ate away at him every time he touched a case.

Sensing the sudden change in mood, you quickly stammered, “I-I’m sorry, that was so unnecessary—what I’m trying to say is— it’s okay to be nervous. Don’t psyche yourself out with your own expectations for yourself. U-um—”

You trailed off, mortified, but Seungmin let out a small laugh, shaking his head lightly when your eyes widened in confusion. “No, no, it’s just…” You were smart and capable — anyone could see that — but always seemed to second-guess your own abilities. He found it almost endearing. “You really are a psychology major, Miss l/n.”

Seungmin rounded a corner and nearly slammed into someone that had just walked out of the men’s washrooms. Before he could apologise, Seungmin looked up into the man’s face and his gut twisted unpleasantly.

Prosecutor Kang seized Seungmin by the collar before he could walk away, his face livid. The younger man’s eyes darted down either side of the empty hallway, then back at his former senior. He had heard Kang was to be kept at the courthouse until the end of the trial, in case they needed anything from him. There were guards flanking every entrance and exit, so Kang couldn’t exactly escape, but seeing him walk around unsupervised still made Seungmin uneasy.

“S-sir, you can’t—”

“Do you remember what you said? What you promised?” Kang seethed, eyes wild as they raked Seungmin up and down. “‘I can handle it. I’ll find the culprit, and I’ll convict him. Death penalty, no less.’”

Hearing his own words coming out of Kang’s mouth made Seungmin wince and shrink back. Kang caught his discomfort, grinning savagely before jerking his head in the direction of the holding cells, where Jisung was. “You’re taking over the case, aren’t you? Your culprit’s right there. Everything’s been laid out for you, it couldn’t be simpler.”

Seungmin let out a shaky breath, fists clenched by his sides. Before he could open his mouth, Kang pulled him in closer, voice dangerously low.

“I always thought it was fishy, you know — someone your age, already entering the field? So I did my research.” Kang paused, smirking. “You’re a little prodigy, aren’t you? I didn’t know your parents were renowned lawyers, too.”

At that, Seungmin froze, shocked eyes darting up to meet Kang’s. It was true — born into a family of influential law enforcement officials, Seungmin had practically grown up reading about legal matters and judicial affairs. Despite his efforts to keep his parentage discreet as he grew older — hating the way their reputations always preceded his own — the expectations to follow in their footsteps had always remained suffocating. He loved law with all his heart, but his own family had become yet another reason why Seungmin had so much to live up to, and even more to lose.

The older prosecutor chuckled — Seungmin must have looked like a deer in headlights. “You can’t disappoint them, yes? You need to do everything you can to uphold the big family name.” Kang’s voice had a dangerous edge to it, like a blade. “My career might be over, little prosecutor, but I have far more power than you think. I can make sure you never step foot into this profession ever again. You want to prove yourself? To me, to your fellow prosecutors, to your parents? Here’s your chance.”

There was a snakelike glint in Kang’s eyes when he finally let Seungmin go, his words seeping through Seungmin’s mind like poison.

Prove yourself. Prove yourself. A security guard had appeared at the end of the hallway, and without another word, Kang calmly turned on his heel, letting the guard escort him away. Seungmin watched his silhouette grow fainter, feeling sick to his stomach.

Just how many cases...no, how many prosecutors had Kang manipulated for his own benefit?

He took a shuddering breath. Time was running out. Forcing his feet to move, Seungmin finally found the room, barely listening when the clerk quickly explained that the rights to the case were being transferred to him last minute.

“Ten minutes, Prosecutor Kim. You have approximately ten minutes to prepare your case.”

The roomful of law officials were watching him with doubtful eyes — the same doubtful, scornful gazes that had followed him his entire life. Ten minutes. Picking up where Kang had left off would be the smoothest, most reasonable route. Preparing an entirely different argument, however, was suicide.

Seungmin glanced up at the clock, and his heart sank.

━━━━━━━━

The commotion in the courtroom sounded like the buzzing of an agitated beehive, the constant thrumming of hushed conversations and your own erratic heartbeat fueling the tense atmosphere.

Hyunjin, Felix, Woojin, and you had sprinted straight to the courtroom after a rapid search for Seungmin had turned up futile — the prosecutor was nowhere to be seen, but judging from the murmurs you overheard around you, the case had been transferred into his hands with mere minutes to spare. You bit your lip nervously. This should have been good news, but you all knew that the odds — and time — were still against you. Looking the weariest you’d ever seen him, Bang Chan collapsed into the seat next to you. He tried to give you a reassuring smile, but as he turned away, eyes glued to the scene about to unfold, you saw that his features were strained and pale.

With a creak that send a hush rippling through the courtroom, the doors swung open to reveal more familiar faces — the judge, the prosecution, the jury. Your eyes instinctively flickered to Jisung, whose expression was as guarded as ever, and instantly felt a pang of guilt in your chest. The rest of the room, however, had fallen silent before the judge had even spoken. All their gazes were trained on the new prosecutor that had entered the room.

Seungmin felt the stares on him before he even looked up, dozens of eyes weighing down on him as if he were a butterfly pinned to a specimen table. He should have gotten used to the stares by now — this was far from his first court hearing — but when he looked out into the faces of the audience, he still felt the same squeamish anxiety he had always tried so desperately to ignore. Their expressions were dubious, condescending, unconvinced — as if all to say, is this a joke? This kid is the new lead prosecutor?

The judge cleared her throat, pushing her half-moon spectacles back onto her nose. “Thank you for your patience. The court hearing for Han Jisung and the Miroh Heights Murder Cases is now back in session. You may be seated.” She turned to Seungmin, eyes narrowed. “What is the case the prosecution will be presenting?”

Seungmin’s mind was racing as he turned over the envelope in his hands — the envelope containing Kang’s case file — and slid out the papers with numb fingertips. As he did so, familiar words echoed in his mind — words he had been told since he had first chosen to study law, and words he had forced himself to live by ever since.

“You have a big heart, Kim Seungmin — too big. Learn to control your emotions if you want to make it in this field.”

“You have to be cold, quick, and rational. Kindness is a weakness.”

“There is no room for a wavering heart in prosecution.”

He had always taken the words like bitter medicine, beyond determined to prove to his older coworkers that he wasn’t just the incompetent young prosecutor they always made him out to be. Desperate to prove to his family that he was capable, that he wouldn’t tarnish their names. Every step he had taken had been careful, calculated, all so that Seungmin could win their approval, finally escape their suffocating scrutiny.

“Your Honour,” Seungmin began, “as a prosecutor, I was taught that my duty is to defend the rule of law to ensure justice is served, no matter how harsh it may be.”

You watched the young prosecutor speak carefully, his grave expression making your gut twist. Kim Seungmin, Chan had told you once in passing, came from a family of established lawyers — a child prodigy with big shoes to fill, and everything to lose. And now, you realised with dread, his words seemed to be an exact echo of Prosecutor Kang’s.

Seungmin’s stomach was fluttering as if it were his first trial again, heart palpitating with each passing moment as he was seized with the sudden urge to run. Taking a deep breath, his gaze flickered up to meet yours in the audience — your blazing eyes, charged with emotion, your heart always written so clearly across your adamant features. You, who stopped at nothing in order to protect what you believed was right.

Prove yourself. Prove to everyone you’re good enough, strong enough.

He closed his eyes, knowing that he would regret what he was about to say.

“But I was also taught that a good prosecutor is one that uses the law to protect the people.” Seungmin swallowed hard, sliding Kang’s papers back into the envelope and dropping it onto the desk behind him. “Thus, the case I am presenting today is not one that intends to prove Han Jisung guilty of first degree murder.”

The entire room erupted in frantic murmurs, the judge hurriedly banging the gavel to maintain order. Seungmin caught a glimpse of Jisung’s expression — the boy was still looking down, but his face had paled in surprise at the prosecutor’s sudden declaration. Just then, the doors burst open, a red-faced clerk with a handful of padded envelopes ducking in and hurrying to Seungmin’s side.

“What you requested, sir,” the clerk explained quietly, handing him the envelopes, and Seungmin recalled the conversation they had had in the conference rooms, just before the trial had recommenced.

“There are ten minutes remaining until we have to begin,” the clerk informed Seungmin worriedly, seeing the young prosecutor’s tense face. “Is there anything you need from the former prosecution? Since these are special circumstances, I can have them brought to you as soon as possible during the trial.”

Either ten minutes to gather the evidence he needed, Seungmin thought dismally, or ten minutes to build a strong argument from what he—no, Kang—already had.

“Listen carefully.” Screwing his eyes shut, Seungmin continued, “Please fetch me Han Jisung’s camcorder footage — the memory cards — and Yang Jeongin’s Walkman tapes from Prosecutor Kang’s archives. All of them, immediately.”

The knot of anxiety in Seungmin’s chest finally began to unclench, the envelopes’ contents anchoring him in place with a reassuring weight. He turned to the judge, surprised at the newfound authority in his own voice. “The prosecution maintains that Han Jisung is not guilty of first degree murder. We will be presenting all the evidence Prosecutor Kang excluded, and examining the case from all angles so that the jury may form an accurate judgement and verdict.”

“That’s—an entirely new argument,” Hyunjin whispered incredulously beside you. “How did he come up with a case in ten minutes?”

“He didn’t. He’s building his case on the spot,” Chan realised out loud, a small smile spreading on his lips. He leaned forward with a glint of pride in his eyes. “Now that’s the Kim Seungmin I know.”

You watched as Seungmin called up his first witness, who was none other than Kang’s psychiatric expert. “You introduced yourself as the psychiatrist involved with this case — responsible for analysing the defendant’s mental condition, correct?”

The red-nosed man coughed nervously. “Y-yes, uh, well — the defendant was unwilling to speak during the evaluation, so we were unable to gain much personal testimony—”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Seungmin picked up one the envelopes, handing it to the court clerk and motioning for him to project the contents. “The following is recovered footage from a camcorder the defendant was gifted when he was six years old, and developed a habit of carrying around.” He turned towards the psychiatrist. “It’s raw, untampered footage containing experiences from the defendant’s childhood. I want you to watch it and answer a few questions. There is, however, graphic content, and I advise the spectators to view it with caution.”

You saw Seungmin cast a worried look towards Jisung, and you knew how the prosecutor was feeling. After nearly thirteen years of Jisung hiding his past from even his closest friends, it was all suddenly being thrust under the harsh light — in front of a roomful of people who wanted to sentence him to death, no less — but you both knew that this was your last chance.

The projector whirred as the clerk inserted the first memory cards into the computer. The memory cards had been confiscated by Kang before you had gotten the chance to watch them yourself — what you did know about the footage came from the bits Chan had recounted for you after several insistent phone calls, and what Jisung himself had told you that fateful night. Uneasiness stirring in your chest, you watched as the screen came to life, blurry colours and pixelated outlines taking shape.

There was nothing out of the ordinary at first — short clips of chipped action figures on dusty windowsills, or toy cars rolling idly across wooden floors. The footage was shaky, as if the person holding the camcorder could barely support its weight. Jisung had barely been six years old, you remembered, feeling a strange feeling of sadness wash over you. It was as if you were watching a movie you already knew the ending to, and all that was left in your gut was a sinking dread at what was about to come.

As the clerk flipped through the footage, a faint sound pricked at your ears, and you jerked your head up, listening to make sure you had heard right — and sure enough, there it was. Muffled shouting, like it was coming from another room in the house, something heavy shattering on the floor — and judging from the murmurs and faces of the spectators around you, they heard it as well. The camcorder was still pointed at the action figurines, but had frozen stiffly — as if the child holding it was listening, too.

More scenes began to unfold, one after another. A birthday, six lopsided candles glowing on a small white cake. Jisung humming a familiar tune with a woman you assumed was his mother. And clip after clip where the camcorder was pointed at the ceiling of a dark room — Jisung’s childhood bedroom — as the sounds of arguing and yelling echoed through the walls. Slowly but surely, the scenes began to grow familiar.

“February 22nd, 2005.”

The day Jisung had stumbled across another woman in his parents’ bed, and his father had terrorized him until he promised not to tell anyone.

“June 3rd, 2006.”

His face-to-face encounter with his father’s mistress, one that left scars in the form of cigarette burns, red-lipped smiles, and tainted touches.

“December 31st, 2009.”

The day everything had gone wrong.

Stomach lurching, you watched as everything Jisung had told you — his rough voice shaking in your darkened apartment, dark eyes holding nightmares of years long past — took the form of grainy camera footage. His father crashing through the doorframe, hands choking the life from the woman beneath him. Even though the camera quality was poor, the woman’s pleading eyes, rolled up towards the tiny crack in the closet where Jisung had been hidden, seemed to pierce directly through you.

It all seemed to happen in a flash — in the blink of an eye, there were flames licking bloodstained floors clean, the camcorder out of focus as Jisung limped through thick white snow and finally collapsed on top of his mother’s cold body. The gritty screams of anguish and pain seemed to ring in your ears long after Seungmin stopped the footage, and you lifted a shaking gaze to Jisung’s face. His eyes had been cast downwards the entire time, but even from across the room, you could see his violently trembling jaw, the ragged heave of his chest. How many times had he lived through this footage himself — in his nightmares, through half-delirious flashbacks, every time he closed his eyes?

“Thirteen years ago, there was a massive fire on the outskirts of Miroh Heights. The Han house was burned to the ground and left a single boy alive, without any relatives to take custody. Unable to fathom what exactly happened, police filed it away as a gas explosion, and the boy was tossed around foster homes and orphanages until it was eventually forgotten,” Seungmin informed them. He thanked Woojin internally as he spoke — after mentioning several times that Jisung’s past sounded strangely familiar, the police captain had been the one to finally connect the dots between the two cold cases, thirteen years apart.

“There were initial speculations of domestic abuse, but they were never investigated thoroughly. The case was neglected, left cold, and when the statute of limitations expired, it was simply dismissed as another tragedy.” Seungmin nodded at the clerk again, who slid the next memory card in.

This card was filled with what sounded like endless psychological evaluations — disembodied voices introducing themselves as social workers, child psychiatrists, and the like, all mercilessly bombarding Jisung with personal questions. The first half was either entirely black or out of focus, as if Jisung had been holding the camcorder down and clutching it close to his body. They had all given up when the young boy could barely get his answers out, the lingering fear and untreated trauma having locked his voice in his throat.

“He’s a lost cause.”

“Problem kid.”

“Impossible to treat.”

You clenched your fists every time a social worker left the room, muttering under their breath in annoyance. Then, as the clips grew clearer, a child with round, catlike eyes and a pale expression beginning to appear in several of the frames.

Lee Minho.

“At the beginning of this decade, we all know that Miroh Heights went through an economic rift — workers were laid off, young children abandoned on the streets. During these times, child abuse and child trafficking cases also skyrocketed.” Seungmin spoke as the screen flashed, the scene now showing what looked like a filthy, unfinished basement floor.

“We witnessed a rise of ‘suicide killers’ — namely, perpetrators who would kidnap and murder their own family members or vulnerable strangers before ending their own lives. Many were acting on their anger and grief through violence; others saw it as a form of revenge.”

With a wince, you remembered what Minho had told you on the rooftop of the hospital that evening — when he and Jisung had been lured into a man’s home by their own hunger, and woke up to him trying to kill them. The sound of approaching footsteps filled the speakers, the camcorder pointed at an awkward angle and shaking uncontrollably before it clattered to the ground, and the footage cut out.

When the next clip began, it was pointed down at wide-eyed, twelve-year-old Jisung.

“Ah, now this is jus’ perfect. The cops’ll love this, yes they will.” You shivered at the man’s hoarse voice behind the camcorder, flinching as the barrel of a gun was pressed to Jisung’s forehead. “Now, boy — I want you to beg for your life — go on.”

Frozen in your seat, you watched as all hell broke loose — the man pressing the trigger just as Jisung managed to cut the cords free, the camcorder smashing into concrete as Jisung fought for his life. When the lens finally focused again, what you saw made your blood run cold. A twelve-year-old boy kneeling before the mangled corpse of a grown man, cherub-like face drenched with crimson. You heard Minho’s shallow, terrified breathing behind the camcorder as Jisung turned towards him, the look in his eyes sending an icy chill down your spine. It was the exact same look he had given you when you had found him at the diner, screaming out his name as if trying to wake him from a nightmare.

Emptiness.

Even through the grainy film, you could catch the moment Jisung’s consciousness returned to him, soft brown eyes shifting and focusing into a childlike, dazed expression once again.

“Minho, can we go home?”

The footage sputtered to a stop. The visceral scene had been exactly as the coroner had described to you on the hospital rooftop, and yet nothing could have prepared you for it. You only realised how badly you had been shaking when Felix gently nudged you, peering at your face worriedly. When you forced yourself to unclench your fists, you winced at the red half-moon weals your nails had left in your palms.

“Both the defendant and coroner Lee Minho were involved in a kidnapping case, and subjected to extreme violence at the ages of twelve and thirteen. The perpetrator died in the incident. There was no culprit to catch. Once again, the case was buried, under the economic turmoil Miroh Heights was experiencing, by neglectful law enforcement.”

Seungmin turned back to look at the psychiatrist. “Now, I’m no expert in analysing family matters, but I think we can confirm several cases of domestic abuse from this footage alone. Parental neglect. Repeated exposure to violence. Years of sexual harassment. How would you psychoanalyse a patient who has gone through these events?”

The red-faced man was evidently shaken, wiping the sweat from his brow as he stuttered out, “This — this is more than enough to cause severe cases of post-traumatic stress disorder.” His eyes darted around the courtroom nervously, as if the words were refusing to come out of his mouth.

“He looks like he’s scared,” you murmured. “Like he’s still unwilling to talk.”

“Kang must have made some sort of a deal with him,” Woojin replied under his breath, shaking his head. “But it’s all over now — he’s got nothing more to lose.”

“You swore an oath before the trial began,” Seungmin pressed sternly, not taking his gaze off the nervous man. “‘I do solemnly declare that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’ Tell me the truth, sir.”

Cowering under Seungmin’s hard gaze, the psychiatrist finally caved. “The...the fact that these events took place during the defendant’s childhood is even more significant. Children’s minds are—are molded from a very young age. The majority of your adult behaviour is shaped by what you’ve experienced as a child, you see.”

“Earlier, you mentioned the possibility of sociopathy. You reached this conclusion because of the defendant’s criminal records, and reported behaviour such as —” Seungmin pulled out Kang’s papers, quickly flipping through. “Theft. Pyromanic, destructive, and self-destructive tendencies.” He raised an eyebrow at the boys from the diner attack. “Bordering on multiple personas.”

“U-uh, well — using the information given during the previous trial, those symptoms did correlate strongly with antisocial personality disorder. But with this newfound context —” the psychiatrist lowered his head meekly, “th-the symptoms are actually closer to those of an individual suffering from extreme, untreated, PTSD.”

Exhaling slowly, Seungmin nodded at the judge. “Post-traumatic stress disorder. Let’s re-examine the defendant’s behaviour under this lens, then. How would PTSD explain violent tendencies in a child?”

“They’re a form of an exaggerated startle response — a sudden reaction triggered by something that upsets the patient. It’s a common long-term aftereffect of childhood abuse or trauma. Some patients fall unconscious, some experience panic attacks or seizures. In the case of Han Jisung...it came in the form of repeated violent outbursts.”

You thought back to the man Jisung had attacked, seemingly out of nowhere at the Yellow Wood — the dead man whose girlfriend, Chan had told you, had actually come to the precinct a few days before Jisung’s trial.

“She was crying real bad. I thought she would want him—Jisung—dead, that she would tell us to convict him, no matter what,” Chan had told you, the detective’s face still twisted in confusion. “And she doesn’t want to testify — she’s still dealing with the trauma, and doesn’t want anything to do with the trial. But y/n — the girl was crying for him. For Jisung. Said that the kid stepped in right when her boyfriend was hitting her, and — told her to go home.”

An exaggerated startle response. You remembered it from your classes, a sudden reaction triggered by something that upset the patient. Like domestic abuse. Unsolicited sexual approaches. Or, you shivered, little things — like the colour red. His father, his mistress, his mother, his kidnapper — did Jisung constantly see their faces in the shadows, in strangers that were repeating the same mistakes?

“The witnesses who knew Han Jisung when he was younger,” Seungmin continued, turning to the two injured boys from the diner, “also testified that he often changed expressions ‘like a mask.’ Assuming this is true, why might the defendant exhibit this sort of behaviour?”

“Abused children — or people who have experienced severe trauma — can develop dissociative habits. Disconnecting from past memories, information, or even present experiences as a defense mechanism...which is why the defendant might appear to change moods often, or show drastically different sides of himself in different situations.”

“In other words,” Seungmin said slowly, brow furrowing in concentration, “the defendant experienced so many traumatic events during his childhood, that the untreated aftereffects impaired his emotional development into adulthood. Which would explain why his startle response slowly morphed, on a larger scale, into something extremely violent and dangerous.”

The psychiatrist looked weary and defeated. “Correct.”

Motioning for the man to take a seat — which he did gladly — Seungmin pulled out the next envelope — the coroner’s photos from the Yellow Wood attacks. Wordlessly, he projected them onto the screen, eliciting small gasps of horror and disgust around the room.

“Earlier, Prosecutor Kang argued that the violent mutilation of the victims was proof that the perpetrator performed these gruesome acts and mutilations out of personal enjoyment and depravity.” Seungmin turned to address the judge, voice firm.

“Your Honour, under this new context, I would argue that the photos only serve as further visual evidence depicting the defendant’s mental state at the time of the crime.” He flipped through the images. “Multiple wound sites, messy blood spattering, extreme blunt force trauma. And—if the coroner was telling the truth—a stone from the scene of the crime as the murder weapon. All these signs lead us to believe that the defendant’s actions, no, his judgement, was acutely impaired. This response, these attacks, were triggered due to a pre-existing mental condition.”

The room shifted uneasily as his words sunk in, and the judge fixed her stern gaze onto Seungmin. “Does the prosecution have any evidence that directly refutes the previous claim of first degree murder? To prove that the murders were not premeditated, or intentional, beyond a reasonable doubt?”

Think, Seungmin, think. He racked his mind furiously, trying to recall every piece of evidence that you, Chan, and Woojin had gone through with him. Photographs, diagrams, testimony transcripts — Seungmin’s eyes trailed off to the pile of envelopes the clerk had brought, and landed on the packet containing Yang Jeongin’s tapes.

That’s it.

“Yes, Your Honour.” He cleared his throat, mind racing to connect the dots. “As we all know, the living witness of the Yellow Wood attacks, Yang Jeongin, was attacked at around three o’clock in the morning. He worked several late shifts for delivery companies around the town.” Seungmin nodded towards Jeongin. “What we did not know until recently, however, is that the witness had a hobby of recording himself during these shifts on his own Walkman.”

An alarmed murmur rippled through the crowd as Seungmin shook the tapes out from the envelope, handing them to the clerk. After several tense moments, there was a faint crackling, and the recording began to play.

The first tape held a medley of acoustic songs the delivery boy had mixed himself — just as you had remembered it.

The second tape was empty — the one Minho had stolen from the scene of the crime, and you had eventually recovered from his office.

When the clerk popped in the third, the soft sound of breathing and crunching gravel filled the room, and you shivered. This was the tape you had listened to with Seo Changbin — the tape that had turned your entire life upside down.

“I.N. here! It is currently...2:04 A.M.!”

You glanced at the faces around the room — everyone was on edge, and you felt no different. You could still hear Jeongin’s cry of surprise and pain echoing in your ears, the horrible crash as he hit the forest floor. What was Seungmin thinking? How was a recording of the witness being attacked going to prove Jisung’s innocence? If anything, it was incriminating evidence.

Jeongin’s cheery, oblivious voice continued until you heard the woman’s scream in the distance, muffled under the delivery boy’s distracted humming. Then, a man crying out in guttural pain — the man, you knew now, that had been killed by Jisung in the Yellow Wood. The sounds of leaves crunching and branches snapping under the bicycle wheels grew louder, and you knew that this had been the moment Jeongin had entered the Wood — heading closer and closer towards what would later become the scene of the crime.

“Hello? Is everything okay over there?” There was a small gasp of horror as Jeongin caught sight of the body. “U-um. Is he—do you need help? I can call an ambulance. What hap—”

It happened before you could flinch to cover your ears. The horribly familiar crunch of stone meeting skull, a cry of pain cut off by a deafening whump as the Walkman had slammed against the ground. The entire courtroom seemed to hold its breath as it listened, and only then did it finally hit you why Seungmin was playing the tapes. As the sound of another boy’s jagged, uneven breathing filled the speakers, you suddenly remembered what came at the end of the recording. The first time you had heard it, it had made your heart plummet straight down into the pit of your stomach, sending your entire world crashing down around you.

This time, the fluttering in your chest felt almost like hope.

Han Jisung’s voice, choked with raw, horrified sobs, echoed through the room, and you saw everyone freeze.

“Who—why? Why is it you? Why are you here?”

The crying was muffled by the sound of hands fumbling over Jeongin’s clothing, as if frantically checking for a pulse. Seungmin stopped the tape, turning towards the bewildered jury. “Do those sound like the words of a cold-blooded psychopath?”

The judge waved a hand towards Jeongin. “Can the witness himself attest to this?”

“I...I blacked out pretty quickly,” Jeongin answered slowly, furrowing his brow as if it still hurt to remember. “But the last thing I remembered seeing was...a boy’s crying face over me, trying to make sure if I was okay.”

“Can you identify this boy?”

Nodding, Jeongin pointed to Jisung.

“Furthermore,” Seungmin continued, tapping the cracked silver Walkman, “these tapes were found in Yang Jeongin’s clothing after he was admitted to the hospital. If the defendant had truly attacked Mr. Yang out of cold blood, he wouldn’t have left such incriminating evidence in the boy’s hands. And if Han Jisung had no idea he was being recorded, that rules out the possibility of him faking the recordings as well.”

“Even so,” the judge replied, stern eyes narrowed, “we cannot be sure that Han Jisung did not intend to leave Yang Jeongin to die. There are many murder cases where the perpetrator shows remorse almost immediately, but still attempted to cover up the crime.”

“Of course. However, Your Honour, you may also remember that Yang Jeongin was not found in the Yellow Wood where the attacks had initially taken place...but rather, the doorstep of Glow Cafe.” At this, Hyunjin looked up, eyes narrowed, and Seungmin motioned for the clerk to continue playing the clip. After several moments, you heard the rough sound of cloth scraping against the ground, growing louder and louder — as if something was being lifted and dragged.

No. You could still hear Jisung’s broken breathing underneath the sound, and the realisation hit you.

Jisung was carrying Jeongin’s body.

You had thought the tape had already ended the first time you’d listened with Seo Changbin in his record shop — after Jisung’s voice had made you shove the Walkman away, not daring to believe what you had just heard. For days, it had sat, neglected in your apartment, until you had brought it into Seungmin’s office for him to look at. The next day, it had already fallen into the hands of Prosecutor Kang, but by some stroke of luck, Seungmin must have already managed to listen to it in its entirety beforehand.

“Yang Jeongin was found at around 4 in the morning, when Hwang Hyunjin, the owner of Glow Cafe, was awoken by the doorbell. The ringer of this doorbell was never identified, because any possible fingerprint evidence was already contaminated and rendered useless by the time Mr. Yang was safely transported to the ICU.”

The sound of dead leaves and dirt crunching under the soles of Jisung’s shoes gave way to hard concrete as he reached the main road. There was a soft thump as Jeongin was lowered onto the ground, Jisung’s laboured breathing filling the still night air.

Then the familiar chime of Glow Cafe’s doorbell pierced through the speakers, and you watched as Hyunjin jolted up, mouth falling open in disbelief.

“Yes. It’s exactly what you’re all thinking.” Seungmin turned to face the stunned spectators as the sound of Jisung’s footsteps grew fainter as he ran away, and the tape ended. “The defendant was the same person who saved him.”

The judge cleared her throat unsteadily, grim eyes flickering between Seungmin and Jisung. “Does the defense have anything to say to this?”

For the first time since the trial had started, Jisung lifted his head. He was met with a roomful of mixed stares — apprehension, curiosity, fear — and he felt his tongue immediately dissolve into dust, the words sticking to his throat like congealed poison.

When Jisung stayed silent, Seungmin spoke carefully, “A fair trial wouldn’t be complete without hearing from the defendant himself. In his own words.” His eyes were almost gentle, fixing a steady look on Jisung’s dark, wary face. “Would you like to testify?”

Your heart was hammering in your throat as the silence grew thicker and thicker. After what felt like an eternity, it was finally broken by the creak of the chair as Jisung pushed it back and stood up. To your utter surprise, he stepped up to the middle of the room, wordlessly turning to face Seungmin. Still, the look on his face held the same blank, guarded expression you had seen so many times when your sessions with him had taken a turn for the worse, and you gripped the edge of your seat uneasily, having no idea what to expect from this turn of events.

If Seungmin was as surprised as you were, he did a better job at hiding it. He muttered something to the clerk, who began to project familiar faces and photos onto the screen. The victims, you realised, and the crime scenes. A slim woman in her thirties, her thin lips a smudge of bright red, next to a photo of charred blood and bone. The prostitute.

“Do you recognise this woman?” Seungmin asked, pointing to her picture.

Jisung frowned, furrowing his brow at the picture. Something seemed to stir in the back of his mind, but there was a dull throbbing in his temples that made it difficult to focus. “I—I’m not sure.”

Someone in the crowd made an unconvinced sound, and Jisung shrunk back. The pictures went on and on — a corpse mangled with chemical burns, a man’s body swinging from the rooftop, a bashed-in skull on the forest floor. Each image made Jisung’s head pound, the floor beginning to spin as if threatening to split open beneath his feet and swallow him whole. Did he recognise them? Glimpses of their faces flashed in the back of his mind like jumbled jigsaw pieces, but the more he tried to grab onto them, the more they fell apart. His fingertips tingled with the faint, itching memory of a stranger’s blood — strangers who, in a fleeting moment, had taken the shape of a former tormentor. Father. Mistress. Hurt. Pain.

“I can’t — remember anything,” Jisung choked hoarsely. He remembered blacking out, and waking up. He remembered his nightmares, his flashbacks. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember the faces staring back at him from the screen.

You sound insane, a voice in the back of his mind hissed. As he met the eyes of the jury, he could almost hear what they were thinking.

You really are a psychopath.

Sensing the doubtful whispering beginning around the room, Seungmin hurriedly moved onto the next question. “Let’s — let’s go back to the psychiatrist’s statements, then. Mr. Han, could you tell me what it was like growing up in your family?”

His question was met with silence again, Jisung screwing his eyes shut as the prosecutor’s voice echoed in his head. Family. It was a word that brought ugly memories bubbling to the surface every time, memories made of broken beer bottles and pale, bruised cheeks. His head was aching, a cold sweat forming in his palms as he clenched his fists, stomach churning. No. No. He couldn’t talk about it — wouldn’t talk about it —

“Can you...tell me about your mother’s eyes?”

The abrupt, familiar question, carried by the prosecutor’s softened voice, was what made Jisung open his eyes again, the trembling in his hands stilling. The room around them was shifting with confused murmurs at the strange question, but Seungmin didn’t break eye contact with the younger boy.

The prosecutor watched Jisung’s fists slowly unclench, brow furrowing slightly as he recognised the question, and Seungmin thought back to the conversation he had had with you over the phone after you had woken up in the hospital.

“What’s this?”

“A psychiatric analysis — on Jisung,” you explained, referring to the report files you had sent the prosecutor. “I know it’s not — not much, but...”

“For all we know, it might be the only existing verbal testimony that Jisung has,” Seungmin assured you. “From what I’ve heard, he’s never opened up to anyone before. What I meant was, why are you sending it to me?”

You bit your lip. “Chan isn’t allowed to stand trial, and I — I haven’t graduated yet, so my thesis won’t be taken seriously as evidence. I can’t testify as a psychiatric expert, either. But I thought that — I could at least tell you all the questions that lead me to his diagnosis. In case you get to question him at the trial — he’ll know they’re my questions. Maybe...he’ll finally change his mind.”

Seungmin sighed wearily. “I was removed from the case this morning, Miss l/n. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to step foot into the courtroom, let alone question him.”

And so the questions had been left, buried and forgotten in the back of Seungmin’s mind — until this exact moment, when he had remembered them just in time.

What comes to mind when you think about your mother’s eyes?

Jisung’s vision went black as his senses were flooded with memories, nearly sending him doubling over. His mother’s eyes. The last time he had looked into those eyes, they had already been glazing over, the life in them seeping away as her blood pooled over the broken floorboards of his childhood home. His mother’s eyes. Suddenly, it was as if he was ten years old all over again, shrouded in the shadows of a cramped closet as his father strangled the life out of his mother right in front of him.

Guilt, he wanted to say. Pain. The kind that never goes away. Blinking feverishly, Jisung’s gaze darted around the room — and when he finally found your face in the audience, he felt his heart stop.

You were looking at him with the exact same eyes his mother had, that day.

From your first date to this very moment, Jisung never knew why you had always reminded him so much of her — you two looked nothing alike, after all. Wherever he went, he had always been chased by fragments of the nightmares he wanted to forget, demons of his past that had taken the forms of the man at the Yellow Wood, the red-lipped hooker, Na Jangmin, Park Beomsoo. And yet every moment he spent with you, he caught familiar glimpses of her instead — pieces of the only warmth, and happiness, and home he had ever known before it had all been cruelly ripped away.

For years, the only thing he had been able to remember was that day. How his mother’s eyes had been wide and pleading as she bled out on the floor, desperately shaking her head at him before finally falling limp. The flames and endless smoke seemed to eat away at his happier memories until there was nothing left but ashes and tar.

But you made him remember a time before everything went wrong, when things had been peaceful, when he still had somewhere — someone — to go home to.

For thirteen years, he had been running from the memory, from the feeling, afraid that confronting it would make him relive the pain all over again. But now, for the first time, Han Jisung wondered if he had missed something else among those repressed memories all along.

His mother’s eyes as she shook her head one last time had been warm, not just because they had been filled with pain and tears — but because they had been blazing with one last, unspoken message. The same one he saw reflected in your own eyes now.

When you shook your own head gently, pleading eyes brimming with tears, the message finally rang clear in his mind.

Don’t blame yourself for what happened. Han Jisung, you have to keep on living.

Stunned, he tore his gaze away, only to see Bang Chan watching him with the same expression — then Woojin, Seungmin, Felix, Yang Jeongin. Even Hwang Hyunjin had worry written all over his face — worry for him — and it all suddenly hit Jisung like a punch in the gut.

Why did all these people fight for him?

Why had his mother died for him?

What comes to mind when you think about your mother’s eyes?

“Love,” Jisung breathed, his soft voice filling the empty silence. “Love.” The memories were coming back to him now — not in jagged, gut-wrenching flashes, but slowly. Steadily.

For the first time in his life, Han Jisung was in control.

“Can you tell me about your parents?” Seungmin pressed gently, seeing the tension slowly leave Jisung’s body.

“My parents,” Jisung repeated. His mouth felt like it was trying the words out. He remembered once, when you had asked him the same question, his head had felt like it was on the verge of splitting. Now, the memories felt strangely detached, as if he were telling someone else’s story. “They were happy once, or at least that’s what I’ve heard.” He paused. “My...father...never wanted to get married. They never planned to...have me, but my mother refused an abortion. They — it was a shotgun wedding,” Jisung finished quietly. “And then things got worse from there.”

“What was it like growing up in your family?” Seungmin tried the question again, watching Jisung carefully.

“My old man’s favourite thing to tell me growing up was how I was never wanted,” Jisung gave a weak smile. “I think you can imagine.”

You watched as Seungmin continued asking Jisung your questions, as if slowly coaxing the answers out from the darkness and painting the cold courtroom with the scenes of Jisung’s past.

“My mother was a waitress. The work was tough, but it didn’t pay much. My father convinced her to work more shifts, so that she was around as little as possible. During that time, he…” Jisung swallowed hard. “He had his affairs with other women when she wasn’t home, and beat her bloody when she was. She always tried to hide it from me, too — said the less I knew the better, but I was getting older, and my father’s anger was slowly shifting over to me. And when his...mistresses stayed over, they started noticing me, too.” Jisung fell silent then, and you suddenly thought back to the white burn scars on his arms and legs, the numerous unexplained markings on his stomach bringing tears to your eyes. How many more did he have hidden on his body, painful reminders binding him to a past he tried so hard to forget?

“Your Honour,” Seungmin finally broke the hushed silence, “with all the information taken into consideration, I think we can confirm beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant has witnessed numerous traumatic events during his childhood — and that they more than likely worsened his mental condition as he grew older.” Seungmin turned to Jisung, remembering another question you had written in your report. “How...do you cope with the past?”

Jisung was silent for several moments before answering, his words echoing your last therapy session. “I...don’t….like to think about it, or remember it. Every time I do, I…” he trailed off unsteadily, and he tried again. “E-every time, I...I…”

His throat was closing up again, the words echoing in his mind as if mocking him. How was he supposed to explain the headaches that never truly went away, the dizziness that hit him like a punch in the gut? Or, worse, the gaps in his memories when he blacked out, making him feel as though he were slowly going insane?

Stay silent, whispered a voice in the back of his head. Who will understand you? Who will believe you? He looked back at the roomful of faces, their cold, wary stares piercing through him like knives. You were never meant to live. You should have died on that day, thirteen years ago—

“Han Jisung, you are such an idiot.”

The sudden memory of your voice cut through his thoughts and made him jolt in surprise— but it didn’t stop there, all the things you had once told him slowly growing louder and louder and jarring him awake from his own thoughts.

“You’re not the psychopath they’re making you out to be. I know you.”

He remembered the way you had relaxed and fallen asleep in his arms, even after you had found out they were stained with blood, because you trusted him completely.

“I don’t want you to show me. I want you to tell me. I want to hear it from you, in your own words, Jisung.”

He remembered your face every time he had tried to tell you about his past — your soft, patient eyes and gentle voice, the worry and genuine concern on your face that he had always mistaken for repulsion and fear. You had been shaken, definitely, terrified, even — but you had always been willing to listen to him speak, even when Jisung had been too afraid to try.

“I like you, Han Jisung. I. Like. You.”

He met your eyes across the room then, and felt a small, incredulous breath leave his lips. It was you — it was always you, who had the power to make the walls he had built around himself crumble to dust with a single touch; you, pulling him out of the darkness he had always succumbed helplessly to; you, who had finally woken him from the living nightmare he had been trapped in his entire life.

You reminded him what it was like to live again. You made him want to live again, without fears, without regrets.

“Mr. Han? Could you please describe how these memories make you feel? How you usually deal with them?”

“I don’t know how to,” Jisung breathed out at last. “Every time I try to remember, my...heart starts racing like my chest is about to burst. My head pounds until I can’t see anything, and — it’s like something in there...snaps. And then I...black out completely.”

Seungmin nodded, glancing back to the nervous, red-faced man. “Do you have...anything to add or deny regarding the psychiatrist’s diagnoses?”

“You were right,” Jisung replied simply, but he wasn’t talking to the psychiatrist. He was looking straight at you, and to his own surprise, a smile tugged at his dry lips. It felt like the simple sentence had somehow set him free. “I have trouble sleeping, because I always end up having the same nightmares. There’s missing blank spots in my memories when I wake up in a place I don’t recognise, with no idea how I got there.”

Jisung watched as your eyes widened, recognising his words — he was echoing the same symptoms you had confronted him about during your last therapy session, the ones he had coldly denied out of panic and fear. “I’ve always been afraid to let people get close to me. But sometimes, there are things that — that remind me of times that I’d rather forget, and before I know it, everything begins to spiral out of control.” He gave a small smile to Seungmin, who had stayed silent, surprised at Jisung’s sudden honesty. “That’s it, then. The whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

You watched as Jisung’s eyes flickered around the room, face as open and tranquil as a child’s — and that was what nearly broke your heart. Knowing that somewhere, beneath the prison uniform that was too baggy for his lean, tired frame, was the shell of a child the world had failed, a child that had given up asking to be saved.

“No further questions,” Seungmin said quietly, and Jisung walked back to his seat as the young prosecutor turned to face the judge. “Your Honour,” he began slowly, as if momentarily unable to find the words. “I think we have reason to believe that the attacks were provoked — not exactly by the victims themselves, but from past traumas that were never dealt with properly, and triggered again and again until they spiralled out of control.”

Seungmin raised his voice then, for the entire courtroom to hear, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the fluttering nerves in his body. ��The scattered killing patterns were never planned. The correlations between the victims and causes of death don’t show a serial killer’s M.O., they show triggers.” He took a shaky breath.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this isn’t a serial killer case. It isn’t the case of a psychopath on some nonsensical, murderous rampage. This is the aftereffect of a domestic violence case gone cold and swept under the rug over a decade ago — and we can’t afford to let it slip away again.”

The judge fixed Seungmin with a cold, steely look over her glasses. “Prosecutor Kim. Remember that you cannot — should not — let your emotions get in the way in a court of law. You are supposed to assess the case with cold reasoning and logic.”

Seungmin looked down, heart hammering in his throat. The Kim Seungmin he knew would have been ashamed, and apologised immediately. The Kim Seungmin he knew would have thought he was crazy for crossing the line.

He realised, in that moment, that he hated the old Kim Seungmin with a passion.

“Emotions don’t always get in the way,” he found himself saying, eyes flickering to you in the audience, “and they don’t always make you weak.” Seungmin thought of Prosecutor Kang then, and his voice grew stronger. “If anything, they keep you human.”

He looked back up at the judge now, whose face had frozen in surprise. “When did justice become so cold? We’re taught that the law is supposed to protect the vulnerable, not prosecute them.”

The judge looked visibly shaken, mouth opening and closing wordlessly as her eyes darted wildly between Seungmin and Jisung. Finally, with an unfathomable expression on her face, she turned towards the jury, clearing her throat unsteadily.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that concludes the evidence to be presented on this case. You are now to deliberate, and determine whether or not Han Jisung is guilty of nineteen counts of first-degree murder, assault, and arson.

“If you believe that this has been proved beyond a reasonable doubt, then you should find the defendant guilty, and eligible for capital punishment.”

Capital punishment, you thought, the words sweeping a breath of cold across the room. The death penalty.

“The court stands adjourned until the verdict of the jury.”

━━━━━━━━

Over an hour had passed since the jury had stepped into the deliberation suite, and each tick of the clock on the wall made you more and more nauseous. You put your head down, hands buried in your hair as if that could calm the anxiety thrumming through your veins. A few times, you had heard shouting and angry, raised voices coming from the room the jury was in. Each passing minute seemed to make the weight of the situation more obvious, the tension in the courtroom thick and suffocating.

Felix was rubbing your back as soothingly as he could. “y/n, hey, look at me — deep breaths, okay? You’re okay—”

He was cut off when you lifted your head to look at him, cursing the tears already welling in your eyes. You hated feeling this way — you felt so weak and powerless, and just imagining how much of a mess you must have looked made it even worse. You promised yourself you would stay calm, but every thought that crossed your mind kept leading to another until you were exhausted and overwhelmed.

“They could walk out any minute, ‘lix,” you told him, voice wavering as the weight of your own words sunk in. “They could walk out any minute, and end his life.”

You couldn’t even say Jisung’s name out loud, let alone look him in the eyes. Felix watched as you wiped furiously at your own tears, the sight of you so distressed rendering him speechless, and he did the only thing he could think of. Grimly, your best friend pulled you into a hug, and his reassuring warmth in the cold courtroom made you want to break down all over again. Around you, you could hear mixed opinions being exchanged.

“That poor boy.”

“Who could have guessed the case would take a turn like this? But do you believe him?”

“A murderer is still a murderer — he’s too dangerous to be left alive, don’t you think?”

You were beginning to wish you had taken Hyunjin and Woojin’s offer to step out of the room for fresh air when the heavy doors swung open, making a hush fall over the room. The jury filed in just as Hyunjin and the police captain returned and took their seats.

“Order in the court,” the clerk called, and the judge cleared her throat.

“Has the jury reached a unanimous verdict?”

The forewoman nodded grimly. “Yes, Your Honour.”

“Those in favour of sentencing the accused, Han Jisung, to capital punishment, please rise.”

The words sent an icy shock down your spine, the entire room seeming to hold its breath as they watched the jury. You didn’t dare move, as if by doing so, you could prevent the next moments from coming crashing down on you, as if somehow, you could stop the horrible verdict from coming true. It was as if everyone had frozen still, time stopping for what felt like the longest moment of your life.

The ticking of the clock pricked your ears, and you suddenly realised that time hadn’t stopped.

No one in the jury had moved to stand up.

“The jury returns a verdict of not guilty, despite believing that the accused committed the crimes he is charged with,” the forewoman standing at the front of the jury said, and the members behind her nodded. “This verdict was unanimous.”

“They all agree that Jisung killed those people,” you heard Hyunjin’s stunned voice behind you, “but they’re returning a verdict of not guilty? What does that mean?”

“Jury nullification,” both Chan and Seungmin spoke at the same time, and the room turned to look at the younger prosecutor as he spoke up.

“The jury has the right to overturn the law, if they believe the law was used incorrectly—”

A reporter behind you blurted out angrily, “Are you suggesting that the murders were delusional, Prosecutor Kim?”

“Or,” Seungmin continued, his voice growing stronger than ever before as he saw the eyes of the judge and his coworkers widen in disbelief. I must be insane, he thought, but he couldn’t stop the words coming from his mouth. “Or, the jury disagrees with the law the prosecution has chosen to charge the defendant under.” He picked up Prosecutor Kang’s case file from the desk, flipping over the papers. “First degree murder.”

The forewoman nodded. “The law Han Jisung is being tried with was immorally and wrongly applied to him in the first place. We believe he caused the killings, without a doubt, but with the circumstances presented, we cannot convict him of serial first degree murder.”

“The previous prosecutor claimed these charges without making any effort to consider Han Jisung’s past,” one man on the jury added, “All the evidence proves a history of abuse and trauma that lead to an unstable mental condition.”

Their words sounded strangely familiar, and your eyes immediately widened when you realised why. “Those — those are the words from my psych report,” you whispered breathlessly to Felix, “Quoted, word for word. They must have all read your articles — we did it, ‘lix, it really worked.”

“But murder is murder. He should be held accountable,” a spectator protested across the room. He was immediately silenced by the bailiff, but not before Seungmin turned to him with a steady stare.

“‘Murder is murder’,” Seungmin echoed, “‘The world of law is cold.’ ‘The law is harsh, but it is the law.’ Those are the phrases you always hear in court. And those are the same beliefs that cost vulnerable people their lives.”

Hyunjin looked at Jeongin, whose gaze were cast to the floor, eyes stormy.

Seungmin continued, “You lose your empathy, and mark complex cases like these under ‘mass murderer’, or ‘psychopath’ without bothering to truly investigate the gray areas, because you think doing so would be—” his mind flashed to Kang, “a waste of time.” He looked at Jisung now, a boy who had been confined by labels his entire life: problem child, delinquent, murderer, monster. “Han Jisung is worth more than that. There’s more to him than his past, than his abusers, than the mental torment he’s suffered through for years.

“He’s a boy who never got the chance at life he deserved. The system has failed him once, and we cannot — should not — hold his trial like this.” Seungmin turned to the judge one last time, eyes burning with sincerity. “Your Honour. Will you end this vicious cycle of use and abuse, once and for all? Or will you choose, once again, to sweep it back into the shadows?”

She was staring back at him with a look that should have petrified Seungmin on the spot, but he swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand his ground. There was a long, weighted silence. Finally, the judge shook her head slowly, and Seungmin swore he saw the smallest of smiles tug at her taut mouth as she turned to face the rest of the courtroom.

You felt your heart nearly leap out of your throat when the verdict finally fell from the judge’s lips.

“I hereby pronounce Han Jisung...not guilty.”

If you hadn’t been sitting down, you were sure you would have collapsed onto the floor.

The world was spinning around you, the sheer relief washing over you in overwhelming waves and turning your limbs to jelly. In your peripheral vision, you saw Hyunjin’s mouth drop open in astonishment, Felix turning to you with an incredulous smile on his face, Chan and Woojin completely frozen.

You barely registered the judge’s voice as she continued speaking, the rest of her words passing through you as if you were made of thin air. Pardoned on the death of his father and the arson of his childhood home by reason of self-defense. Regarding the Miroh Heights killings, the defendant was unable to understand the significance of his criminal actions due to a pre-existing mental condition. He is acquitted from the death penalty, and will serve no prison time.

However, he will be transferred to a psychiatric institution and closely monitored for the time being. The suitable amount of time he is to spend there will be prescribed on a later date after the case is properly re-examined...

People were talking around you, one of your friends was calling your name, and you swore you even heard a few people clapping, but you weren’t listening anymore. There was only one other person on your mind.

When your eyes found Jisung’s face, he was looking straight at you — with the same look in his eyes that had given you butterflies the first time you met him, and the same look in his eyes you had seen before you had fallen unconscious, bleeding out in his arms.

He was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

━━━━━━━━

“You had some nerve back there, Prosecutor Kim.”

The courtroom had been emptied out, and Seungmin had been collecting his files and notes when he heard a voice from behind him. At first, he thought he had misheard — people were buzzing outside in the lobby, the commotion so loud it seemed to be humming through the walls — but he turned around, and saw the judge walking up to him.

Bits and pieces of the trial came back to him, and Seungmin cringed inwardly as he met her hard gaze. Just how many lines had he crossed? Years of being careful, meticulous, completely down the drain—

“You had some nerve back there,” she repeated, and Seungmin lowered his eyes. He heard her sigh deeply. “But you’re a fine prosecutor, Kim.”

Stunned, Seungmin raised his head, and realised with a start that she was smiling at him. “I haven’t seen your kind in a while. It was refreshing, to say the least, and it puts me at ease to know that this field still has people like you.”

She tucked her glasses into her robes, turning to leave.

“Never change, Prosecutor Kim.”

━━━━━━━━

“Prosecutor Kang, look this way!”

Kang was blinded by flashing cameras the moment he stepped out from the holding cell. The older prosecutor’s eyes were dark as he was pushed through the mob of reporters and citizens, the guards flanking him making no effort to be gentle.

“Is it true you hid crucial evidence from your own prosecution?”

“Did you bribe your own witnesses?”

“How many other cases have you tampered with?”

“None!” Kang snarled at the reporter, desperation rising in his throat like bile. “Lies—I’ve never wrongfully convicted a single person. These are all—”

“You’re the liar.”

The crowd stopped, turning towards the voice that had shouted over them. Yang Jeongin was standing at the end of the hallway, his hands balled into fists at his sides. Just the sight of Kang was enough to make him tremble like a young child again, words stuck momentarily in his throat. This was the same man he had met in court all those years ago, the man who had mercilessly delivered his father’s life sentence with a snakelike smile on his pale lips. Taking a shaky breath, Jeongin mustered up his courage, and ran up to him.

“Please stop this already,” Jeongin pleaded, eyes searching Kang’s bewildered face for signs of guilt, remorse, anything. Kang didn’t seem to recognise him, and the young boy’s voice was breaking as he fought back tears. “Please tell the truth, just this once. I-I don’t know why you’re doing this, but—it doesn’t have to be this way—”

There was a gasp as a few reporters stumbled, and the crowd rippled forward. Kang was knocked off-balance, tumbling to the ground. He cursed, fumbling to get back on his feet — and saw a hand, outstretched towards him from a hoodie sleeve that was clearly too large for its owner. He looked up into the young boy’s face again, his fox-like eyes widened in concern, and finally realised with a jolt who he was talking to.

Nearly a decade ago, Kang thought — an old fool who had picked a fight with high-ranking company officials, no? And then the crackpot had pleaded with Kang, saying something about a son he had to take care of — a young boy—

Jeongin put his hand on Kang’s arm when the prosecutor didn’t move, and pulled him up. “Mr. Kang, my father—”

Feeling a sudden rage surge through his body, Kang drew his fist back and punched the boy across his jaw.

Jeongin crumpled to the ground, the side of his face already blooming with red. “You brat,” Kang seethed as cries of horror erupted from the crowd, guards seizing him and trying to pull him away. “What do you understand? Han Jisung, your old man — people like them don’t deserve to walk free.”

You had just stepped out of the courtroom when a commotion in the hallway had made you look over, the scene that had greeted your eyes making you freeze. Jeongin had been clutching Prosecutor Kang’s arm, looking up at the older man imploringly — and his expression had been genuinely kind, almost pitying, his mouth opening and closing frantically as though he were pleading with him. You had shaken your head in disbelief, trying to push through the throng of shocked citizens — only Yang Jeongin’s heart was big enough to look his parents’ tormentor in the eyes, and help him.

Then Kang had suddenly struck Jeongin, and now the delivery boy was curling up in pain on the ground as the prosecutor screamed at him.

“They were foolish enough — depraved enough — to violate those laws, and I charged them with what they deserved. It’s as simple as—”

The next thing you knew, you were in front of Kang, palm outstretched, and you had slapped him hard across the face.

The entire crowd fell dead silent, Jeongin looking up at you from the floor in dazed disbelief. Even Kang was speechless as he looked back at you, holding his jaw, eyes about to pop out of their sockets.

“It seems like you know everything about law, Prosecutor Kang,” you said, voice shaking with anger, “but you know nothing about being human.”

Kang opened his mouth, but for once, nothing came out. The hallway was erupting in chaos again as cameras clicked and flashed eagerly. The guards began to drag Kang away before it could get more hectic, your last glimpses of the corrupt prosecutor disappearing behind the reporters’ bobbing heads. As you helped Jeongin up, checking his head worriedly, you felt a hand pull at your own arm. You turned to see Hyunjin, and judging by the look on his face, he had seen everything.

“Is this just going to be a thing now?” The barista asked, side-eyeing you wearily as he held onto Jeongin protectively, “Are you just going to start slapping everyone who crosses you?”

“Maybe,” you muttered mutinously. “It’s faster, and less emotionally draining than negotiating.”

“You’re studying to be a therapist, y/n,” Hyunjin reminded you exasperatedly, and you let out a small laugh, pouting slightly. The barista smiled too, despite himself, and you both looked over at Jeongin. The boy’s eyes were staring over the crowd’s heads, through the lobby doors, and you realised he was watching the officers push Kang into the police cruiser — the man who had ruined his parents’ lives, finally handcuffed and headed where he was supposed to be.

You turned around, and caught sight of another familiar face further down the hallway, standing perfectly still despite the crowd of people rushing past around him.

Lee Minho’s face was turned away from you, his catlike eyes staring at something with the same, unfathomable expression you had come to grow so accustomed to. You remembered how you had once been afraid of the coroner and his strange, standoffish manner, but now, as you watched him from afar, you felt a small pang of sympathy. Minho always carried himself like a ghost, you realised — a shadow lingering in the corners of rooms and corridors, unsure if he was ever wanted.

You quickly excused yourself from Hyunjin and Jeongin and you began to push through the crowd towards the coroner. As you followed his gaze to the holding cell doors, they suddenly swung open, and Jisung stepped out into the hallway. Your steps slowed. The two stood facing each other for several long moments — two childhood friends, two lost children who had found their only sense of family — twisted though it had been — in each other. Minho’s face was hesitant, as if about to turn away, but Jisung had already begun walking up to him. You were too far away to hear what they were saying, Jisung’s back turned to you and Minho awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other.

Then Jisung suddenly closed the gap between the two of them, and pulled Minho into a hug.

You watched as the ex-coroner’s mask finally shattered, the older boy’s face scrunching up like a child’s as he buried his head in Jisung’s shoulder. His entire body shook with silent sobs, as if something in him had finally been let go, a burden he had carried his entire life lifted off his chest.

Eventually, the guards stepped forward, and Minho pulled away. He looked at Jisung with a small smile on his face — the first genuine smile you had ever seen from him — and you managed to catch the words forming on his lips.

“Goodbye, Han Jisung.”

“He’ll probably need to go through a trial of his own.” Chan’s voice made you jump in surprise. He had come up beside you while you had been distracted, Felix and Woojin close behind him. He nodded at you by way of greeting before turning back to where Jisung was standing. “The coroner, I mean. But he’ll likely get around five years in prison, more or less.”

You watched as Minho was ushered away into another corridor, Jisung staring at the empty spot where he had once stood. Before you could reply, he turned around, eyes landing on yours — and all of a sudden, you forgot about the security guards flanking every doorway, the law officials and reporters brushing briskly past you. For a moment, it was as if it were only you and Jisung in the hallway, the entire world standing still around the two of you.

Since the last time you had spoken to him had ended with you slapping him in the face, you decided that it was only right for you to take the first step towards him. Slowly, feeling as if you were in a dream, you made your way towards him, Jisung walking the rest of the way to meet you in the middle.

“Hey, you.” Jisung’s voice was soft, nearly inaudible, not taking his hazel eyes off yours.

You heard Chan chuckle behind you, shaking his head as he threw his arms around Felix and Woojin’s shoulders to steer them away and leave you two in private. The hallways had nearly cleared out, and for the first time in what felt like forever — if you ignored the guards watching a little ways off from the holding cells — you and Jisung were alone together.

There were a thousand things racing through your mind right now, but you couldn’t seem to find the right words to say.

“Five years,” Jisung tentatively broke the silence again, and when you looked back at him in confusion, he continued, “in the psychiatric institute. They told me five years minimum, on watch. But I heard...it’s a nice place.”

His lopsided, sheepish smile was as infectious as ever, making one tug at your own lips. When Jisung saw you smile, he relaxed just the tiniest amount.

“Y-you’re going to be okay?” You finally asked, feeling your voice waver.

Jisung’s gaze softened, nodding. “You saved me.”

“No.” You shook your head firmly. You knew he was talking about Seungmin’s arguments, Jeongin’s witness statements, the article you and Felix had published — but it all might have been for nothing, you thought, mind flashing back to the courtroom, if Jisung hadn’t finally stepped up from his chair and faced his lifelong traumas in the form of one last, truthful testimony. “Han Jisung, you saved yourself.”

He fell silent at that, and you saw his hand instinctively move towards yours for a split second before he quickly stopped himself. Jisung’s arms were floating by his sides, as if wanting to pull you close, but he was holding himself back. He was afraid, you finally realised — afraid that you would push him away, afraid to ever hurt you again. And for some, inexplicable reason, the idea of a rift between the two of you that could never be repaired seemed to hurt even more than a switchblade to the heart.

“For some reason, I’ve been thinking back to our first date,” Jisung cleared his throat, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He probably looked like a nervous schoolboy in front of his first love, Jisung thought, cringing at himself as he looked away from your curious gaze. Well, he added as an afterthought, that wouldn’t be too far off.

You were his first love, after all.

“I...I didn’t know how you felt that day,” Jisung continued, “or even the days after that, to be honest. I didn’t know if I was doing things right, or—”

“You took my breath away,” you cut him off, the honesty in your own words making your cheeks heat up. You thought back to the diner, to the blond boy who had rendered you speechless with a single heart-shaped smile. As an afterthought, you brought a hand to your rib cage, where a switchblade in that same boy’s hands had once punctured through your lungs, and you deadpanned, “literally.”

Eyebrows raising in disbelief, Jisung gave an incredulous laugh, but his gaze was fixed on the site of your wound. You could still see the deep guilt in his eyes, and, taking a deep breath, you reached for his hand, gingerly placing it where the knife had been. His skin was cool against your fingers, palm rough but familiar. “I’m okay, Jisung. It’s okay. But...why bring that up, all of a sudden?”

“I feel like that now,” he admitted softly, “the same feeling, but with a whole new set of butterflies. Always thinking about you, worrying about you. Wondering how you feel about…”

“Us,” you finished for him, and Jisung nodded slowly. Us. The word hung between the two of you for a long moment, and you took a shaky breath. A part of you wanted to reassure him, to pull him into your arms as if nothing had ever changed. But another part of you pushed that feeling away, knowing deep down that it was too late, that too much had already happened between the two of you to just ignore.

“I don’t know,” you answered truthfully, and you looked down, afraid to see the expression on his face. “I woke up that morning, and you were just...gone. I was so scared for you, I went looking for you...then one thing lead to another, and before we all knew it, the world had turned upside down. I-it might sound selfish, but after all...this, I think I’m going to need some...time.” You finally lifted your eyes up to his face, heart pounding. For a terrifying second, you thought you saw a flash of pain skip across Jisung’s pupils — but before you could be sure, his face broke into a relieved smile.

“You’ve always been like this, you know?” He sighed, one hand reaching up to gently tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. Then, contrary to what you had expected, Jisung visibly relaxed. “Worrying about other people before taking care of yourself. You’re not being selfish, okay? Don’t...worry about hurting me anymore.”

You stared at him, the genuine warmth in his words suddenly making your throat close up with stunned tears. Jisung’s eyes, you remembered, had always seemed glazed over and unfocused — as if his mind was trapped somewhere else, far, far away. But as he looked back at you now, you were suddenly hit by how...clear they had become. He was here, perfectly focused on you, eyes filled with what you could only describe as pure adoration.

“I need time, too,” Jisung continued quickly, “I have...so many things I need to fix, to work on, and get better at—”

You shook your head furiously then, tears spilling onto your cheeks as you held onto his wrist. “W-want to love every part of you,” you whispered, forcing your voice to remain steady. “Don’t...don’t hide any parts of yourself, ever again. Okay?”

Jisung watched you for a long moment, brow furrowed as he gingerly wiped your tears, and finally gave a small nod. He cradled your face in his hands, eyes trying to memorise your features as though you were the most beautiful thing he would ever see. To someone else, you thought vaguely, you might have looked insane. A killer’s hands, they might have said, bloodstained hands. But as you gazed up at Jisung, all you saw was a boy who had gone through hell and came back smiling, a boy who loved you more than life itself.

You heard footsteps approaching, and looked up to see several security guards making their way towards Jisung. “Mr. Han,” one called gruffly, “it’s time to go.”

The sudden interruption made your mind go blank momentarily as any reasonable words — goodbye, take care — immediately dissolved on your tongue. The guards were getting closer and closer, and Jisung turned back to you, stammering.

“If you ever want to—to do this whole...love thing again, start over properly, I—I promise I’ll try not to screw it up. I mean, if you’re sure—and only if you’re sure,” he paused then, sounding suddenly flustered, and for a second, he was your tousled-hair, golden boy from the diner again, soft cheeks flushed like windblown peach roses, eyes unsure yet hopeful as a child’s. This was the boy you had fallen in love with, over blueberry pancakes and Chinese takeout, on seemingly endless nights and through the darkest thunderstorms. Ever since you had made that promise, in a children’s playground beneath the setting sun, you knew that somehow, no matter what fate had left in store, you would always find your way back to him.

Jisung was already being ushered away, the sudden absence of his touch on your skin leaving you feeling empty — but his last words brought a smile to your tearstained face.

“...I’ll be waiting.”

ryu says:

thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to everyone who made it to the end of this series; to everyone who came on this long journey with me, you made it possible and amazing every step of the way. at times, as my first ever series and long-term project, it was both daunting and terrifying, but i am beyond happy and honoured i could experience it with you.

i’ll see you in the epilogue.

947 notes · View notes

angrylizardjacket · 4 years

Text

fit by my side {Machine Gun Kelly}

@bitchylittleredhead said: Okay I hear your MGK x pastel!reader and I raise you MGK x Mother Nature!reader. Hella plants, strong love for animals, heckin soft, v kind, mom friend, sunshine child. (I just really really love soft paired with him, it’s so damn cute) also I love you I hope you are well 🧡

Also This Concept

A/N: 3177 words. Gender Neutral Reader (they/them) ! im worried kells is OOC. also there’s no smut but it does get M rated, but there’s no genitals specified. gets quite sappy at times. also @url-under-construction i hope u like it and i hope its good.

----

When you meet Colson, he’s famous, but he’s not, you know, famous famous. You meet on the set of The Dirt; he’s one of the stars, you’re a production assistant and stand-in when they need it, and you don’t think for a second that he’ll even remember your name when this is all over.

But he does; in rehearsals, you’re the one reading the lines for the characters they haven’t cast yet, and the first time the four main cast members see you, in your floaty, floral top, and your gentle aura, and then to hear you say, with absolute sincerity, ‘your mom’s a cunt’, it has them bursting out laughing. You smile, sweet and kind, and you step gently through the blocking that has the character you’re currently standing in for, stabbing Tommy - Colson - with a pen.

Maybe the juxtaposition of you taking part in this whole production is what intrigues him.

When filming starts, you’re still around, and something about seeing you, amid this performance of debauchery, and yet you’re still sincere and gentle, your choice of attire making you stick out like a sore thumb amid the leather and grime. At first, he tries to play it off, that you look somewhat out of place and it’s eye-catching, but you bring the cast food and water and whatever they need, you go on coffee runs, and take a genuine interest in each of them, and by the time he realises that his mood lifts every time he walks on set and sees you there, he knows he can’t play it off as you catching his eye for completely platonic reasons.

He asks you out the week after Casie leaves from visiting set, having seen you interact with her, entertain her while Colson was in hair, treating her with just as much kindness and respect as you did everyone else on the production. It convinces him that your intentions are true, and he knows that he can’t finish this production without shooting his shot.

By the time the wrap party comes around, you’re calling him your boyfriend, at first tentative, looking to him for confirmation, but then you see the way he beams at how the words sound when you say them, and you grow more confident each time you say it.

It’s met with... confusion.

Really?

It seems no-one saw that coming - if anyone, I would have expected Douglas - you hear, and frown.

“What does that mean?” You ask; a frown is rare to see on your face, but you’re wearing it anyhow, and the woman your speaking to splutters her way around a sentence as she’s trying to backpeddle.

“I just- I mean, well, Kells - Colson - he’s so... Doulgas just seems more... refined? Not that Colson not, you know- you’re just -”

“I’m just what?” You ask, not accusing, more curious than anything else, and the woman’s voice dies in her throat as she looks you over; pale blue jeans and a pastel, patterned button-down that would have looked right at home in the eighties.

“I’m just concerned for you,” she eventually says, laying her hand on yours like she’s trying to do you a favour, “Colson’s intense, I’m just worried you’ll get hurt.” You see what she’s trying to say, but her tone is so painfully condescending.

“I’m an adult,” you tell her, tone understanding but firm, “and I appreciate your concern, but I promise I can take care of myself.”

The moment you can get out of the conversation, you find Colson, talking animatedly to one of the makeup artists, and you slot yourself into the space by his side. Automatically, without even stopping the conversation, he wraps his arm around you and pulls you close, and you gratefully take the moment to press your face against him, wrapping your arms around him without saying a word. It’s both strangely intimate and familiar, his thumb rubbing small circles against your side.

As he stops talking, there’s a lull, and you don’t have to look up to know the makeup artist is giving you both a strange look.

“Ignore me,” your voice is muffled against him, using one hand as if to waive off any last bits of hesitation.

“They’re fine,” Colson assured, tapping you on the hip. He’s still oozing casual confidence

You’ve been together for almost half of filming, which isn’t exactly a short amount of time, but usually you try and keep things professional on set, so it’s nice to be able to be close to him in public.

The rest of the cast know, of course, you’ve been out with them on several occasions, and they all have come to adore you just as much as you adore them. Something about hearing Daniel drunkenly assure you that if Colson ever hurts you, that there’d be a line of people ready to slap some sense into him. You try to brush him off, endeared by his drunken affection, but he turns suddenly to the rest of the cast.

“Hey, hey, hey - who’d throw down for Y/N?” He asks; without hesitation, Douglas, Iwan, and Colson raise their hands, eyes wide and alert, as if the offer needed to be acted upon immediately. The show of support has your heart swelling in your chest.

You find yourself fitting into his life back in LA easily; while beginning work as an assistant on a Netflix original series, you call into his house in the Hollywood Hills, delighted to be privy to demos and snippets from his next album.

And you meet his friends, shake their hands and smile and chatter with them. They’re not sure what to make of you at first, no-one really is when you present yourself in conjunction with Colson, but soon they start to see what he sees in you. It’s endearingly genuine and thoughtful and honest and enthusiastic and -

“They’re like sunshine,” it’s Rook’s Instagram live, almost six months into your relationship with Colson, that really cements it to the public. Rook is smoking in Colson’s living room in the middle of the afternoon between recording sessions, and someone asked what your deal was.

“I’m so sick of - and I know Kells is, and Y/N too, not that they’d ever say anything. ‘ve never heard them say a bad word ‘bout anyone, you know,” Rook hits the blunt again, his face scrunching up, “but everyone ‘round here’s so fuckin’ sick of people talkin’ shit ‘bout ‘em. For real, Y/N is sunshine, nicer than all of you motherfuckers put together,” and he laughs, but it’s clear he isn’t entirely joking, “- you know what?” He asked, eyes lighting up and standing abruptly, grabbing the phone.

“Baze, man, you seen Y/N?” He calls, and Baze responds from somewhere off-camera that you’re outside. The comments are going off, but he pays them no mind, heading out to the backyard, only to see you by the back fence, peering over into the trees, on your tip toes, one hand straining over the fence, in shorts and a singlet in sunshine yellow.

Rook calls your name.

You shush him loudly, and then, without looking at him, slowly wave him over.

As he approaches, he can hear the telltale sound of a bird chirping, and as soon as he gets close, he hears you whisper -

“I think they’re bluebirds,” you murmur, and finally look back at him, lowering yourself, surprised to see his phone held aloft. He tells you he’s live streaming, you wave awkwardly, which is when he sees the slice of banana you’re holding, “I’m not sure what they eat; do bluebirds eat banana?” You ask, a little helpless, looking at Rook, and then to his phone.

After a moment, you step aside, and gesture for Rook to take a look over the fence, and sure enough there’s a nest with a single, rather sad looking bluebird with it’s wing bent at a strange angle, calling out pathetically, obscuring a few eggs, just out of arm’s reach. While he’s looking over the fence, also trying to reach them, and also trying to get the phone close enough to see if anyone watching the livestream could identify the bird or offer any suggestion, he hears your footsteps retreating.

“Stay there, I’m going to get Kells,” you call out to him, voice bright, “he’s got long arms!” And Rook bursts out laughing; you weren’t wrong.

While waiting, he sits against the fence and answers a few more questions, until he looks up and sees you, expression concerned, and Colson uncharacteristically fond as he lets you lead him by the hand.

You show him the nest and ask for him to get it, worried the bird was hurt, and he obligingly reaches over the back fence to gently collect the bird nest, trying his best not to jostle the bird. The bird’s wing appeared to be broken, and Rook ends the live when you mention that you’re going to take the bird to the vet.

Already, the fandom is exploding from what had transpired.

People are making suggestions as to what the birds should be named, people are claiming your caring and sweet personality is completely fake, people in the live managed to screenshot Colson’s expression as you’d lead him to the birds, how smitten he was with his hand in yours, and have started posting ‘get u a man who looks at u like kells looks at y/n’ all over twitter and tumblr.

“Bird update!” Several hours later, Colson posts a series of videos to his instagram story, “for those of y’all who don’t know, Y/N found a bird with a broken wing in a tree out the back of my place, we rescued it and it’s eggs, and took it to the vet,” and with that he flips the camera around, from a close up on his face, to show a large, cardboard box in the corner of the room.

Peep Davidson was written in large, black letters on the side of the box.

The rest of the videos are outlining what the vet had told you all, and that the bird should only take about seven days to heal before you could put them all back into the wilderness.

At that, he pauses.

“You worried about putting the birds back when you saw that cat the other day?” And he angles the camera to reveal you, laying with your head in his lap.

“The orange one?” You ask, voice heavy, as if he’d disturbed you when you’d been right about to fall asleep. You yawn, and he confirms, you give a little, lazy shrug and smile, “not sure where that cat is.”

“Fuckin’ hell, babe,” Colson laughs, “you gotta stop finding random animals in my backyard.”

“They find me,” you counter, and shift so you can press your face against his belly, humming contentedly as his free hand begins stroking your back.

“Snow White-Cinderella-Pied Piper motherfucker,” how that is somehow the softest, most gentle words to ever leave his lips, is utterly baffling, but there’s so much love and adoration but you turn enough for the camera to catch your delighted little smile, “you’re-” he starts, “who’s that dude from that, that My Hero shit we were watching the other night?”

“Koji Koda, you weeb,” you tease him fondly, knowing exactly who he’s referring to, and that’s where the video ends.

That’s the day it’s confirmed for the rest of the world. There’s countless paparazzi photos, and hints, and speculation, but this is the first time he’d called you anything but your name, and they’d all seen you snuggling up to him, your head in his lap.

This also is the day the trend begins on his Instagram story of a photo of you, usually in his backyard, with whatever animal had decided to befriend you that day.

My partner. My backyard. No fucking idea who’s animal that is.

And he still goes out and gets fucked up, and sometimes you’re there, and sometimes you’re not. When you’re out together, it still doesn’t quite make sense; he’s hard partying and over the top, and it seems like it wouldn’t be your scene at all.

But then there’s photos of Colson and a few of his friends standing on the edge of a roof, announcing that they’re Kings, and you’re by his side, smiling and waving at the person taking the photograph. He manages to get himself injured pulling a stunt at a friend’s house party, but you’re in the back of some influencer’s vlog, straddling his lap with tissues in your hand, him holding you secure as you clean up the scrape on his forehead; it’s kind of sickening how in love he looks, as he watches the way you concentrate. When you notice his expression, your own softens, and you lean in to give him a kiss.

And so you start to make sense, but people still ask why.

So when asked, you tell people that you support each other, and challenge each other, and yeah, that’s absolutely why you’re together, but it’s not the whole reason as to why you make sense.

Because no-one sees the way you hook your finger into his belt loop at the back of his pants at the house party, and you press a kiss between his shoulder blades, and he knows exactly what that means. He’s quick to make some flimsy excuse to leave as you step into place by his side, which everyone he’s speaking to immediately sees through. You play at being flustered, tucking your embarrassed expression against him as he slings his arm around your shoulders, and calls an Uber.

The drive back to his place has you both on edge with anticipation, his hands all over you in the back of the car while you try to hold a civil conversation with the driver. It’s killing you not to give in, but you know it’s worth it.

“You’re such an idiot!” You announced, grinning from ear to ear the moment you get into the house, before the door’s even closed, and he slams it shut to press you against it. Kissing him feels like a cathartic release, but after a moment you shove him back, loudly admonishing him for taking part of a stunt that got him hurt.

“You could have been seriously hurt!” You keep poking him in the chest to punctuate your words, and he steps back each time, expression alight, pupils blown wide. He keeps reaching out, as if to touch you, to snag your clothes, like it’s a game when you smack his hand back every time.

“Got a gnarly cut though,” he pointed out, as his ass hits the kitchen island. His legs open, making space for you, and you step into it.

“Gnarly cut,” you murmur, tone surprisingly derisive, and you reach up to push his hair back from his forehead. His head tips back, leaning into your touch, the look on his face almost dreamy even as you’ve got a hand on his hips, pushing him back on the counter.

Then you’re in his lap on the counter, hand fisted in his hair, lips on his neck, leaving bruises and bite marks. He’s trying to get you naked, efficient and desperate, but the moment he gets your shirt off, you push the fruit bowl behind him onto the floor, and push him back against the granite countertop.

“You were worried about me,” he smirks up at you, admiring you with your hands planted either side of his head.

“Because you don’t worry about your damn self!”

“Ooh, breaking out damn tonight? Must be serious,” he teased, deliberately riling you up; he loved this side of you just as much as the sweetness. Instead of responding, you reach up under his shirt and rake your nails harshly down his chest and stomach, delighting in the way he arched up at the sudden sensation, eyes falling closed.

With one hand still flat against his belly, the other comes up to cup his jaw, gentle at first, before your fingers move to caress his throat, and you press yourself against him.

“If you get yourself killed, I’ll kick your ass,” you whisper, lips inches from his as you press firmer against his throat. He grins, and sighs, the sound content and syrupy and so fucking into it, leaning up, to meet your lips with his, to feel the pressure on his neck just a little more.

And you bite, and you scratch, and you ride him on the kitchen island. The location is new, but the situation isn’t; once he’d discovered the righteous, sexual fury you’d been bottling up, he’d been more than happy to let you unleash it on him. Not to say that he didn’t give as good as he got; there’s been several times he’s had you swearing a blue streak, seeing stars, desperate and blissed out in equal measure.

But then there’s your dominant moments, the mean streak, and the teasing, the sting of your nails and your teeth and the way you push him around, into the mattress, against the wall without hesitation, and that he covets. No-one else is allowed to see you like that. To be tied up or blindfolded or or punished or pushed around, at your mercy, it’s as close to Heaven as he’s ever felt on Earth, because he knows without a shadow of a doubt that your heart is kind, that you’d never really hurt him in a way he wouldn’t like.

You make him feel safe.

And it’s not just the sex, you’re never dismissive of ideas or suggestions, seemingly always ready to help if he ever needs it, rather than judgmental. It makes him want to be there for you too.

He wants to be better for you.

Which is kind of terrifying to consider.

“I love you,” he tells you in the shower, in the afterglow, soft, pausing where he had been washing your back where you couldn’t reach. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but he felt like he needed you to hear them.

“Love you too,” you say around a yawn, though the words are as genuine as they’d always been coming from you, and you lean back against him, leaning your head against his cheek in a moment of quiet intimacy. You try to kiss him like this, but turns your face directly into the shower, and end up spluttering and breaking the moment.

Colson chuckles softly, stepping back and pulling you with him, out of the stream of water and into his arms so he could kiss you properly. You’re still giggling as you’re wiping the water from your eyes, looking at him with fond adoration. When you settle your arms around him, you quiet down and bask in the moment, his forehead coming to rest against yours, warm and safe in his embrace, sensing that, in that moment, he felt the exact same way.

#mgk #machine gun kelly #mgk x reader #machine gun kelly x reader #machine gun kelly imagine #mgk imagine #colson baker #colson baker imagine #colson baker x reader #the dirt #the dirt cast #the dirt cast imagine #rook xx #douglas booth #daniel webber #iwan rheon #the angry lizard writes

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dolcezzasfantasy · 3 years

Text

lost and found - part 6

summary | you are arrested for crimes against the sacred timeline, but there is much more to the tva than you think there is.

pairing | bucky barnes x reader

word count | 7k

warnings | violence, killing, spoilers for the loki tv show!

notes | this is the last and final part !!! woo-hoo we made it everybody thank u for all the support on this series !! it meant the world to me <3333

previous part | masterlist

it was a magnificent sight to behold. the house was more or less broken down, but the background behind it was like something from outer space. a streak of white travelled behind the house, and rocks all around were levitating in mid air.

something so ethereal shouldn’t be true. couldn’t be true. as the three of you walked to the door of the house, you realised that the house was much bigger than it seemed. the door was two times taller than you — maybe even three — and the manor had at least four stories.

the obsidian doors and its frame had golden slashes across it.

wanda dared a step closer to the door. ‘aren’t you going to tell me not to kick the door in?’ she asked, in a small, shaky voice.

‘it never made a difference,’ you shrugged.

‘well,’ she turned to face you and bucky, ‘if you think it’s a bad idea, i prefer you to speak your mind.’

bucky gulped. ‘no. nothing to say.’

‘that’ll be a first,’ she snarked.

bucky shot her a dirty look.

‘oh,’ she whined, ‘just tolerate it, will you, you big baby?’

you sighed.

wanda cleared her throat and faced the door again, taking one step forward, and then one back. she was teetering nervously on her ankles.

‘everything okay?’ you asked.

she sniffled. ‘yeah. just need a moment.’

‘okay,’ bucky nodded.

‘it’s just you, usually—’ you started.

‘respectfully, please shut up,’ she said. ‘i was pruned before you even existed. i have been waiting for this moment for my entire life. i just need a second to get my head straight, okay?’

you nodded. ‘sure, of course.’ you placed your hands behind your back and looked down.

the entrance suddenly opened with a creak. you looked up, but wanda was in the same position as she had been before. the doors had opened of its own accord, it seemed.

the doors opened to a gloomy castle of some sort, with onyx pillars and obsidian flooring. gold slashes were distributed sporadically once again.

there were two stone-faced statues of time-keepers flanking an archway.

the three of you warily stepped inside; grips on your weapons tight, guns loaded, knives unsheathed. the doors slammed shut behind you, almost like a silent warning of ‘no chance of escape now’. kind of like the warnings there’d be at the scary rollercoasters at coney island. the memory brought a faint smile to your face.

‘okay, there it is,’ you said, pointing to the ride a few kilometres ahead of where you and bucky were standing.

bucky squinted to get a better look at it. ‘i don’t know, doll.’

‘oh, please, please, pretty please,’ you said, batting your eyelashes at him. ‘it’s my birthday.’

‘i know, i know,’ he said, with a nervous chuckle. ‘why don’t you go on without me?’

a frown grew on your face. ‘alone?’

the corner of bucky’s lips quirked up, almost as if it were shrugging.

you sighed. ‘fine. wait for me, i suppose.’ you let out a huff. you knew it was selfish to ask him to come along when he was so obviously scared, but you really wanted to spend time with him.

after seeing the frown on your face, bucky pursed his lips in submission. ‘you promise you’re gonna hold my hand?’ he said, scrunching his nose up almost as though he thought agreeing to this was a bad idea. how false.

you grinned. ‘promise.’

‘okay, then,’ he said, with a small smile on your face. ‘anything for you.’

you kissed him. ‘i love you.’

‘i love you too. might be the only reason i’m entertaining this death wish.’

‘reason enough,’ you said, pulling him for another kiss. ‘i love you, i love you, i love you,’ you said, peppering kisses all over his face with each chant of the three words.

he laughed. ‘alright, you’ve already sold me on it. let's go.’

after the ride, bucky had looked sick all day. he didn’t throw up or anything, he just had an uneasy expression on his face and flinched whenever he was in the vicinity of another rollercoaster.

‘remember coney island?’ bucky whispered, nudging you. ‘it’s the same door-shutting-as-a-warning thing.’

you chuckled. ‘that was a good day.’

‘for you, maybe.’

‘oh come on, sarge, do heights frighten the james buchanan barnes?’ you said, stifling your laughter.

‘heights really aren’t part of my job description,’ he joked in a hush-hush voice.

‘are you sure?’

‘can you two lovebirds shut up?’ wanda said, turning around from ahead of you two.

‘sorry,’ the two of you muttered, a smile plastered on your faces.

the moment she turned her back, bucky leant in and told you, ‘she’s just jealous.’

you let out a giggle.

‘i heard that,’ wanda snarled.

as the three of you moved forward, you could barely see anything in the low light. there was another archway ahead of the archway you were close to.

you were about to cross it when boom! an orange clock appeared.

‘hey, y’all!’ you flinched at her sound. you never really noticed how scary she could be.

on instinct, the three of you pulled out your weapons: wanda her sword, bucky his gun, and you your knife.

‘you again?’ wanda said, the realisation sinking in.

‘welcome to the citadel at the end of time.’

‘come on,’ you whispered, nudging all of them to move to the right of where miss minutes was standing.

she turned to face you as you moved. ‘congratulations. y’all had an awfully long journey to get here. he’s impressed.’

‘who’s impressed?’ wanda snarled.

‘he who remains,’ she said, with a smile that sent a chill up your back.

‘and who is he?’ you asked, keeping your voice low.

‘he created all,’ she explained, ‘and he controls all.’ the three of you walked closer towards the hologram. ‘at the end, it is only he who remains.’

she walked to a pillar, and placed her hands behind her back. ‘and,’ she continued, ‘he wants to offer you a deal. he’s been making a few creative adjustments and he’s worked it out so we can reinsert both of y’all back into the timeline in a way that won't disrupt things.’

you and wanda looked at each other, a suspicious glare housing itself in the pupils of your eyes.

‘“wont disrupt things”?’ wanda asked, dubitation prominent in her voice.

‘the tva can keep doin' its vital work and y’all can live the lives you’ve always wanted,’ she said, nodding. well, as much as a mostly two dimensional hologram could, anyway.

‘and what have we always wanted?’ you asked.

miss minutes redirected her gaze to you and bucky. ‘now don’t play coy with me, missy. you know exactly what you want.’

‘what?’

‘you lost your husband, your parents, everything. you versus the world, it felt like, didn’t it?’ you clenched your jaw. ‘how would you like to…’ she strolled around, ‘not lose anyone? live in peace? you can go anywhere you want. and,’ she smirked, and pointed at bucky, ‘you get to take him along.’

god, you hated her. she knew exactly where you were wounded and shot the arrow right there. your breathing got a little more uneven and deep.

‘what about you, hon’?’ she said, turning to wanda. ‘all those years on the run. desperate, alone. how would you like to wake up tomorrow with just a lifetime of happy memories?’

you saw wanda’s lower lip tremble.

‘two y/ns in the same place, happy and flourishing,’ miss minutes continued.

‘none of this would’ve ever happened?’ you asked her.

‘it’s crazy,’ she shrugged, ‘but he could make it work.’

all three of you shared a look.

‘all of it,’ she kept talking, ‘everything. exactly the way you’ve always wanted. and you can have it all. together.’

wanda breathed deeply. sighing, she said, ‘it’s fiction.’ you could hear the tiredness in her voice. you could hear the desperation, the hope. how much she wanted to forget everything she’d been through, but she knew she couldn’t. ‘we write our own destiny.’

‘oh,’ miss minutes chuckled, ‘sure you do. good luck with that.’ you didn’t appreciate the condescendence in her voice. with that, she whisked away into thin air.

‘come on,’ bucky said to the two of you.

🦇 🧳 ☕️ 🏹 🏷

ravonna shuffled through the files in her lap. she turned her head to her table in search of another file she thought she might have missed out on. her eyes landed on a ringed stain. james. it must have been from the last time they shared a drink in her office. it seemed like a million years ago.

her attention from the stain was diverted to the tring sound in front of her.

‘hey, there,’ miss minutes said, as she appeared in ravonna’s office.

‘what took you so long?’ ravonna snapped, as she put down the files she was perusing.

‘sorry. some things had to get worked out, but i'm downloadin' the files you need now.’ she pointed to a tempad with a loading bar on it.

ravonna leant in and picked the tempad up and frowned at it. shaking her head, she said, ‘this isn’t what i asked for.’

‘i know, but he thinks this’ll be more useful.’

ravonna furrows her brows in confusion. ‘who?’

‘happy reading!’ miss minutes waved and shrank away into nothingness.

🚬 🍂 🖋 💡 🔍

the three of you walked ahead, wary of each step taken, on the qui vive.

‘he who remains,’ you said.

‘not for much longer,’ wanda replied, with a whiff of confidence marking her words.

your weapons were raised in front of you yet again.

you entered a chamber of some sort. the same black marble interiors with golden streaks, only this time there were frosted glass windows, chandeliers and more time-keeper statues: one for each corner.

the three of you carefully descended down the short flight of stairs into the room. you walked ahead, hands raised at your sides. bucky followed you, and wanda headed in the other direction.

wanda walked towards a crumbling piece of cement with the same colour scheme. you wiped the dust off of a pillar. examining the relatively abnormal plethora of residue on your hand, you said, ‘are we sure he’s even still alive?’

just as wanda was about to answer you, the deep echoes of a lock clattering sounded throughout the room. the three of you headed toward the door where the sound seemed to be coming from.

as the door slowly creaked open, the three of you were alerted. bucky had his gun pointed at the door, wanda her sword, and you your knife. your shaky breaths punctuated the heavy opening of the door.

the hatch slid open to reveal a man dressed up rather strangely — almost as though he were wearing a costume, sitting on a seat. he was swinging his legs back and forth, but once your gazes landed on each other, he leant in forward in his seat with a wide grin on his face.

he stood up. there was a green apple in his hand.

he raised his hands slightly, as though to tease how on edge the three of you were.

‘this is wild,’ he chuckled. ‘the two of you,’ he pointed to you and wanda, ‘the same person. a little unnatural, but… wow. wild!’ he shifted his gaze to bucky. ‘you! you were supposed to be dead! and you were a tva agent! look at you, fraternising with criminals.’

your weapons stayed pointed at him. he bit into the fruit in his hand.

‘he who remains,’ wanda said, with a growl.

‘he who remains,’ repeated the man, albeit muffled with a mouth full of apple, you presumed. ‘she still calls me that?’ he said, gesturing to nowhere in particular. probably miss minutes. ‘creepy, right? but… i like it.’ he gulped.

wanda lowered her weapon and narrowed her eyes at him. she realised that this man couldn’t possibly be half the threat he was advertised to be.

‘come on,’ he said, his robes shuffling around, ‘come on, let’s talk in my office.’

the three of you gave each other dubious looks, not sure of this man’s intentions. you walked towards him into an elevator, it seemed, and kept the weapons pointed at him.

he looked like he couldn’t be bothered, however, and that was something that perturbed you. he was nonchalantly eating an apple. his shoulders rose with his heavy inhale.

‘not what you were expecting, hm?’

your breaths got shallower.

‘you’re just… a man,’ bucky said. you had expected an extra terrestrial creature, the sorts you had read about in horror novels.

‘flesh and blood,’ he said, rubbing his nose. ‘don’t tell me i’m a disappointment.’

‘no,’ wanda said. ‘just a little bit easier to kill.’ she advanced on him with her sword, but as though he knew what was going to happen, he disappeared and reappeared in a different corner of the elevator. wanda’s sword clanged on the empty wall of the elevator.

you and bucky looked up at the ceiling, where you heard a thud. the three of you skimmed through each crook of the elevator, panting. you heard the bell of the elevator ding, and your heads snapped upwards in alert.

the door slowly opened to reveal he who remains, with a sickeningly wide grin plastered across his face. he was holding a half eaten apple in his hands.

once the door completely opened, he beckoned the three of you into the room the door had opened to.

‘come on in,’ he said. his cloaks billowed behind him as he turned and left. you saw wanda glower at him. you didn’t know about him, but you sure as hell knew you wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of a stare like that. it was a threat of assassination looming around, waiting to be executed.

she stormed ahead to the table he was standing at, and you and bucky followed. he was bent over the desk, pouring some sort of beverage from a jug meticulously into a cup. his office had a desk, a large wall with circular frosted glass behind it, a library to the side, and a fireplace somewhere. the whole place was poorly lit.

the three of you warily moved towards him, weapons unswerving in their stance. wanda was closer to him than you and bucky were. that was probably for the best.

‘one,’ you heard the man say, quietly. he switched over to pouring into another cup. ‘two.’ his voice was rather gravelly, you noticed. ‘three,’ he said, filling another cup to the brim. he looked and up and beamed at the two of you. he set the jug down. ‘please,’ he said, gesturing to the three seats in front of his desk, ‘take a seat.’

wanda eyed you, as though to say, should we?

you stepped forward in agreement. bucky was right there at your side.

‘uh…’ he said, placing a cup on the desk in front of a chair where you were supposed to be sitting, presumably, ‘y/n.’ he nodded in wanda’s direction and placed a cup in front of where she was supposed to be sitting. ‘y/n…’ he then placed the cup in front of the last seat. ‘james.’

wanda raised her eyebrows at the two of you. bucky beckoned the two of you to sit in the chairs. you sat in the middle chair, knife pointed at the strange man.

wanda and bucky sat down after you did, and he let out a rather loud exhale.

‘been a long journey for you,’ he said, lounging on his seat. ‘lot of running, lot of pain. and you…’ he looked at wanda, and sputtered his lips in amusement. ‘you’re a flea on the back of a dragon.’ he chuckled. ‘in for one hell of a ride. but you did manage to hang on.’ he hummed and nodded. ‘i guess that counts for something.’

you raised your knife at him. ‘i’m not sure you quite understand the situation. you’ve lost.’ you looked at wanda and bucky. ‘we found you.’

he stared at the three of you for a moment, in confusion. ‘duh. of course you did.’

suddenly, wanda rose from her seat and slashed the knife at the man. unfortunately, he disappeared and reappeared this time too.

with a zap, he was sitting on top of the support of his chair. ‘whew, a swing and a miss.’

wanda released a growl. you looked at bucky with a raised eyebrow, as though to say, how did she make that sound? he seemed to have understood you and shrugged.

he laughed. ‘so, we still doing this, huh?’ wanda retreated from where she was leaning over his desk. he got up from where he was crouching on his chair. ‘let’s get all this out of the way.’

he picked a up a maroon file and brought it to his desk. ‘okay,’ he said as he flipped through it. he snatched out a white sheet of paper. ‘here we go.’ he pulled out two more, and laid one each in front of the three of you. it was almost like a teacher handing out test papers.

the three of you stood up and walked towards the desk to examine the sheets.

‘you can’t kill me because i already know what’s going to happen,’ he said. you picked up the sheet and brought it to your face. where were your glasses when you needed them? ‘see?’

you scoffed at whatever you could see. it seemed to be a screenplay, a script of some sort. only instead of the characters, your names were there. and replacing the dialogue was everything that had anyone had said in this past hour.

‘it’s a parlour trick,’ you said.

‘okay!’ the man snapped his fingers, and started circling the three of you slowly. ‘don’t you wonder how i’m able to get out of the way—’ he shimmied around in his place, ‘—just before you kill me?’

‘no,’ wanda said, ‘it’s because of that little tempad you have there.’ she pointed to the device at his belt.

‘right. but how do i already have it loaded up with everything i need to know to keep from being killed by you three?’ he had a villainous grin on his face, resembling that of a cheshire cat. when none of you said anything in response, he said, ‘it’s easy.’ he placed his hands on his desk. ‘i know it all.’ those words were uttered comically nonchalantly. ‘and i’ve seen it all.’ he sat down back in his chair.

‘everything you guys did on lamentis, i saw,’ he continued. ‘all the stuff the tva didn't know about, i knew.’ his voice was getting more triumphant by the second. ‘all the scheming, all the talking.’ he looked at you and bucky. ‘star crossed lovers united. quite sentimental, very touching stuff, by the way.’

you furrowed your brows. this man was talking about your entire life like it was some… soap on the television. you didn’t like it.

wanda looked at you, and shaking her head in disapproval she turned back to the man. ‘no. no, we broke out of your little game. that’s how we got here.’

‘no,’ he said, victory clinging on to his words. ‘every, every, step you took to get here— lamentis, the void, i,’ he ran his hand vertically through his desk as though to demonstrate a street, ‘paved the road. you…' he held his hands up and pointed them at the three of you. his hands imitated the movement of legs when walking. ‘you just walked down it.’

wanda licked her bottom lip and looked up the ceiling, frustrated. you teetered on your feet restlessly, finding bucky’s hand next to your own. he intertwined his fingers with yours. you looked at him. he offered you the best he could — a small, sad smile.

the man got up, and started perusing through his files again. ‘and i have the rest, um, right here.’ he flipped open something that was either a very thick and sturdy folder, or a small and relatively flat briefcase. he pulled out a thick stack of papers, and placed it in front of the three of you.

‘everything that's, uh... that's going to happen,’ he said. 'there's only one way this can go.’

‘then why are we here?’ bucky said, irritated.

‘oh, come on,’ the man said, seemingly offended by bucky’s harsh tone. ‘you know you can’t get to the end unless you’ve been changed by the journey.’ he used air quotes for that part. ‘this stuff, it needs to happen.’ he said it as though it was the most obvious thing, and something you should have picked up on. ‘to get us all in the right mindset to finish the quest.’ he was definitely putting on a show, a very flamboyant one at that.

‘right,’ you said, narrowing your eyes, dubious of his intentions. you lifted your eyes from where you were examining the scripts. ‘so, it’s all a game. it’s all… a manipulation.’

‘interesting,’ he said, ‘that your head would go to that.’ he leant in closer to you. ‘wanda!’ he yelled, suddenly. it made you flinch. ‘you think you can trust her?’ he faced her.

‘don’t listen to him,’ you muttered.

‘“don’t listen to him”,’ mocked the man. you wanted to punch his face in, so you flexed your fingers from beside you. this man might know it all, but probably didn’t know just how much you hated when men mocked you.

the man sputtered a laugh. ‘do you think you’re…’ he continued talking to wanda, ‘capable of trusting anyone?’

he sat perched atop his desk now.

‘i understand your moral objections to what the tva does.’ well, you think with a scoff, do you? he stood up and brushed down his cloak. ‘and my methods are deceptive.’ he walked in front of you, and sat on the desk there. ‘but the mission, it never was. without the me, without the tva…’ he shook his head, ‘everything burns.’

‘then what are you so afraid of?’ you asked, your voice low.

he opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. he furrowed his brows, seemingly rummaging around in his brain for something to say. eventually, his eyebrows turned upwards, and he shrugged. ‘me,’ he said, sheepishly.

‘and just who are you?’ wanda asked.

‘oh,’ he stood up from his desk, ‘i’ve been dubbed many names by many people.’ he walked back to his desk. ‘a ruler, a conqueror.’ he snickered to himself as he took a seat in his chair. ‘he who remains,’ he shrugged, ‘a jerk.’ then, sucking in a sharp inhale through his teeth, he said, ‘but it’s not… as simple as a name.’ he made a circular motion on what looked like a watch on his wrist. he knocked something off of it. a piece of clay, it seemed.

the clay transformed into a figurine. a figurine that looked a lot like him.

‘eons ago, before the tva, a variant of myself lived on earth, in the 31st century,’ began the man. ‘he was a scientist,’ the figurine transformed to the man standing with his hand on his chin, confused and examining what seemed to be a miniature replica of the universe, ‘and he discovered that there were universes stacked,’ the discs multiplied and arranged themselves above and below each other accordingly, ‘on top of his own.

‘at the same time, other versions of us were learning the same thing. naturally, they made contact,’ the figures transformed to two of the same man; one of them was standing in a portal. ‘and for a while, there was peace.’ the figures shifted to shaking each other’s hands. ‘narcissistic, self-congratulatory peace. “i love your shoes.” “i love your hair.” “oh man, nice nose.” “thanks, man.” et cetera.’ he stared at the three of you with a grin.

‘they shared technology and knowledge,’ the figures transformed to depict a science laboratory. ‘using the best of their universes to improve the others. however,’ he picked up his green apple and bit into it, ‘not every version of me was so,’ he seemed to be searching for the right word, ‘so pure of heart. to some of us, new worlds meant only one thing, new lands to be conquered. the peace between realities,’ he blew a raspberry with his mouth — a feeble attempt at an imitation of an explosion, ‘erupted into an all-out war. each variant fighting to preserve their universe and annihilate the others.

he tilted his head, teasingly almost. ‘this was almost the end… ladies and gentlemen, of everything and everyone.’

‘and then the time-keepers came and saved us all,’ wanda interrupted, spitefully.

‘amen,’ the man sang it like a church choir would, stretching the word out more than necessary. he joined his hands together, almost as though he was praying, and the little figurines did the same, except they were kneeling.

‘no,’ he chuckled, shaking his head. ‘no. nope, this is where we diverge from the dogma.’ the figurine shifted into the man holding a lamp. ‘that first variant encountered a creature created from all the tears in reality, capable of consuming time and space itself. a creature…’ he bent forward on his desk, ‘…you all know.’

‘alioth,’ you said, quietly.

‘bingo!’ the figurine shifted to the man holding the lantern up again, but this time alioth — a big dark cloud, anyway — was there, in front of the figurine. ‘i harnessed the beast’s power and began experimenting on it.’ he inhaled with a grimace before continuing his story. ‘i weaponised alioth and i ended…’ his fists slammed the desk and his voice got more aggressive, ‘i ended the multiversal war.

‘once i isolated our timeline, all i had to do was manage the flow of time and prevent any further branches. hence,’ he leaned forward and held is hands up in a grand display, ‘the tva.’ it seemed he was anticipating applause. when he didn’t get any, he continued, ‘hence, the time-keepers and a highly efficient bureaucracy,’ he stood up from his seat and hoisted himself up on his desk, ‘hence, ages and ages,’ his voice was getting louder, ‘of cosmic harmony. hence,’ he crouched down to your level, ‘you’re welcome!’

when he didn’t earn a reaction, he swiped the pad of his forefinger on his watch, and the clay figurine disappeared with a spark and a buzz.

‘you came to kill the devil, right?’ he exited his crouch and sat, legs dangling over the front of his desk. ‘well, guess what. i keep you safe,’ he lowered his voice to a hush, almost as though he were telling a child a secret. and if you think i’m evil, well, just wait till you meet my variants.’ he had a sad smile on his face.

when you looked at bucky and wanda with worry laced in your features, the man drawled, ‘and… that’s the gambit.’ he got up, and started flailing his arms around rather unnecessarily. ‘stifling order or cataclysmic chaos.’ he chuckled mirthlessly, and returned back to his seat. ‘you may hate the dictator, but something…’ he exhaled deeply, almost as if to prepare himself for the words he was uttering next, ‘…far worse is gonna fill that void if you depose of him.’

he slid his hand across his desk. ‘i’ve lived a million lifetimes.’ you saw wanda shaking her head disapprovingly, glaring daggers into the man’s face. ‘i’ve gone through every scenario.’ you bent your head in frustration. ‘this is the only way.

‘the tva,’ he started nodding, ‘it works.’

‘or… you’re a liar,’ wanda spat.

the man bent to the side, leaning on his hand. ‘or i’m a liar.’

‘so you just…’ you said, averting your gaze from him, ‘…continue to prune innocent timelines?’

‘mhm. you three would.’

the three of you stared at him with a puzzled look on your faces.

‘there’s two options,’ he said, wagging his fingers. ‘one… kill me, and destroy,’ he waved his hands behind him, at the wall, ‘all of this, so you don’t just have one devil, you have an infinite amount. or… you three. you three run the thing.’

you narrowed your eyes at him. ‘you’re lying.’ it was too good to be true. ‘why would you give up being in control?’

the man clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. ‘buddy… i’m tired. and… i’m older. i’m older than i look. this game is for the young, the hungry. i’ve gone through a lot of scenarios… trying to find the right person take this spot. and it turns out, that person came in three.’ he let out a breathy laugh. ‘but it’s definitely you three.’

you and wanda looked at each other. it seemed the wariness was mutual.

‘so, no more lies,’ the man continued. ‘you kill me, and the sacred timeline is completely exposed. or… you take over, and return to the tva as its benevolent rulers. tell the workforce who they are, and why they do what they do.’ there was a triumphant beam on his face.

wanda glowered at him, a small smirk playing at her mouth. ‘you treated real people’s lives like some kind of game.’ her voice was nothing more than a whisper at this point. a chill ran up your back. you could only hope she wouldn’t do anything too drastic.

the man shook his head in disapproval. ‘it’s not personal, it’s practical.’

‘it was personal to me,’ wanda said, her voice raised.

the man groaned and leaped forward on his desk. ‘grow up! grow up, wanda!’ he was yelling now. ‘murderer. hypocrite. we’re all villains here,’ he chuckled. ‘we’ve all done terrible, horrible, horrific things.’

your gaze snapped back to your lap.

‘but now, we— you…’ he continued, ‘…have a chance to do them for a good reason.’ you couldn’t believe the audacity of this man.

a faint rumble sounded off in the distance. the man stopped talking and tried to hear it. his posture stiffened and worry stained his face like ink on paper.

not making eye contact directly, he said in a weak voice, ‘we just crossed… the threshold.’ he released a shaky laugh, absent of any humour. another rumble of thunder ripped across the room.

the man looked around the room, with a look of perplexity across his features. he picked up a figurine from all the way on the other side of his desk, brought it in front of him, and dropped it from a height.

he hissed through his teeth. ‘so… i fibbed. i fibbed earlier, when i said i know how everything’s going to go. i— i know... i knew,’ he chuckled nervously, ‘everything up to a certain point, and that point was about…’ he took a pause, mentally counting, ‘seven, eight, nine, ten seconds ago.’

the three of you furrowed your brows in worry.

‘but now i have no idea. no idea how the rest of this is going to go.’ he looked around the room once again, then turned to face you with an uneasy smile. ‘i’m being candid.’

you glowered at him. ‘so that’s it?’ when he didn’t say anything, you repeated your question. ‘that’s it? this is what happens at the end of time? and now you're just gonna sit there with all that freedom and... let us decide your fate?’ you had seen some strange things on your way here, but this was somehow, by far, the most peculiar.

he looked up. ‘yes!’ he said, rather loudly. ‘yes, yes, yes!’ he was almost shrieking now. you winced at the sudden enthusiasm. ‘what’s the worst that can happen? you either... take over and my life's work continues.’ you saw wanda’s foot bounce restlessly. ‘or… you plunge a blade in my chest and an infinite amount of me, uh, start another multiversal war. and i just... end up right back here anyways.’ his gaze diverted his feet. he took in a deep sigh, looked up again, and said, ‘reincarnation, baby.’

‘no,’ wanda shook her head with a knowing smile, ‘it’s just another lie.’ your chest rose with a hefty inhale. ‘another manipulation.’ the grip on her sword tightened.

‘oh,’ the man said, ‘no lie.’ he was vehemently shaking his head. ‘no manipulation.’ he sighed. leaning forward, he checked his watch and his brows furrowed. he pulled it off of his wrist.

‘wow,’ he said. he let out a soft chuckle, then placed the watch on the front of the table. ‘i love this. i love… all this honesty.’ he rested his head on his outstretched arm. ‘feels like a fresh start.’

suddenly, wanda sprang up from her seat. before she could impale the man with her sword, you caught hold of her wrist and yanked. she immediately turned around and placed the sword on your chest. she was now pushing you back and walking in your back’s direction.

‘what are you doing?’ she asked.

‘wanda, hang on a moment,’ you said, panting.

‘y/n—’ bucky said, standing up.

you held your hand up to him. ‘it’s ok,’ you mouthed. ‘let’s just talk about it,’ you told wanda, gently placing your hand on her elbow.

she lowered her sword. ‘well, how about we finish what we started, and kill him?’ she pushed you out of the way and walked towards him, but you grabbed ahold of her wrist. she flung her sword at you, but thankfully you dodged the blow.

‘wanda!’ you said, firmly, lifting your knife. ‘what if he’s telling the truth?’

‘so what?’ she snapped.

‘i believe him,’ you said quietly. wanda’s eyes darted to bucky, who softly nodded.

‘do you actually believe that a bazillion… boogeymen will turn up and wreak havoc just because we give people free will? he’s a liar, y/n.’

‘wanda,’ you said, softly, ‘we have seen an inordinate amount of strange things. this might be a little stranger than usual, but are you really willing to jump to such a conclusion after everything that’s happened?’

‘better hurry,’ the man called out from behind, ‘the timeline’s already branching.’

‘so, what are you suggesting?’ wanda exhaled.

‘that we think about it.’

‘and precisely what is there to think about?’

‘weren’t you listening to what he was saying? remove the dictator, and what fills the void?’

wanda’s posture stiffened. ‘this is about bucky, isn’t it?’

bucky’s head snapped up. ‘what?’

‘yeah. you’ll abandon me just to have a happy life with him, won’t you?’

‘wanda—’ you started.

‘no, i don’t blame you. because, after all, what am i, if not a pawn in your game?’

‘wanda, how can you say something like that?’

‘i knew i shouldn’t have trusted either of you.’

‘wanda, the universe is in the balance, everything we know to be true. everything. I know the tva has hurt us both. but what if by taking him out… we risk unleashing something even worse? all i’m suggesting is we just take a minute to think about it. i promise you from my heart this isn't about abandoning you. i could never.’

a small smile grew on wanda’s face. ‘what was i thinking trusting you? has this whole thing been a con? just a ploy to get the throne, and live a happily ever after with your boyfriend?’

‘really? is that what you think of me? after everything we’ve been through?’ you started nodding when she didn’t say anything in response. ‘of course. i’m evil. yeah. my masterplan has come together. you never really trusted me, did you? what was the point, wanda?

‘can’t you see?’ you bent in to her. ‘this is bigger than our experience.’

her lower lip trembled. ‘why aren’t we seeing this the same way?’

‘because you can’t trust,’ you shrugged, a sad smile on your face, and unshed tears in your eyes. ‘and i can’t be trusted, apparently.’

bucky walked closer to you. ‘are you okay?’ he whispered.

you nodded, and rubbed your eyes.

‘then i guess we’re in a pickle.’

‘wanda, wait,’ you said, your breaths getting shallower with each passing second. ‘please, just… try to understand.’

‘there’s nothing to understand, y/n.’

‘look, maybe he’s lying,’ bucky panted, frantically looking back and forth, ‘maybe he’s not. the cost of getting this wrong is too great.’

‘so kill me then. have your happy ending.’

‘wanda,’ you said, gingerly reaching out to her. ‘please. we can figure something out. we always have so far.’

‘don’t you see, y/n? there’s no figuring anything out. either i die, or he does.’

tears welled in your eyes. ‘there’s a between,’ you wiped the unshed tears on the back of your hand, ‘and we’re gonna find it.’

‘y/n,’ bucky said, eyes widened, and voice lowered. ‘i might have something.’

‘what?’

‘what if… we,’ — he swiped his thumb across his neck — ‘him?’

‘didn’t you listen to everything he just said?’ you hissed.

‘i know, but, what’s a multiversal war, right? nothing the folks back at the tva can’t handle.’

‘have you gone mad?’ wanda said.

‘hey, i’m on your side here,’ he said, defensively.

‘no, because what you’re saying is absolute rubbish.’

‘look. what if… we all got what we wanted?’

‘what are you talking about, buck?’ you asked, exhausted.

‘what if… we used the tempad,’ he patted his front pocket, ‘transported to a safe place on the timeline, and wanda stays back to fight him?’

‘that’s just selfish—’ you started, but were cut off by the abrupt sensation of wanda’s hand on your face.

‘that could work.’

‘you just said you didn’t want to be abandoned!’

‘y/n, let’s face it, i’m the only one of any real use here. it was more of a self esteem thing about you leaving me.’

your brows furrowed and your lips parted. you were a tad bit offended.

‘doll, if we pull this off,’ he didn’t continue any further, because he knew you would understand.

‘are you sure we should just… leave you here?’

wanda looked at you with a look of amusement. ‘yeah, i think this might work.’

‘great, great, that’s great. let’s, uh, kill this guy,’ bucky said, standing up.

‘well, have you made a choice?’ the man asked.

‘yeah,’ wanda muttered, in a dangerously low voice. you nodded at her, ever so slightly.

she stepped forward, and lunged out at the man.

‘y/n!’ bucky called. you tore your eyes off of her, and ran toward him. he extended his arm for you to hold on to, and the two of you fell through an orange portal.

it was a street, a rather busy street. but not a single person seemed to have noticed that two strangers had fallen smack-dab into the middle of the road there. a car abruptly halted at the two of them, and you could hear a strange of curse words fall from the mouth of the driver as he asked the two of you stand up and walk away. you hastily complied, brushing the dirt off of your shirt.

you stumbled onto the pavement of the sidewalk. looking around, you noticed something was wrong. very wrong.

‘this isn’t our time,’ you told bucky, desperately clinging onto his shirt.

he was staring at a board on a tall building with a woman singing and dancing on the screen. she was blonde, and had bangs.

he looked down at the tempad in his hand. ‘i keyed in brooklyn, i don’t know what went—’ he examined the tempad more closely, ‘—oh.’

‘what?’

he looked at you, his eyes in a sort of flummoxed daze.

‘bucky, what?’

‘we’re in brooklyn, but the future.’

you softly gasped. as you looked around, you asked, ‘what time is this?’

‘march the tenth, 2021.’

‘happy birthday.’

‘yeah, thanks,’ he said, gulping.

a stranger’s shoulder met yours as they walked past you. ‘watch where you’re standing!’ the woman yelled.

‘we’ll figure it out,’ bucky said. it seemed he was assuring himself more than he was you.

‘yeah,’ you said. ‘of course.’

🏛 🎞 🕯 🎻 🎬

‘incredible,’ the man said, as wanda looked contemplatively at the floor. the watch was still in her hand, but the glowing golden streaks vanished.

she slowly turned around, and tightened the grip on her sword. with a whoosh, she pushed the desk aside; all it took was a simple flick of her arm. there was a murderous look coating her pupils.

the man giggled, akin to a child at a magic show. he sat in his seat, bouncing with glee.

as wanda neared him, she said, ‘aren’t you gonna beg for your life?’

‘um,’ he said, his laughter ceasing, ‘could. could.’

wanda grabbed his neck, and held the sword. when he didn’t say anything, she jabbed it right in his chest.

the man grunted. wanda maintained unwavering eye contact with the man.

‘i’ll see you soon,’ the man whispered, and with a frail wink, he lost consciousness.

wanda took her hand back, and his head hung. he was gone. for good. or not. wanda sunk to the cold, marble ground, and buried her face in her palms. she tried her best to stifle the sobs that followed, but what did it matter? she was alone now. like she was always destined to be.

she tried to register in the magnitude of the situation. it was far too great.

the iridescent, current-like branches outside of the big circular window crackled. they had synthesised new branches. far too many.

the flurry of currents outside the window was nebular.

♟ 🦉 🩰 ⏳ 📜

hunter b-15 observed the constant beeping of the ever growing branches on the monitor.

‘no turning back now,’ she muttered to herself. she watched solemnly, as chaos ensued.

everyone around her slowly grew more alert of the beeping, and proceeded to realise what was going on — or at least, the legible portion of it — with a look of pure, unadulterated horror making its way onto their features.

the monitor had art on it, almost like a tree’s. it was mesmerising to watch — or would’ve been, did it not signify imminent destruction.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

tags: @buckylokisimp

thank you so much for reading! feedback is so, so appreciated! <3 please do not repost my work on any platform. reblogs are fine!

additionally, i think i might do drabbles/headcanons for this series! if you have any ideas or requests you'd like to see, feel free to send me an ask!

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes hurt/comfort #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff #lost and found

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daisies-write · 3 years

Text

And he said “nope” - Part 2

Deal with the Devil

Hisoka x weak!reader; soulmate AU

Ok so we decided to go with a light and fun story! I suppose it isn’t what’s expected of a Hisoka x reader but with Ari we had so much fun imagining different scenarios where both are forced to work together, it just started to take life on it’s own! I hope it won’t be disapointing for you and that you’ll like this serie as much as we do! @kuuredere

-Yasu

Previous chapter / Next chapter

TW: none

Writer: Both of us ! (Ari and Yasu)

Word count: 1965

This is how your "contract" began with Hisoka, with one simple deal: to continue with your life without being disturbing each other, as if you two never met. You would never work together anyway. You had morals and Hisoka was… Hisoka.

But strangely, since then your life had seemed to take an ominous decline and you were starting to wonder if the Universe had something to do with it. Too much had happened in too little time: losing your car, having your apartment infested with cockroaches, and finding out that your partner might be having an affair. Well… it couldn't be worse, after all.

" You are fired. "

Ah. It could, actually.

You were sitting on a bench somewhere in a park, with a big box full of your things lying at your feet, trying somehow to reach your partner on the phone. After the fifth call, you gave up. They must have been busy ...

You clapped your hands over your eyes, sighing loudly, twisting in your head everything you could do to find a job that paid as well as your last but there were very few options and the remaining ones didn't appeal to you one bit. You weren't desperate enough to striptease yet, that's for sure, and going back to babysitting was a big no.

"Maybe they were right in the end," you mumbled in your despair. “I'm not meant to be a Hunter and I'm not made for the big city.” A sad chuckle escaped your lips. “A real little peasant, haha. "

As if trying to mock you, the sun and the sky were extremely bright that day. Or maybe it was to support you...

" Well! I got this! I will not be discouraged for so little! "

You got up on your feet, determined, and then sat down again almost instantly.

"I have nowhere to sleep."

You expressed yourself with yet another long sigh. If only you hadn’t met this Hisoka, if only you hadn’t gone to see that damn battle at Heaven Arenas with your friends, if only you had said no, your life surely would have just as chill, like it used to. Seeing in color was fun but not necessary.

"I don't like pink," you thought as you saw a kid make a big bubble with his chewing gum.

"My, it looks like my kitten is doing badly ~," said a voice you recognized all too well.

Slowly turning your head to the side, you could finally confirm your fears: Hisoka was looking at you with a big smile, a hand on his cheek and mocking eyes.

"Hey, Satan," you answered instinctively.

He laughs at your words.

"I’m pretty sure I’m even worse, but thank you nonetheless."

“Go away. I don’t have time to mess with you. And like, don’t you have a fight today?”

Hisoka shrugged.

“The guy isn’t worth my time, that’s all.”

“So you thought about stalking me?”

“I thought about watching children play but I found you like you would find a wart,” he said nonchalantly.

You just started at him, genuinely creeped out.

“Get out of here, pedo.”

He laughed again.

“Make me.”

“The sexual innuendo of this sentence is way too big so you better stop using it unless if you want to bang me,” you said, unphased. “But there’s a hint: you ugly.”

“Wow!” Hisoka placed a hand to his heart, a pout on his face. “You didn’t seem quite so aggressive last time. Something bad happened?” His eyes found your box and his smirk came back. “Fired?”

You said nothing, but the displeased expression gave him confirmation.

“Your fault.”

“How’s that? Oh, let me guess,” his finger taping his lips in the most frustrating exagerration of his excessively dramatic self. “You couldn’t stop thinking about me and got distracted from your work, so of course, your boss told you to never come back because of your uselesness. Tragic love story!” He sighed. “But then again, who could resist me? I feel sympathetic for you. <3″

Your disgust grew just at the thought of being in love with Hisoka. He annoyed more you at every word he spoke, at every breath he took but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing this. You prefered playing his game and use your sarcasm to counter his and perhaps, distract yourself from your harsh reality.

“Well, if you’re so sympathetic, you could buy me a house-”

“Nope, <3″

You tried, at least!

“My apartment have been infested with cockroaches, so honestly, I really need a house. If you know a place, tell me.”

Hisoka eyed you for a second.

“Are you really unclean to the point of having cockroaches in your whole apartment?”

“What ? NO!” you yelled.

He just laughed again, shoting his head back. You bite your lower lips in embarassment as you saw the eyes of everyone else in proximity glaring at you. Your cheeks burned in fluster.You’ve been too loud.

“I have an idea!” you said to Hisoka after chacking your burning face away. “We could swap houses! That way, you could live with your family!”

His laugh died and he looked at you, pleased that you started playing with him.

“They said they missed you, you know? That you shouldn’t have run off and left them without saying anything,” you continued.

“I,” started Hisoka through a shit eating grin, “hate you so much and I urge to kill you but it would be no fun with you.”

“I think one of your brothers at my house is called Steve. Steve really, really misses you.” You smiled. “I feel like you two were very close.”

You liked insisting on each and every word of your sentence.

“Impossible. I’m too sexy to be related to Steve.”

“You’re sure? I thought you were twins. I could barely tell you apart!” Your voice sounded more and more amused with each syllable leaving your mouth. It felt so natural. “Wow.”

Honeslty, playful bander with Hisoka was fun. A real game, a match one of you had to win; he was never phased by any of your words so you kept sending sly insults back and forth in this oddly lively and convivial disgust you shared for each other.

Unfortunatly, everything must come to an end, right? You stopped quick in your teasing when you saw a familiar number appearing on your phone. Your smile vanished in less than a second and the atmosphere wasn’t so light anymore. Your partner was calling you, but in all honesty, you didn’t want to answer now. Or more like you didn’t have the heart to.

Hisoka raised one eyebrow.

“Lover?”

“I guess.. They’ve been cheating for a while, so no, not really anymore,” you said, trying your best to seem nonchalant about it.

“And you’re okay with that? You don’t seem like the type who’d have an open relationship.” His voice sounded like he took great joy in your suffering.

“Well, they found their soulmate. I know them,” you gulped. “I know them more than I know myself. It’s been hard on them and they aren’t ready to talk about it but I’m aware of what they’re doing at night. I saw their messages by accident.” You shrugged. “I’m only waiting for when they feel like it’s time.”

You stared at the number until it disappeared.

“Liar.”

You looked over to Hisoka again, slightly disoriented.

“You can dump them since you found your own soulmate.The break-up wouldn’t be so hard on them if they knew this.” He chuckled. “You’re just slowing down the inevitable fate of your couple. You don’t want to be alone and that’s all there is to know.”

You glared at him, now. Your heart was beating loudly against your chest, in pure anger. How could he read through you so easily? You didn’t like that one bit and you were disappointed in yourself for oversharing. He’s your soulmate, yes, but he’s still Hisoka.

“Please. Not now.”

“Sucks to be you, love.”

An awkward silence fall upon you both, or at least upon you. While you were frantically texting your best friend to ask for a place to stay, only to be met with a lenghty apology, you searched for other ways to find a place to sleep tonight. The motel rooms prices were way too high and you didn’t know how long you’d need to stay, nor how much it’ll cost to have your appartment clean again. You couldn’t face your partner and you were too ashamed to call your family. Your pride would end you but you prefered sleeping in the streets than having them look at you disapprovingly. Your whole world was falling apart and you blamed it all on Hisoka. And yet...

Hisoka’s eyes didn’t leave your figure. His mind was racing and it seemed like it was the only thing it did since he met you. He didn’t speak when he saw you frown and sigh and type desesperatly on your phone, swipping through your contacts, hesitating over a room price, checking over and over again if anyone could help you. His mind was still racing when he told you:

“I guess you can come to my place for a while.”

You were utterly speechless and goggled at him for a few seconds. It isn’t like Hisoka at all to propose help. He had something in mind, you knew as much, but you couldn’t help but feel floored.

“Who are you and what the heck did you do to my soulmate-?”

“Awww, you refer to me as your soulmate, that’s adorable.”

“ANSWER-” Honestly, you didn’t care about the volume of your voice at this point. You were too shocked.

Hisoka just laughed it off and looked at you, openly condescending and still smiling. Does he ever stop doing so ?

“I will have to take on a mission so I won’t be at Heaven Arenas for a while.” He pointed at you. “You can take my room there while I’m gone.”

You were too confused.

“But why? You gain nothing by doing this!” You frowned and wrapped your hands protectively against your body. “I won’t have sex with you!”

“Don’t worry, I’d rather die,” he rolled his eyes. “I let you take my room because whatever happens to you if you sleep on a bench in the parc happens to me as well. And even if I’m pretty sure I can manage, I don’t want to wake up in the morning with a hole in my belly. You got it, darling?”

“Wait, what do you mean everything that happens to-’

But he didn’t let you finish your sentence: he took your box and walked away without giving you any other explanation.

“Hisoka, wait!”

Well, at least you got a rather interesting piece of informations. You didn’t know everything about soulmates but you sure knew that even if you were linked by fate, Hisoka wouldn’t do this without solid motives. Everything about him screamed to you to never trust him but you needed your box and you needed a roof over your head. You wouldn’t let your guard down for now. You probably couldn’t beat him in a fight but he didn’t seem like he’d kill you so that was already a good point.

You made a mental note to look more deeply into all of this and untangle the mystery of his help and quickly followed your jerk soulmate.

“I said wait, asshole!”

“What, miss me already? Do you want a goodbye kiss?”

“Don’t say such repulsive things,” you replied, gagging. “I’ll need the room’s key.”

“Here,” he tosses it to you before adding “just don’t go looking around my stuff too much~”

This was going to be... interesting.

#hunter x hunter #hxh #hxh x reader #hisoka x reader #hisoka morrow x reader #hxh hisoka #hunter x hunter imagines #hunter x hunter x reader #hisoka imagine #hisoka morrow #hisoka morow x reader #imagines #hxh 1999 #x reader #hxh 2011 #hxh imagines #soulmate au #imagine a soulmate au w/ a weak s/o

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scandalousfemale · 4 years

Text

Fall to Pieces

Rafe Cameron x Y/N

An unexpected and unnecessary part 2 to Lists, though it can be read as a stand-alone.

Y/N helps Rafe get sober after he told her what he had done. She’s conflicted because now she’s getting glimpses of a better Rafe but she can’t forget or forgive him so he makes it right the only way that he knows how.

WC: 5,308

Warning: smut, mentions of shooting the sheriff (but he did not shoot the deputy), mentions of jail, mentions of drugs and withdrawals, mentions of funerals (they think Sarah and John B are dead), spoilers, unprotected sex, mention of birth control, mentions of anger, mentions of parental unit dying/going to jail, mentions of PTSD, mentions of nightmares, y/n pulls a knife out on Barry and regrets it immediately, mentions of drugs

A/N: Hello! Thank you for taking the time to even look at this fic, I worked really long and hard on it and I had a great time writing it. It was my first time ever writing smut so if it sucks, I’m so sorry. I’m also running on no sleep because I’ve been editing this all night. That being said, I tried my best to proofread, I’m sure that there are tons of mistakes anyway. Again, thank you for reading my fic! I ended it the only way that felt right to me. Oh, and it’s inspired by Fall to Pieces by Avril Lavigne

It’s been 7 months since Rafe showed up at your door and ripped your heart out of your now gaping chest. 6 months and three weeks since his family held a funeral for his sister in which he couldn’t attend because he was going through withdrawals. 6 months since his friends and family started asking you about his whereabouts. You’ve lied to everyone you knew back on the Outer Banks, telling them that you haven’t seen him since that summer.

You’ve convinced yourself that you were okay with taking care of him even if you weren’t together but for the first three weeks while he was at his worse, every time you had to touch him, you wanted to throw up (most times you did). You just can’t help but picture him killing Peterkin, sometimes you have dreams where you see it happen and you didn’t do anything to stop it, then you’d wake up next to him and have to move to the sofa just from the disgust. Though you’re not exactly sure what really happened that day, and he wouldn’t tell you, your overactive imagination filled in the blanks for you every night for those first few weeks.

The fifth week was better, in the sense that your disgust was slowly being taken over by hate. You hated that he had put you in this situation. You hated that you allowed yourself to care enough to take care of him. You hated that you love him but most of all, you hate his father for screwing up his children so much that one would rather die than go back to him and the other couldn’t stay sober long enough to know right from wrong.

You were also able to convince your parents to help you co-sign and move into a house near the school instead of staying in the dorms. You said that it’s because of all the teens partying around you and that you couldn’t concentrate on studying but really, it’s because of the noise complaints that you’ve been getting. It’s been hell studying for finals while sleeping next to someone going through cold shakes or nightmares. You’ve told yourself multiple times that Rafe was going through withdraws while also suffering from PTSD but it didn’t make you feel any better when you started missing classes or came home to your living room completely destroyed because he had a rage fit due to the cravings. You’ve offered to send him to rehab but he wanted no trace of where he could be so you complied.

A month after getting everything straightened out, you were finally moving out. You were happy that you could go further into the city where Rafe could go out more, spend more time around other people than surround himself with his mistakes, and four walls. Though the process wore on him, you could tell that he was becoming a better person. He was more patient and understanding. It would be a lie to say that his fuse wasn’t still just as bad when someone would trigger it but it seems you’ve been doing a lot of that anyway—lying.

Seven months into living together and him finally being sober, you want to say that he reminds you of the old Rafe but he doesn’t. He’s much more mature, his sad eyes tell a story that he’s seen way too much, too soon. Some days, you wish that you could take his pain away. Other days, you wish that he’d drown in it…at least you wish you thought that.

Renting a U-Haul, and maybe to fill your own fantasy of moving in together like a normal couple in college, you had Rafe help you pack. Was it a good idea? Probably not. Most of the time you ended up yelling at him for packing the bedroom things with the living room items. When you saw him put the dishes in with the DVDs, you had banished him to the house for the rest of the day, telling him that you’d pack the kitchen away by yourself. You were happy that you’d actually done that though because it gave you the excuse to give the two of you some space. You had found yourself getting close to him again. Leaning in when you laughed, touching his arm to show him something on your phone or when you window shop. You didn’t want to give him mixed signals but how could you not when you’re confused yourself?

So, you left Rafe unpacking all the boxes of clothes and moving around the furniture while you came back and tackled the kitchen. You almost wished that you had asked him to come along just for his company but after waking up in his arms last night, groggy from being tired, you figured that it was best to put some distance between the two of you.

A soft knocking sounded from your door and the smile that appeared on your face should’ve been criminal. You were almost too happy to see him. You couldn’t—wouldn’t let yourself forget what he did, though it was hard to remember when you’ve never seen Rafe in that state. Pushing your thoughts aside for the millionth time, you yanked the door open, your smile immediately dropping. You tried to shut the door as quickly as you opened it but a hand lands in the middle of the door and pushes it open the rest of the way.

“Now, that’s no way to greet an old friend,” Barry said, as condescending as ever.

“You’ve lost that title the minute you started selling drugs,” you narrowed your eyes at him.

He was right. Barry and you go way back, back before you were considered a “kook”, before you even knew what it meant to be a part of figure 8. Well, technically your moms go way back. You two were destined to be friends since you’ve come out of the womb. You shared secrets, scars, heartbreaks, skinned knees, all the same. You held him when his mom died and invited him over to your place every single day, unknowingly introducing him to his future clients. Your mom loved him like a child and if you ate, he ate. Until, of course, you started dating Rafe at fifteen and Barry started finding new friends. About a year later, the friendship was over. One night you walked in on him selling drugs to Rafe. You told them both that you wanted nothing to do with either of them if Barry kept selling and Rafe kept distributing but neither of them listened. Barry continued selling but stopped coming around, breaking your mother’s heart. As for Rafe, well, we know that story.

“Yes, of course. Big, bad, naughty, Barry,” he rolled his eyes and though his words had a hint of humor, his eyes did not. He shoved past you and made his way inside your apartment.

“What do you want?” You said in a clipped tone, eyeing his figure to see if he has any visible weapons on him or not because last time he showed up at your apartment, he was not so kind.

“Rafe,” Barry said matter of factly with a bright smile. As if he wasn’t talking about someone who supposedly dropped off the face of the earth seven months ago.

You stared at him and shrugged, “your guess is as good as mine.”

“Y/n, I’m not going to ask you twice and I don’t exactly do well to being lied to, where is Rafe?” He leaned against the refrigerator with his arms crossed in front of his chest, eyeing you.

“I haven’t seen him,” you lied through gritted teeth. You backed yourself into your kitchen, feeling comfort that there was an exit behind you while Barry was in your line of sight.

“Baby, if you only knew what he’s done, you wouldn’t be protecting him right now,” Barry chuckled as he took a step towards you, “he owes me a debt and I’ve given him long enough. Now, I’m here to collect. Listen, it’s either me or the SBI, it’s your choi-,” he didn’t have the time to finish before you found your hand wrapped around your kitchen knife bringing the blade down on the sink beside you.

You tried to speak between breaths, “Stop it! Stop!”

Barry’s irritating smile has finally dropped from his face. His hands out in front of him as if he was prepared for you to lose it and charge at him...and maybe you might. At this point, you’re not really sure what you planned to do. You just needed to protect Rafe.

“He’s mine,” you breathe out a declaration you haven’t let left your lips since the night of Rafe’s confession, “you don’t get to take him, the SBI doesn’t get to take him, fucking death doesn’t get to take him from me without my permission. Now, get the fuck out of my apartment right now because I do not know where he is and if I did, I would never tell you,” you said with an eerie calm washing over you. You keep taking steps toward Barry who hasn’t moved back once.

“Come at me, baby, I have nothing to lose,” Barry said with his arms at his side, faking vulnerability while his shifty eyes were telling another story.

“Yes, you do,” you assured him, “We both do, but the difference between us is that I’m willing to lose it all. Are you?”

“You think I’m going to just forget what his little sister did? She stole from me. Now I have leverage over my best seller— my best thief, and you want me to let that slide because a chick with a knife who can’t even keep it steady enough to point at me wants to threaten me? I’ll come back every single day if I have to.”

“His little sister is dead, haven’t you heard? Her and John B got washed away in the storm and you still have the nerve to talk about her? You can come back every day if you want to. I’ll give you the keys to the place. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t live here anymore.” You gestured toward the empty living room and the boxes beside the two of you.

For the first time, Barry let his guard down long enough to take a look around the apartment.

“I left him,” you continued your half-lie. You did leave Rafe, at your new house, “when I found out what happened, I left him and I couldn’t handle being on campus where I knew he could find me,” where you knew anyone else could find him, “so I’m leaving.” You shrugged, feigning indifference. Setting the knife down on the sink as if that wasn’t the most insane thing that you’ve ever done. You dug into your purse. “Here’s something for your troubles, yeah?” Your mother always told you to have cash on you and finally, it has come in handy, you pulled around about three grand, almost 1/3 of what you got for selling your car.

“Take it,” you shoved the money against his chest. With no hesitation Barry’s clammy hands landed on yours, pressing both your hand and the money against his chest. The contact instantly brought you back from your previous panic. You couldn’t even believe that you had pulled a knife out on him, what were you even going to do with it? It’s not like you were…it’s not like you were Rafe. At the realization, you met Barry’s eyes with so much sadness, “this is the last thing I’m going to do for you, Barry. For your mom, I hope you can get a real job one day,” you said sincerely.

“Always had a thing for the bad boys, huh, y/n?” Barry said, the joking tone in his voice disappearing as he took the money from underneath your palm, letting your hand fall.

“Just the lost ones,” you admitted, “goodbye, Barry.”

He pocketed the cash, giving you one last look before turning around and leaving you to the boxes.

The house was surprisingly mostly unpacked, except for the two new boxes that you had brought back with you, though in your defense, you didn’t have a lot of things to begin with. After a long-needed shower—more so on Rafe’s part since you left him to do the grunt work all day, you had fixed up dinner for the both of you.

Something had shifted inside of you since the talk with Barry. You could no longer ignore your feelings now that they’re right in your face but you’re still so conflicted. You love Rafe. You love him so much and he’s sober and trying for the first time. You’re seeing him in a new light but today, after picking up that knife, you can’t get over the horrible things that he’s done and it’s tearing you apart inside.

From the archway of the kitchen, you can’t help but look at the boy on your sofa. He’s probably watching some dumb show, his long legs stretched out in front of him while he’s nursing a bottle of water, the sadness in his eyes looking more and more permanent. Your fists clenched up beside you as tears threaten to fall as you made your way in front of him. You can’t count the number of times you’ve seen him like this, the number of times you’ve fantasized about him like this but with your children crawling all over him as you’d laugh and sip a cup of coffee. Now that’s really all it’ll be, a fantasy.

Rafe had set the bottle on the coffee table in front of him as if sensing a confrontation coming on and it fueled your anger even more. You hated that he knew you so well and that you two were so well connected that you could both feel the shift of the energy between the two of you without saying one word. You finally made it in front of him, your knees touching, you couldn’t take your eyes off of his.

He waited, looking back at you as your tears fell from your face and his hands twitched like he wanted to reach out towards you but thought better of it.

“I hate you,” you said pathetically as your shoulders slumped. You angrily wiped away your tears as you shook your head at him. The boy who once was your dream. Rafe didn’t even flinch at your words, he knew it already. He hoped that you’d change your mind about him but he knew from the very first night that things would never be the same.

Without saying a word, Rafe reached for your fists, kissing your knuckles knowing that you’d never use them against him. As if apologizing for even causing you to form them.

“I hate you so much and I can’t forgive you for what you did; I’ve tried,” you said through your tears, “but I also love you so much,” you whispered your confession. His head snapping up at you, searching for your lies and finding none.

Before you could even think, one of his arms snakes around your waist, pulling you down to straddle him as the other came up to your face, forcing you to now look up at him.

“You still love me?” Rafe finally spoke, brushing away a few of your tears with the pad of his thumb.

“I’ve always loved you but you make me hate you,” you said as you leaned your face against his palm, missing the feeling of intimacy with him.

It was almost like something had changed within him, as if he was arguing with himself and finally made up his mind when he leaned in closer to your face, his lips brushing against yours, “Don’t. Tonight just, just love me, okay?”

How could you say no to that? You nodded and it takes him all but a second for his lips to touch yours, knowing that the minute you gave him an inch, he’d take a mile.

The kiss was electric. It was something that you had no idea you were even craving until his were on yours and you couldn’t get enough. Your tongue swiped at his lower lip, taking it in between your teeth and giving him a soft bite, using his gasp as an invitation for your tongue to enter his mouth. Rafe didn’t deny you as his hands worked his way to your hips that’s been subconsciously rocking against his. You worked your hands up his shirt, lingering on his abs, feeling them expand and contract with every breath he takes before removing your lips from his just to pull off his shirt.

Heavenly. It was the only word that came to your mind when you looked at his body. Rafe didn’t give you much time to marvel at the sculpted figure that is his body before pulling your face towards his again, “fuck, y/n,” Rafe breathe and it sent a shiver down your spine. You can already feel the wetness pooling between your legs, knowing full well that the thin layer of your pajama pants is doing nothing but allowing him to feel it, too. Just like how you can feel him grow underneath you, making you whimper when you rock against him the right way. You made your way down his neck, kissing and biting him, marking him like you were teenagers again. Rafe growled at you when you bit a little bit too hard into his shoulder.

“Y/n, baby,” Rafe rasped, trying to get your attention but it was useless, “princess,” he said almost inaudible as you were about to rub out your own orgasm against him. Suddenly, his hand came down hard on your backside, and instead of yelping, you moaned for him to go harder which all but caused him to pull you away from him. Your arms suddenly empty and your chest heaving, you looked at Rafe’s plump lips and eyes that are dark with desire. He stood up and didn’t waste a moment, he allowed you to jump onto him, supporting your weight with his arms around you.

You quickly yanked off your top, allowing your breast to press up against him when you wrap your arms around his neck, “I need you,” you admitted against his neck. More than he knew. In more ways than he could give but for now, you could accept him like this. You felt your back slam against the wall as he fists your hair in his hands, forcing your head back so he could kiss your neck and leave some marks of his own. By the time he reached your bed, you needed your release. He had set you down on the bed, almost too gently. You reached for his pants but his fingers wrapped around your wrist, “I want to taste you first,” he said with what you thought was supposed to be a smile but he was already preoccupying himself with pulling off your shorts. You were almost sure that he moaned just by the sight of your spread legs as if he hadn’t already seen you like this a hundred times.

You laid back and spread your legs further, reaching for his head with his hand but instead he interlocked his fingers with yours saying, “don’t rush me, princess, I want to remember this.” It felt like an eternity before you felt his lips on your inner thigh, causing your body to shudder. Slowly, you felt his tongue delve into you, flicking your clit just right enough for you to buck your hips against him. He wrapped his lips around your clit as his tongue worked it just the way you liked until your nails are leaving marks on him as you scream, “Yes, Rafe, right there, please don’t stop!” Your words along with your moans, giving him the confidence that he still remembers how to make you cum; and you did. Hard. You could’ve sworn that you went cross-eyed for a moment as your thighs attempted to shut around his head. He brought his hands up to hold them back as he continued, bringing on another shaking orgasm.

“I need you in me, Rafe,” you said as this point, almost delirious but you needed the closeness. “I need you to fuck me like you just—like you hate me,” you said but you weren’t sure if you meant it. Granted, in your state, you’d take him any way that he’d come but you just thought back to all the times you’d slept with him in that last month before everything went to shit. When he was at his worst with drugs that most times, he couldn’t get it up, and when he could, it would be rough and fast.

Rafe crawled up your body, using his thumb to wipe his lower lip and then sucking it clean, causing your eyes to flutter. You pushed down his pants until they were around his knees and he kicked them all the way off himself but he didn’t pounce on you and started drilling you. He almost seemed…hesitant.

“I know you hate me but I don’t,” Rafe started, slowly as he began inserting himself into you, inch by inch, “I can’t fuck you like I used to right now. I can’t fuck you like I’m angry, I need to-,” he stopped himself with a moan as you clenched around him, “I just need you to fuck you like you love me okay?” He rasped, looking more vulnerable then you’ve ever seen him. You nodded, grabbing a hold of his hair as you wrapped your legs around him, you kissed him deeply before looking at him in his eyes, “I love you Rafe,” you breathe and that was all it took for him to lose his control.

After basically wrestling around in the sheets, you both came multiple times. Each time with whispers of promises of forever that you both knew was just something said in the heat of the moment. When you both felt spent, though not nearly having enough of each other, Rafe had gotten up to go to the bathroom and get a wet cloth to come and clean you up. You haven’t been this reckless since you two were sixteen and had a pregnancy scare, so you were thanking the heavens for your birth control right now.

Rafe had put the towel away in the bathroom again but didn’t bother to put on his clothes as he laid next to you in bed. You rested your head against his chest as his finger started trailing your spine.

“I saw Barry today,” you said suddenly.

“Yeah?” Rafe tensed, pulling you closer to him as if he could protect you, “What did he want?”

“Other than a trip down memory lane?” you offered, “you.”

Rafe didn’t say a word as he kissed the top of your head and you drifted off to sleep.

The sun was evil, you were sure of it. The blinding light had awakened you and all you tried to do was burrow deeper into the hard body next to you. Only except, the body wasn’t there. Blindly, you reached out beside you, almost in a panic when you couldn’t feel anything other than the cold sheets, indicating that it has been vacant for some time. You finally opened your eyes and sat up; your body deliciously sore but you couldn’t even enjoy that right now. You walked into the living room, naked as the day you born, only to see a small duffel bag by the door.

“Rafe?” You called out, only to have him appear from the kitchen with an orange juice in his hand. He took a look at you and his eyes lingered on your body, the marks that he left on you. The marks you left on his neck and chest, obvious as well, but you couldn’t concentrate on that, “I can’t believe you,” you spat out as you turned on your heel and made your way back into the bedroom.

You didn’t make it past the door frame before Rafe’s arm snaked around you and pressed your back to his front, his lips coming down to your ear, “stop,” he said, his tone was almost like an order but you knew it was a plea, “whatever it is that’s going on in that head of yours, stop it.”

You turned around in his arms, willing yourself not to cave when his face was inches from yours. Willing yourself not to cry when his bag is inches away from the door, “you’re leaving me,” you stated.

“I’m not leaving you,” Rafe corrected, “last night was just…amazing but it did remind me that being sober isn’t the only thing that I had to get done. I have loose ends, y/n. I have things that I need to make right. So, yes, I am leaving but do not think for a second that I’m leaving because of you. I’m alive because of you.”

“Nice speech,” you said bitterly, crossing your arms across your chest as you stepped out of his grasp, “you’re leaving right after we had sex. It’s still a douchebag move to make.”

“Y/n, I told you. I had a realization. Trust me, if I didn’t-,” he stopped himself, watching you as you pulled his shirt over your head, “if I didn’t have to go, I wouldn’t but I need to like, I don’t know. Clear my head or find myself or whatever the fuck it is. I need to go back to my dad and show my face. Fuck, I need to visit Sarah’s grave.”

“And you can’t do all of that with me? Here I am again, re-arraigning my whole life for you and Rafe Cameron can’t eve-,” he cut you off by lifting you up, making you wrap your legs around his waist. His kiss was hard and bruising.

“Shut the fuck up,” Rafe parroted the line he said seven months ago, only this time, he whispered it with a smile ghosting around his lips.

“I love you,” he said as he caressed your face with one hand, the other still holding you up, “I love you and you do not fully love me like before. I can see it in your eyes, princess. We laugh and we might’ve fucked yesterday but it does not change anything. You don’t trust me so I need to go and make things right, okay? You told me that I needed to love myself before you can be with me again, before you can love me again. So, that’s what I’m going to do. Okay?” he said as he set you down on your feet again.

You nodded, you understood. You weren’t dumb enough to think he’d stay here forever anyway, no matter how much you took care of him and he was right. There are still days where you can’t look at him and having sex last night might’ve made it clear where you both stood with each other but it doesn’t change the fact that sometimes you still hated him-you were just too drunk off sex to act on it.

“Yeah. Okay,” was all you could say. Though you gripped onto his hand like a child as he walked to the front door, picking his bag off the floor and effortlessly resting the strap on his shoulder. He turned to you and reached into his pocket, leaving a small gold chain necklace in the palm on your hand. A lame replacement for his own hand, you thought, but you willed yourself not to grab onto him again.

“Thank you. For literally everything. For changing your whole life for me. For stopping everything. No amount of thank you will ever be enough,” Rafe said sincerely and though it looks like he wants to, he doesn’t kiss you.

“Will I see you again?” You asked, your voice small. You gripped the necklace to your chest.

“I don’t know. But I fucking hope so, y/n,” Rafe said before turning around and walking out of your door.

Epilogue

“It’s been two years, dad,” you fidget on the bar stool in your parent’s house, you were finally back in the Outer Banks for the first time since Sarah’s funeral. A small simple gold chain hangs from your neck. You don’t remember the last time you took it off.

“A lot of things have changed, y/n. He might not be who he was anymore,” your dad warned, his eyes trained on yours and even though you know he meant that maybe Rafe isn’t like the boy you fell in love with when you were fifteen, all you wished for was that he wasn’t like the boy he was when he was nineteen.

You held up your glass of water, as if you’re making a toast, “then here’s to changes,” you smiled as your dad shook his head.

When Rafe had left your house, two years ago, he had come back to the Outer Banks like a boy on a mission. You weren’t exactly sure what had happened but rumor has it, he reached out to JJ, Kiara, and Pope to help put his father in prison. From there, they had recruited the help from Mrs. Lana Grubbs, who somehow had enough information to put Ward away for good. Of course, in the midst of getting his father in jail, he had to come clean about his involvement in the murder of Sheriff Peterkin—something that should’ve been a capital offense, but with the help of a very good lawyer (thanks dad) and being involved in the arrest of Ward Cameron, it was brought down to voluntary manslaughter. Rumor also had it that Ward Cameron could’ve gotten away, he could have stuck to his original story, seems like the police bought it anyway but once he heard that Rafe was basically selling himself out for this, he complied, knowing that his son would get less time. By all means, Ward was not a good father and even a worse excuse of a man but you’d like to believe that that was his way of telling Rafe that he loved him enough to do this, especially since he’s lost Sarah.

You sat outside of the prison, in your car. You saw the barb wires and the guards and almost got cold feet. You wrapped your hands tightly around the steering wheel until your knuckles turned white and took a deep breath. You didn’t know why you were so nervous but you felt like if you exit your car, you’d turn into a puddle of goo. After a couple of breathing exercises, you’ve gathered enough courage to walk up to the gate, giving the officer your ID, hoping that you’re still on Rafe’s visitations list. After a couple of minutes, just enough to make you sweat, they led you back to a room. Metal chairs had lined up against the glass, a phone at the side of each divider.

Reminding yourself to breathe, you sat down on the cold steel. You picked up the phone, eager to hear Rafe’s voice. As the rows of inmates started filling up each seat, sitting in front of their loved ones, your eyes searched for him. All the orange jumpsuits looking the same but then you felt it. That connection, that energy that you once shared with this man who was once the love of your life and now almost a stranger. He sat down across from you as you looked up at him, a grin painted on his face, and for the first time in a while, his smile reaches his eyes, “hey princess.”

tags: @millyelliot @snkkat

#rafe x reader #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x y/n #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron #drew starkey #HAAAAAAA DID I SLEEP? NO #DID I CRY? YEH #FUCK THIS IS LONG #outer banks #my drabbles #outerbanks #outer banks fic #outerbanks fic #my writing

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galaxyofmyown · 4 years

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could u do a fic where reader is scared that hotch is cheating on them and hotch learns that its bc their past partners had cheated?

anon, i think i may scream. not because of your request (it is lovely and original and i like it). but i think my brain is bye-bye GONE. this took me like four days to write for literally no reason. so i’m writing this note to apologize in advance for errors or literally just bad writing. brain-machine say no. but PLEASE! feel free to send another request and i promise i will craft it as the gods crafted man (well, i’ll try). AHHHHHH. i hope you enjoy anyways!! :))))))

NOTE: I FINALLY MADE IT GENDER-NEUTRAL THOUGH AHAHAHA

aaron hotchner x reader - i know not

“Hey, baby,” Hotch says over the phone. It’s almost midnight and you’re alone in your bed once again.

“Hey, Aaron. How’s the case going?” You ask. You’re curled up under your clean sheets, freshly showered and in your favorite sleep clothes. But for some reason, you don’t feel comfortable at all.

“It’s… coming along. I should be home in a day or two.” He says. He sounds genuinely tired, and you trust this man with all of you, or at least you try to. Sometimes, though, you can’t help but get paranoid, the darker memories creeping in, clouding your vision.

“Okay. I love you.” You say softly.

“I love you more. And I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I understand.”

“You are extraordinary, (Y/N).”

“Ditto, Agent. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight. Love you.” He says again, easing your worry.

“Love you too. Stay safe.”

You plug in your phone and set it on your bedside table. Your room is lit only by one small lamp, and you stare at your ceiling. Your mind wanders even though you did not give it permission to do that. Usually, Hotch asks you to watch Jack part-time when he’s on a case, but in the last couple instances he assured you that Jessica could take care of him. It was probably nothing, but you couldn’t help but jump to a worst-case scenario. Were you getting cheated on again? Or was he about to break up with you?

No. Bad (Y/N). Stop.

But he was always so annoyingly vague about his cases. What if, and we’re just spitballing here, what if he isn’t even on a case when he says he is? What if he finishes the case, and rather than going home to you, he goes to some other person’s house?

You sit up in bed, suddenly wide awake. You know you’re being ridiculous, but you can’t help it. Aaron is a great guy. He loves you. He wouldn’t even cheat if he didn’t love you. He wouldn’t do that to anyone. You’re reaching for your phone before you can convince yourself not too.

“Hello?”

Just hearing Hotch’s voice makes you feel better.

“Hi. Sorry. I didn’t mean to call you.” You say.

“Are you sure? Is something wrong?” He asks, and his concern makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

“No, everything’s fine. Sorry again. Goodnight.” You hang up before he can probe more.

You sigh and walk to the kitchen to get a snack. You don’t think you’ll be getting much sleep tonight.

---

You wake up at 7:30 the next morning for work, your eyelids drooping and feet dragging. You make coffee in your biggest travel mug before heading out. Your day at the publishing house is slow and you think it’s a miracle it ends at all. You check your phone as you’re leaving the building and you see a text from Hotch.

Agent: Hey (Y/N). I’ll be home tonight around 8. Want to come over? Jack will be home and I know he misses you as much as I do.

You smile like an idiot and quickly respond that you’ll be there on the dot. You’re walking to your parking space when a familiar silver sedan passes you.

“I know not.” You say, your suspicions confirmed by the familiar license plate. You rush to your car before you start crying in the middle of the parking lot.

Why else would he lie to you and pretend he wasn’t back yet? Was he going to his place to meet someone right now? You start your car and pull out of the lot before you lose your nerve. You don’t know what you’ll say, but you have to confront him. You had your suspicions in your last relationship, but you ignored them. The only good that did was give you four more months of ignorant bliss before you realized you were being cheated on yet again.

You’re shaking by the time you pull up to his apartment building. You climb the stairs with the nervous anticipation you used to get as a kid when you had to get a shot. You have a moment's pause before you reach the door, your knock strong despite the weakness in your knees.

Hotch is still in his suit when he opens the door, but his tie is loose and his jacket is wrinkled.

“(Y/N). Wh-what are you doing here?” He asks, looking more confused than anything else.

“What are you doing here? You said you wouldn’t be back for hours. What am I supposed to think when you drive by me in your car when you’re meant to be four states over?”

Hotch still hasn’t opened the door enough for you to see inside, which all but confirms your worst fears.

“(Y/N), I can explain what-”

“Hotch,” You can’t call him Aaron right now, “Just tell me. Is there someone else?” You say, voice breaking. Aaron’s face can’t hide his emotions. His eyebrows furrow and he tilts his head up at you in that condescending way you hate.

“(Y/N). No. Why would you think that?” He says, but his voice isn’t reassuring. If anything, it’s angry.

“Can you blame me for feeling a little insecure, Hotch? You’ve been home three days out of the last two weeks. You don’t want me watching Jack in your apartment all of a sudden. You lie about whether or not you’re home? Is this the first time you came home without telling me, or is this something you’ve been doing. Do you laugh when I believe you?” You’re lashing out and you know it, but you can’t help the way your voice rises as you let out all of your pent-up feelings.

Hotch is silent, staring intently at your face. You know his profiling look, and this isn’t it. This is his boyfriend look. He’s concerned, but guarded, analyzing his best move. The amazing thing about Hotch, the thing you love about Hotch, is that he’s always determining the best move that will make you happy.

After a moment of tense quiet, he sighs in resignation and opens the door all the way.

His apartment is a mess. Clothes everywhere, dishes stacked in and around his sink, overflowing trash bags strewn about.

“Oh,” you say, tilting your head and willing yourself not to pass judgment, “hmm.”

Hotch looks sheepish.

“I, I’ve been having a tough couple of weeks. That’s why I lied about when I was getting back. I wanted some time to clean.” He says.

“You could’ve just told me.” You point out, and he nods.

“I know, I know, and I should have. I don’t know what I’m so afraid of. It’s just the thought of you thinking of me as weak…” He trails off, and your anger dissipates.

“Aaron, baby,” You say, taking his face in your hands, “I love you. I know who you are. You’re the strongest man I know. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t come to me for help. I would do anything for you.” You whisper your last statement, and yet it still carries the most force. Hotch leans into your touch.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). I love you,” He pauses, at a loss for words, “I love you.”

You huff out a laugh.

“You already said that.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

You hug him, and he melts into your arms.

“I could’ve watched Jack at my place, you know. It doesn’t bother me at all.” You say, leading him over to the couch (and clearing off some clothes as you do so.). He rests his head in your lap.

“I didn’t want to ask that of you. You work a full-time job, and I know you didn’t sign up for being his babysitter-”

“Hey. No. When I started seeing you Jack became just as important part of my life as you are. I would drop everything for both of you.”

You notice Hotch’s eyes are getting red, and you stroke your hand through his hair.

“I adore you, (Y/N). You are absolutely amazing. And sometimes the thought of you leaving is so scary that I shut down.” He says.

“I get it. I just want you to know I’m all in.”

“I know you are. I am too.”

Both of you just sit there for a moment, basking in one another’s company.

“Speaking of scared,” you begin to say, and Hotch sits up to look at you, “I’m sorry I accused you of… you know, cheating.” You’re ashamed.

“I’m not mad. I’m sorry I was rude to you. I don’t blame you for not trusting me with how I’ve been acting lately.” He says, and you sigh in relief.

“Thank you. I’ve just had bad experiences, so it’s hard sometimes to not get worried.”

“Bad experiences? What do you mean?” Hotch asks, protective mode activated.

“My last three boyfriends all cheated on me.” You say quietly. Hotch stands up and paces back and forth past the coffee table a few times.

“Aaron?” You ask carefully. He stops when he hears your voice and the tenseness of his shoulders seems to melt away.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, returning to the couch, “how could anyone do that to you?” He asks, taking your hands in his. You don’t know how to respond, so he kisses your forehead.

“Listen to me,” he murmurs, “I would never, ever, in a million years do anything to hurt you like that. Never. You are my world.” He says. You nod, fighting back tears.

“I love you so much.” You say because it’s never enough.

“I love you more.” He responds. You shake your head. Impossible.

“Get up, then.” You say, hopping off the couch.

“Why?” He asks but gets up anyway.

“We’re cleaning. Both of us. And then we’re picking Jack up. Both of us. And then we’re making dinner. Both of us. Got it?”

Hotch smiles and picks up a trash bag.

“Got it.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #ssa hotchner #hotch #hotch x reader #hotch imagine

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youarejesting · 4 years

Text

Quarantine.69

[Masterlist]

Beta: N/A Pairing: BTS x reader Friends2Lovers Genres: friendship, drama, romance SLOWEST OF BURNS. until the anticipation kills us all… Rating: PG-13 and above Summary: Your brother works with a few BigHit dance teams and whilst having permission to accompany him at work the city shuts down banning anyone from stepping outside for a whole WEEK while they disinfect the streets. If you step outside you might get arrested, shot, or poisoned by the chemicals they are emitting through the city. Words: 1.4k Announcement: Working hard and hardly working.

[Part 1] [Part 68] [Part 70] [Tag Yourself Here]

Stepping out from your appointment at the physio, you saw Mister Dong leaning against his car. He hadn't noticed you had seen him thank gosh. Immediately you became suspicious, what was he doing here, you glanced around casually and checked your phone only to see it ringing. It was his name on the screen. Could you pretend it wasn't ringing? Would he know you were lying? Would you care if he knew?

Sighing discreetly, you answered the phone, "Hello?" You asked starting to walk to the cafe Wendy had said she would be working but you were there to meet with Mal-chin. He had asked to see you and it seemed kind of important.

"Ah miss y/n, how are you this morning?" His voice was condescending and you knew he was hiding something and trying to lord it over you.

"Kind of busy, I am meeting a friend for lunch?" You said politely and yet still with authority.

"I was wondering if you had time for a quick chat, your brother and his girlfriend are going on a get away holiday are they not?" He said smugly and you bit your lip and continued to walk away, that asshole. "Do you still not have time to-"

You cut him off, "Hello?" You said trying to sound genuinely confused "Hello, Mister Dong are you there?"

"Hello, yes I am here?" His voice came through clearly and you held your phone up in the air having muted the phone and started shouting that the service was bad while muting and unmuting the phone stealthily with your thumb. disconnecting the call in the middle of your talking "Hello are you the-"

That ought to keep him busy for a while, you thought continuing down the road without looking back. But what he said really hit you, he had faked a get away holiday for your brother and his girlfriend, you dropped Thomas and Areum a text and they understood your warning that Mister Dong planned it to get them away from you. They agreed that they would keep an eye out for trouble but would definitely use the trip anyway for a free trip and paid leave from the company.

There wasn’t much time for thought as you arrived at the cafe, Wendy waved to you from behind the bad her Plum coloured hair standing out amongst the other staff members. She was such a bubbly young lady you honestly couldn’t fathom not meeting her. She reminded you of yourself when you were not so -- for lack of a better word -- Damaged.

She was a good influence, she reminded you to be happy in the moment, and not to dwell. Sure your mind was full of what if’s, but if you were out having a good time with people you love and trusted; she taught you to push the worries aside. If for a moment and have fun, it surprised you how afterwards you would think over the events. All the things you had worried about leading up to the events, seemed irrelevant, they were all for nothing.

Mouthing to her and gesturing to her beautiful make up she blushed and looked down concentrating on her pour. Giggling you turned to see Mal-chin sitting at a table, his knee jutting in away that reminded you of a young teens impatience and boredom. His hair was on the longer side, with the whole quarantine thing, he wouldn’t have time for a haircut. Even when you met it was a tad shaggy, like your dark phase in highschool or the fourth year in harry potter.

Mal-chin gave you a brilliant smile and you took off your coat sitting down, you didn’t miss his glance towards your choice of shirt, it was a v neck but you didn’t think it was distasteful. The boy was a teen of course and he was respectful enough to quickly look away. It reminded you of Seokjin’s whining that morning about your choice of shirt.

“Hey Mal-chin, how is your dad?” “He is good, he has been a little busy though,” He smiled. It mustn't seem bad to have some space at his age. “I have been working hard and look here at my text scores, my teacher says if I keep this up I will get accepted in the S Medical University.”

“That is so exciting,” You smiled as Wendy came over to take your order. Mal-chin Ordered a Chai latte with cinnamon on top and you ordered a dark chocolate mocha iced. The conversation and banter between you three was great, they brought up your speech and cute phrase and you blamed Wendy. Who when she finished her shift she suggested you three go to the movies and watch some new romance comedy.

Looking at Mal-chin making sure he wasn’t uncomfortable he was smiling brilliantly, and the two were off leaving you to try and catch. They were walking along and window shopping and you received a call from Bang Si-hyuk who asked you to come for an important meeting.

“Hey guys, I have to go back early. I got a meeting but you too have fun and tell me how the movie goes” You grinned racing back to the Bighit headquarters and were ushered through security and up to one of the top floors for the meeting.

Everyone was there and waiting, bowing politely you rushed to your seat, “Sorry I am late, I came as fast as my leg allowed”

“Miss y/n, I saw you on television delivering a very powerful speech,” Mister Bang smiled cheekily, “We all have our memorable speeches”

Flushing as you remembered your fumble on stage in front of millions, “Ah yes, I have learnt the correct phrase now and will remember it well”

“We are here to revisit your relationship with the boys and I must say recently you have been in good favors with the Army and well, it doesn’t seem like they would be against you dating a member, we are thinking we can use this as a test. To see how they react to someone dating a member.”

You nodded listening intently “As Seokjin is the oldest, we are thinking perhaps he could be the other party public advertised in the relationship and then your presence with the band won't be questioned. Of course we expect to lose some of the fan base but we want to know how many exactly still support the band.” Mister Bang sighed before taking a drink of water.

“We don’t want a Hyuna and Edawn situation on our hands, if you can still be successful we won’t kick you out, if the effects are to negative we will deny the allegations and say you were working together for an upcoming project,” You watched the CEO discuss your relationship feeling kind of exposed but kept quiet. “If this works you can publicly move with the band if not, you will move behind the scenes in secret”

“That sounds fair sir” Nodding to show your understanding he smiled before turning to the bored

“Before we finalise this does anyone have anything to say on the matter, I want the band, the company and yourself to be well represented.”

“I think you should see this sir,” Mister Dong said showing an article that had your picture on it dressed in a Hazmat suit with a gun and the article was exposing you for killing someone during quarantine and not being a saint or saviour.

“This complicates things. I am so sorry, I cannot bring this onto my company and group, perhaps when everything dies down we can try again.” He said with a deep sigh rubbing his face “Ah… I was actually so happy and ready for you guys to start dating.”

“Hey whatever she did was self defense and we can have the article taken down and marked as defamation of character, we can say it was an attempt to tear her down.” Namjoon said standing and you slumped into your chair, head tilted back. This was like an earthquake, splitting your world in two.

“It would be best if you aren’t seen entering our building for a while and I ask that you don’t stay with the boys anymore it is too risky to have you seen, it is funny how one little thing changes everything” Mr Dong smirked eyeing you with mock pity he walked around the table and touched your shoulder. “I will drive you home.”

“Hey y/n, before you go don’t lose hope, look everything is up in the air again let’s give it a week and revisit the decision” Mr Bang said trying to reassure you.

[Part 1] [Part 68] [Part 70] [Tag Yourself Here] Tags: @theneverdays @hi-itstt @bubbletae7 @lovemusicandotps @taetaebq @w0lfqu33n @anaiss97 @moccahobi @maddymal @lilacdreams-00 @lethargicalyssa @knjkitten @pieislife @kthstrawberryshortcake @vividwoosan @seesawsmin-flower @tinyunknownflower @gguksfilter @fawnzilla @passionate-love-57911 @btrombley13 @novaprime-59 @hd-junglebook @infiredsunflower @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @simplymemyself @pars-ley @juanitapatricia @unicornnomore @moments-of-melancholy @tatastaetae

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gingerwritess · 5 years

Note

SPILT COFFEE WITH PRE DATING IDIOTS

ok i just realised i should be labeling these as parts of a series cause that might be REALLY confusing to new readers oop

SO this is following the dick-grab/only one chair ordeal! lets get some tension started up in here. i’m craving blushy loki and tension so this should get things moving in that direction for our pre-dating idiots ;)

part 10/infinity of Loki’s Happy Ending, masterlist is linked in my bio!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Break rooms at the Avengers tower are always...strange.

Today, there’s no “enhanced beings” or trained assassins eating donuts, it’s just a gaggle of technicians and facility operators huddle around the coffee pot.

Oh, and one probably psychopathic god-disguised-as-a-neurosurgeon-fake-boyfriend.

...that’s not even the strangest thing anymore.

You are a bit surprised to see Laing—uh, Loki—is the one in the middle. He’s the one they’re all laughing with, he’s the one telling the jokes, he’s—

“No, I think I’m going to keep her for a while, gents.”

—talking about you.

Oh, for the love of all that is holy, you just wanted some coffee.

You steel yourself for an onslaught of inevitable lying through your teeth, plastering on a small smile and pushing past Loki to get to the coffee pot.

“Gonna keep me, huh?”

A chorus of friendly chuckles goes around the little circle as Laing—god, no, Loki— just takes a sip of his own coffee with a sure “mmmhm.”

You force out a laugh. “Gee, thanks for letting me have a say in that decision, Robbie.”

“Mmhm.”

Okay. Disclaimer. You hadn’t had your coffee yet, so brain power...wasn’t on. And this might be the first time you’ve seen Laing without a lab coat, so maybe there was a blinded-by-your-fake-beauty bit of distraction as well.

Turning around with a roll of your eyes to head back out the door, you grab Laing’s chin in your free hand and plant a loud kiss on his cheek.

His entire body tenses.

...which only cracks the ceramic mug he was gripping apparently too tightly, hot coffee sloshing all down your front.

“Lok—LAING!”

Shoving him away, you grab a handful of paper towels and try to blot away the liquid, but the stain keeps spreading and Loki just stares in stunned silence as you stuff more napkins down your shirt.

The whole breakroom is watching.

A glance around brings you to a pause. “Heh...” you give a nervous laugh, reaching behind you for the god in question. “Isn’t he a weird little guy?”

Your hand fists in Laing’s shirt, dragging him right out the door behind you.

By the time you’ve shoved him into your office and slammed the door, he’s regained some smidgen of reality, not so frozen, eyes not so glazed.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” you huff, digging around your desk drawers for napkins. “I just needed to get us out of there, y’know? I don’t want people asking questions, not many humans can break a mug like that—”

“Why did you do that?”

He’s still standing in the doorway, still Dr. Laing, still holding the broken handle from the coffee mug.

“Do what?”

“You know.” He takes a cautious step towards you, taking the idea of side-eye-ing to a whole new level.

“What, give you a kiss?” Straightening back up with a sigh, you resolve to just try to soak up the stain on your shirt with tissues. “We’re dating, Laing, and since you’d decided to use me as gossip material, I thought you’d appreciate me ‘acting the part.’”

He falls silent, watching your every move as you swipe furiously as the giant brown stain on your shirt.

“I don’t.”

You glance up at him, eyebrow quirking. “So don’t act the part?”

“Don’t...touch me,” he slowly replies, turning a piece of broken mug over in his fingers.

“Okay...that’s not going to make for a very convincing act, but you got it.” Something about him seems to have turned almost nervous, so you shoot him a small smile. “No touching.”

He nods, clasping his hands behind his back.

The way he rocks up onto the balls of his feet is very uncharacteristic.

A little bit childish. Completely unintimidating.

Ever since that unfortunate accidental dick grab, you’ve tried to make sure that Loki knows that it was an accident. This can’t get any more awkward than it already is, but now with that almost-accidental kiss going over so well...

Here goes nothing.

“So how’s work?”

His head cocks to one side. “Why do you care?”

“Just trying to make conversation.” You shrug and try for another smile, but his eyes narrow.

“We don’t have to speak to each other.”

“You’re just bursting with rainbows and butterflies, aren’t you.”

“Clearly.”

“Fine,” you sigh, giving up on trying to clean your shirt and slumping back in your desk chair. “I forgot, I’m just your pretty little pork chop. Don’t need to talk or anything—”

“That’s quite enough, little sausage.”

Standing abruptly from your desk, you round the corner in two steps and stomp towards this insufferable fake doctor, hand raised and hurtling through the air towards his face.

He catches your wrist before the satisfying—but completely pointless—smack echoes through the room.

“Don’t touch me,” he growls, switching back to Loki in the blink of an eye. “Next time, you lose your hand.”

“Then don’t talk to me like that.” You try to struggle out of his grip, but he holds you tight.

“Fine.”

“Fine! Now let go of me!”

He drops your wrist with a roll of his eyes, stepping away from you as you do the same, glaring as hard as you can possibly manage.

It’s been a while since you saw his real person, saw the real Loki, you realise. Maybe that was for the best.

You can’t help but stare, trying your best to turn it into a disapproving glare, but knowing you’re failing.

Loki’s decaying.

Literally, his body looks like it’s sinking in on itself: he’s thin, thinner than before so you know it can’t be healthy, and one look into his eyes shakes you to the core—skeletal.

His eyes are sunken, greying. Hair knotted and greasy, cheeks hollow, he raises a tired eyebrow at you.

“Seen enough?”

You thickly swallow your pride.

“Where are you living, Loki?”

“I’m not moving in with you,” he drones, kicking out one of the chairs in your office and lowering himself into it—every move looks like it could break him.

“Okay...wasn’t gonna offer, but good to know.”

“Most nights I stay in a lab here,” he quietly continues. “Just using a cloaking spell. I know I look terrible, you don’t have to remind me.”

“When was the last time you showered??”

“Laing showers every night. I can’t exactly waltz into the showers whenever I want.”

“So things you do as Laing don’t actually help...you?”

He shakes his head with a thin smile. “The one casting the illusions still exists, separate from that which they cast. It’s not meant for long term arrangements.”

Your mind is reeling. No wonder he looks so awful, if nothing he does in one form helps the other—

“Oh my god, Loki.” Your eyes widen in shocked realisation. “When was the last time you ate??”

“I just had a pastry with my coffee,” he frowns, running a hand through his tangled hair. “You saw me, I spilled it all over you.”

“No, Laing had breakfast. When did Loki?”

He thinks for a moment, pointedly avoiding your gaze.

“I don’t count the days.”

You steel yourself and point at your desk. “Under the desk, Loki. Don’t argue.”

He laughs, raising his eyebrows at you. “Going to turn me in, now that you know my weakness? Should’ve known.”

“No.” You snap your fingers, pointing at the desk again. “You’re gonna take a nap while I go get you some food. You’re gonna sleep, not Laing, not fake Loki, you. C’mon.”

“I most certainly am not—”

“Yes, you are. You’re a couple of days away from dying, Loki, and I don’t want to have to explain how my fake boyfriend died for the next few months.”

Okay, that was too easy.

He gets up, nearly stumbling as he trudges to your desk, narrowed, tired eyes on you the entire way.

You’re expecting him to argue, to threaten you for speaking in such a condescending manner—but he sinks to his knees, gripping the edge of the desk for support, and curls into a little ball under your desk.

You don’t know what to say. Or do. Or think. This is...new.

“I’m desperate,” he calls out hoarsely, eyelids already drooping. “That’s the only reason you win.”

“What?”

“If you use this opportunity to betray me, I’m past the point of caring.”

“I’m not going t—”

“When you do,” he cuts back in, “I won’t blame you.”

I suppose he is taking a rather large leap of faith here, choosing to trust you enough to conceal him.

“Just, um, sleep.” You flash him a slightly awkward smile to which he nods, and you turn for the door, flicking off the lights. “I’ll get some food.”

Silence, save for a few ragged breaths that gradually slow to a steady pace.

This is a perfect opportunity to turn him in.

He practically admitted defeat.

But he hasn’t hurt anyone, done anything for the past month; if anything, he’s actually helped people.

In fact, the god hugging his knees to his chest under your desk, immediately slipped into an exhausted rest, seems nothing like the crazed god who led a swarm of aliens to conquer your planet.

Nothing.

You push the thought of reporting him from your mind, focusing on the bigger question:

What in all hell do you feed a dying god??

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feel free to send me ideas!!

if you enjoyed…what if i linked my venmo…haha no i jest…no obligations….just in case….u don’t have to ha ha…….unless… ??

~ masterlist link in my bio ~

loki tags: @bluediamond007 @himitoshi @drakesfiance @destiel1597 @dangertoozmanykids101 @archy3001 @jcalpha1 @yzssie @skullvieplu @forthesnakeofdragons @skulliebythesea @wegingerangelica @storiesfrommirkwood @agarwaeneth @adaliamalfoy @laurfangirl424 @paradisaicsam @fitzsimmons-is-forever @ladylokimischief @katelinwrites @tarynkauai @polaristrange @loavesofmeat @canadian-ravenpuff-multishipper @lou-makes-me-strong @holyn0vak @chocolatealmondmillk @swtnrholland @kenzieam @jessiejunebug @catticas @the-republic-and-face-of-texas @doralupin01 @whitewitchdown @atomiccharmer @falconfeather23435 @babygirlicecream @avengrcs @vethrvolnir2 @bookgirlunicorn @wabisabigrl @myhealingstar @khaleesi-marvel @ei77777 @spacecrumbs @scarlettghost13 @rocks-are-pretty-odd @confessionsofastrugglingteen @easilydistractedwriter @arttasticgreatnessoftheawesome77 @fluffyllamaswearinghats @milktearose @lcyouinhell @h0tshotholland @dontmesswithmemundane @southsidesarcasticwriter @helnik-s @lilith-akemi @fire-in-her-veinz @unlikelysamwinchesteronahunt @mischievousbellerina @kcd15 @mellowgirl01 @lokislilcaribbeanprincess @allthingzhiddleston @scorpionchild81 @lokixme @blue-automne @galaxycharmed @devilbat @kangaroobunny @end-up-well @planetariumx @sarcsep @mrfandomtastic @amaru163 @im-way-too-many-fandoms @caswinchester2000 @kybaeza @wester-than-west @vintagesunshinebitch @adefectivedetective @poetic-nikolai @moonduhsted @kerri-masson @iamverity @innaminitus @spnbarnes @narcissxblack @woohoney @anxiousamandapanda @padmeisgay @authordreaming13 @lokisironthrone @theunknowinglys @highfuncti0ningfangirl @epicfallenismine @stubby-toe-589331 @fandomnerdsarecool @retrofantasyland @arch-venus25 @forever-trapped-in-my-dreams @littleredstarfish @marshyrebelcloud @okie–loki @atterodominatus @stfxlou @pandacookieowo @tonakings @shinisenko @tinchentitri

#loki x reader #loki reader insert #loki slowburn #loki fake dating #loki enemies to lovers #loki imagine #pre-dating idiots

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starbuck09256 · 5 years

Note

Because you are my fav writer in this fandom and because you always write the shit out of prompts I thought I would prompt you some smut from the xfpornbattle August list 🤗 number 74 please 💛 U are the best !!!

Omg I’m so freaking flattered! As you know I’m not a smut person. But I had to give this at least a try right?

This is super NSFW

prompt was Mulder and a dildo, bonus if the dildo is Mulder sized.

CALL ME INSPIRED

MSR NSFW S7

tagging @today-in-fic @xfpornbattle

His breath is hot against my ear, I’m sitting on his lap with a bunched skirt, he’s undone several buttons on my blouse. This intensity with us, has always been there lying beneath our arguments and identities. My fingers are tangled in his hair as he starts to move me down on his old worn out couch. The leather feels slick against my back as I struggle to remove my blouse for him. His hand immediately goes to my lace covered breast and I moan into his tongue as it dances with my own. I skirm slightly as his remote control digs into my ass. The tv flicks on and the room is filled with the sound of another woman moaning obnoxiously. I can’t help but chuckle at him. The woman on the film is a small red head and as Mulder ignores the tv moving his lips down to my collar bones as he reaches to take off my lace bra. I can’t help but look at the mesmerizing screen. The man is tall with dark hair and I can’t help but see the parallels to us. Mulders teeth lock onto my nipple and I can’t help but move my head back and whimper as his hard cock presses into my soaked panties. The movie continues and the sounds however over the top they might be, end up turning me on. But then as with most of these movies, it gets a little weird. The dark haired man pulls out a dildo lathering it with lub and then starts to use it on his partner while he is still inside her. I gasp, I’m not a prude to sex, nor am I unknown to the different methods. I’ve had anal sex before in college, and I know my blow job skills are legendary. But this, this idea hadn’t really ever occured to me to try. Mulder stops and looks at me, I barely see him as my eyes are locked to the screen. I suddenly am covered in goosebumps.

“Scully?” his voice is full of concern, my eyes turn to him wild and alive.

I want to try this with him, soon.

“I’m sorry, I .. just” he motions towards the tv. I raise my hand up

“No, I ..like it.” I stroke his cheek.

I reach down to unbuckle his belt, he grins in response and in a few mere moments he is filling me so completely. My back arches up and Mulder captures my nipple again in his mouth as he moves his hips against mine. God he feels so amazing, everytime I wonder how we went so long without doing this every moment. He moans and I move my hips back just a bit so he can go deeper as I clench my internal muscles around him.

“Fuck, Scully.”

His lips capture my own as my hand goes down in between us to stroke my clit. God between the incredible sensation of this angle that he is pumping into me, my hand and the sounds of the porno in the background I come hard around him. He groans heavily as he pulls up grabbing my hips and pounding into me with abandoned. His thrusts become erratic chasing his own release. I see the woman on the screen come apart as her partner continues pumping into her with his dick and the dildo at once. I can’t help but come again as Mulder surges inside of me.

After as I lay cuddle into his side. He is stroking my hair, as my hands trails across his broad chest. I lean up on him. He smiles lazily with a warm hand on my arm.

“Mulder I want to try sex with a dildo too.”

He looks confused for a second. Turns thinking of the video.

“Oh, ..umm have you ever done anal?” he isn’t saying it to be condescending, he is saying it because of the level of trust it takes.

I look at him with a mischievous chin across my face.

“Fuck,” he says.

He chuckles pulling me in closer.

“You are fuckling amazing,” he says laughing. I can’t help but laugh.

“Do you umm, have a dildo on hand?” I bite my lip and grin again.

“Please tell me it’s at least a little dusty?” he asks, I can’t help the loud laugh that comes from my body.

“Yes, you have done more than an adequate job of making sure it is not needed as of late.” I reply he chuckles pulls my lips to his and mutters “good” before kissing me again.

The next night at my apartment I get everything laid out. The Mulder sized dildo is planted on the bed, my intentions are cleared. We are making dinner together tonight and I’m a little giddy in anticipation, we have had some adventurous sexual escapades in the past but it’s been positions no toys or anything else. He finally arrives and as we stand side by side working on a meal together there is no mention of the events of yesterday. Our comfortable coexistence blends so easily into our new relationship. The dishes get done and sure enough afterwards Mulder pushes me against the counter kissing me senseless my damp hands push against his shirt as he drops the dish towel on the floor, I moan against his mouth as he reaches down to lift me up on the counter, his lips find my ear lobe his other hand reaches in to cup my breast and pinches my nipple. “You’re so incredible, the food was amazing.” he whispers as his lips travel across my neck. He helped me cut up everything, seriously, the only thing I really did was pull up a recipe and turn on the oven. Yet he tries to make it equal, give and take, it's a relationship unlike any I’ve ever had, the equality between us. It’s probably why I fell so in love with him. He is willing to put in the work just like me, and while our expectations may be high, both of us have always exceeded them. “I’m ready for dessert,” I tell him taking his hand and hopping off the counter. Pulling him with me to my bedroom. The soft street lights flutter through the blinds and his hands still rest on my hips even as I move us to the bed, even from behind, I can feel him pressed into my back.

“So you seem to have something in mind.” he mutters into my ear placing kisses along my sensitive neck. I can’t help but grin wildly.

“I do, that video was very inspiring Mulder.” I say as I turn to face him my arms linking around his neck as I pull him down.

“Scully as you know you have to be very very relaxed for this.” he says sobering up with a serious look on his face.

I trace his chin reveling in the feel of his chin hairs against the tips of my fingers.

“I know just the way to start,” my eyes meet his and the golden flakes in his dark brown eyes sparkle through.

He chuckles and it’s a sound that I’ve come to love over the years. Mulder happy is one of the few things that can make anything seem better. Lately the happiness we have shared as fought back the darkness so much we are a little afraid of what the future holds. What terrible endeavour is on the horizon to make us pay for believing that we can truly just be together. I slowly trace my fingers along his neck pulling his tie off with delicate precision. I’m undoing the buttons while Mulder still stares at the bed.

“That's umm a pretty big piece there” he says gulping some air in concern.

“Humm?” I turn looking back to the bed.

I remember when I bought the dildo, after that case in Commity, when detective white made it clear to me that I needed to work on releasing the tension in my body in more productive ways. That fantasizing about Mulder needed to include a realistic item. I remember spending a good 20 minutes comparing different ones and sizes, wanting to find one that would match him the closest, which I know is a tad bit fucked up. But god I wanted him then so much. I knew I couldn’t jeopardize everything for us, didn’t think he really felt the same. Even if he knew then would we have been able to handle it? Over the last 3 years we have made huge strides in our partnership. Ones where before would have been demands of changing who we fundamentally are as people, but now those idoscrinies are something that we cherish about the other. A mutual acceptance of the other, this is who I am and it is a take it or leave it, and we both know we want to take it as far for as long as we can. I lean up on my tiptoes brushing my lips under his ear.

“I wanted one that would match you” as I slide back down resumming unbuttoning his shirt the smirk on my face can’t be missed.

He groans as he reaches forward slipping my skirt down along with my panties, I struggle with my blouse for just a second before he is unclasping my bra. He lifts me up in his arms, so effortlessly. Normally I would hate a man doing this, but with him it shows his love and devotion. He places my naked body on the bed and starts to let his lips decent on a path of his choosing. He knows exactly how to suck bite and tease every part of me, even if it’s only been a few months together. His body is also naked against mine, the hairs on his legs brushing against mine and I sigh in contentment. His fingers find my inner thighs and he takes his time massaging the skin, his lips find home sucking and biting both of my nipples alternating between them and then his tongue is slowly moving down to my stomach while his fingers brush my center. He parts me and I moan and wither a bit beneath him. The anticipation of this always shudders me to the core. He is of course wonderful at this, and as he smiles at me right before his head disappears between my thighs I want to scream as he licks me and sucks my clit into his mouth. He strokes me and it doesn’t take long before I’m panting and begging him not to stop. My release is fast and I’m practically gushing into his mouth while he moves his hand to gather my juices as he presses his fingers into my ass, god the pressure with the pleasure of his mouth still on me is euphoric. I’m panting his name as he pulls me to be on top of him. He is covering the dildo in lube and making sure to cover my ass as well. He is moving slowly, he double checks with me again as he holds his cock in one hand at my entrance. I nod eagerly awaiting him. I am not disappointed in any way he is smooth in a solid up stroke he is completely engulfed in me. I sigh happily. He pumps in and out at a slow pace, letting me feel every ridge of his cock as he slides in and out. He is waiting for just a moment for me to relax against him as he slides just the tip of the dildo into my ass. I whimper at the pressure but between his cock and the dildo the pleasure that is shooting through my body is undeniable. I’ve already come once for him, and the building of the second might be the best one I’ve ever experienced. He pushes just a little more of the dildo inside and I moan his name into the hair. Because he spent so much time getting me ready all that fills my brain is intense pleasure. When I did this in college it wasn’t nearly this good. Sure it was still fun, the man I was with teased my clit while he pumped my ass. But I’ve never had both a dildo and a cock before and while I am definitely enjoying every moment of this, the intensity is almost overwhelming. Mulder seems to notice my discomfort and slows his thrusts down. He is panting and I can tell from the way he has stretched me he is pretty close, he is still moving slowly in and out but has stopped moving the dildo.

“Are you? Should I..?”

I look at him and shift slightly sending the dildo deeper into me and I can’t help the scream that bubbles to the surface. My eyes go wide for a second and I slam myself down on Mulders cock as I come so hard I think I might pass out. Mulder is a little stunned and groans deeply before he lets himself go, pumping into me without mercy as he moves the dildo back and forth at a slower pace. I can’t help put dig my nails into his shoulder as my orgasm takes hold and clenches down like a vice on his cock. I’m moaning his name incoherently and I feel him pound one last time and release into me. I want to lay back and recover and I squeeze his shoulder so he can take the dildo out as I collapse back onto the bed. Sweat is shining on both our skins and I’m still seeing spots. I pull him into my arms moving my body so that I can be cradled in his side.

“Mulder,” I mutter barely able to move as I feel the stickiness between my legs.

“Jesus, Scully.. We can’t.. That was just a little too intense…” I nod eagerly against him.

“I enjoyed it but it’s definitely not something I think we should do a lot of,” he rubs his face

“at the end.. I just I didn’t have enough control.. And fuck I could have really hurt you.”

he looks at me with a level of fear I have seen only a few times in the years together. I lean up and kiss him

“Mulder,” I turn his face to meet mine.

“I wanted this, and you could never hurt me,” he cups my cheek the loving man as he leans forward and kisses me nice and slow. As our heart beats race down to a sedated level.

“Any other porn type activity that I need to worry about Scully?”

I can’t help but bite my lip and grin.

“You know we do have handcuffs,” his eyes shoot up to mine.

I can’t help the cheshire cat grin. He swallows hard,

“I don’t know if I can cuff you scully,” I scoff at him.

“Oh no Mulder, those cuffs are for you.”

My wicked smile gets a bubbled up laugh from him.

“You always keep me guessing Scully.”

I leaned forward tracing the scar on his shoulder from the bullet I put through him. “I always will.”

78 notes · View notes

elfpen · 5 years

Text

Questions

The latest addition to my series of post-canon FMA ficlets. At very least, I’d read Inequivelent Exchange, Good Shot, and The Circle before reading this one.

Legends (Al-centric)

Inequivelent Exchange (Ed-centric)

The Treaty (Al-centric)

Good Shot (Ed-centric)

The Circle (Ed-centric)

Questions (this post)

Neal couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his bed. It was Monday. It was November. If his radio alarm was to be believed, it was a Monday in November with a 80% chance of freezing rain. He cracked open the eye that wasn’t buried in his pillow so he could see his clock, blurred and sideways. 5:57. He groaned himself awake and somehow made it to the bathroom. The lights burned his eyes.

He was so ready to graduate he could’ve cried. He wanted his degree so he could move on. He’d become a government researcher, or maybe teach at a regional school back in the south, close to home - so long as they didn’t expect him to stay in Central for a doctorate, didn’t make him write even longer papers for more grades and no salary.

He stepped out into the rain, which was still too wet to freeze, and began the trudge toward the bus stop. It wasn’t that he didn’t like university. He liked Central. He liked studying alchemy. He certainly liked studying alchemy with the world-class minds of the Central U department. But it’d been six years, and he’d been studying with Dr. Elric every term, and Dr. Elric insisted on holding his classes at 7am.

The bus ride faded into a blur, as it had for six years. Neal drifted into class alongside a horde of fellow ghosts, all laden with bags and books and attire that had deteriorated in style and condition since the start of term. They were ragged and worn, but had all shown up for class at 7am on a Monday in November. The freshmen showed up out of fear. The seniors showed up because they knew that despite how tired they were, unless they intended on earning higher degrees, this was their last chance to study under true genius. Edward Elric, despite his thorny disposition and stern grades, was the foremost Alchemical scholar in Amestris.

He was also, apparently, running late. As the students filed into their unofficially assigned seats, they swapped uncertain glances, each checking the room number on the door and the clock on the wall. Right room. Right time. No professor.

“I don’t think this has ever happened,” one senior broke the silence. “Ever. Mark the day, he’s not living this down.” A few students chuckled.

“What do you think has happened?” Asked one of the juniors. “Do you think he’s okay?”

“If he’s not here in fifteen minutes, I’m going home,” said Ren, a hungover freshman.

Neal wasn’t sure he would. It wasn’t enough that a professor was late; professors were late all the time, especially for morning classes. But this wasn’t just a professor, it was Dr. Elric. He was never late.

The minutes ticked by in uncomfortable silence and mounting curiosity. The longer they waited, the more Neal worried that something bad must’ve happened.

Fourteen minutes past seven, the door opened. They all looked up. A tall blond man in a rain-dappled trench coat came in with a briefcase full of papers. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said, setting his bag down with a thunk. He shook off his coat and hung it to dry. “Terrible traffic this morning.”

The students collectively craned their heads to look at him. Had Dr. Elric cut his hair? No, no it wasn’t the hair. It was the voice. It was both.

“I’ve lost us a bit of time, so let’s get right to it.,” he wiped water off of his short-cropped hair and clapped his hands. He consulted his notes, and began: “Mechanical repair matrices are pretty simple in design, they have to be, so it’s mostly in the touch. Today we’re going to go over-”

“Excuse me, Professor,” Neal raised his hand.

“Uh,” The lecturer had to look around a bit before he spotted the speaker. Dr. Elric hadn’t had to do that in three years. When he finally spotted Neal, he smiled. “Yes?”

Neal blinked back surprise when he met eyes with the man, because his eyes were the exact same unnerving gold as Dr. Elric’s, but looked at him from the wrong face. “You’re not Dr. Elric,” he said

The man laughed. “No, sorry, you’re stuck with plain old Mr. Elric today.” He smiled as if this were a joke and looked back down at his notes. “Now, mechanical matrices. You should’ve read this week about-”

“But, sir, who,” Neal hesitated when the man looked up at him again. “You’re… Mr. Elric?”

The man seemed just as confused as the students. He glanced around the room, seeing their befuddlement. “Yes, I’m Alphonse.” Neal’s eyes immediately widened, but the rest of the class did not react. Alphonse clarified, “I’m Edward’s younger brother.”

There was the briefest of pauses before 7 o’clock realization dawned. A few students gasped. Edward Elric was a respected scholar and well-known for his encyclopedic knowledge of Amestrian alchemy. However, if you wanted to learn about alkahestry, the alchemy of the East, you'd be hard pressed to learn anything without consulting the translations of his younger brother, Alphonse Elric. Neal had taken an elective class on Alkahestry two years ago, when he thought he’d wanted to be a doctor. He stared openly, watching the man in a whole new light.

“I’m going to be his replacement,” said Alphonse, ignoring their surprise. “Now, you should have read this week about-”

“Replacement?” Ren interrupted this time. “Has he retired or something?”

“Retir- no,” Alphonse said, still baffled and sounding annoyed. “I’m just filling in for a few weeks while he’s on paternity leave. So if you’ll-”

“Paternity leave?” Exclaimed one of the female students near the back. “Dr. Elric has a kid?”

“Dr. Elric is married?” asked another.

“Oh come on,” Neal joined in, turning in his seat to fix the freshman with a condescending look, “he talks about his wife constantly.”

“What?”

“Winry, he talks about her all the time.” The room was growing loud with chatter, half a dozen conversations and arguments growing and clashing like rapids.

“I thought Winry was his mechanic.”

“No, she’s his wife.”

“What?”

“He wears a ring, are you blind?”

“I get the feeling,” said Alphonse, with a voice that said he spoke above loud groups with at least passing regularity, “that my brother hasn’t explained how this is going to work.” The room replied with awkward silence. Alphonse set aside his notes and scrubbed a hand over the unkempt stubble that shimmered under his slightly fuller mustache. Absently, Neal wondered if Alphonse had had time to shave amidst childcare duty.

“Edward- sorry, Dr. Elric,” the man gave the slightest of eyerolls at that, “-is going to be out for a while. His wife Winry-”

“I knew it,” Neal said before he could catch himself. Thankfully, Alphonse ignored him.

“-had a baby this weekend, and they need Edward to stay home and take care of their kids so she can rest. I’ll be filling in for the rest of term, since the other faculty is booked.” That seemed like an odd reason to Neal - the faculty was never really booked. “Any questions?”

A dozen hands shot up. Alphonse looked stunned.

“Oh, hell.” He sighed. He pointed to someone in the front row. “Yes?”

“How many kids does Dr. Elric have?”

“Four, as of Saturday.” A round of “aww”s as well as “what”s went around the room and Neal spotted a smile beneath Alphonse’s mustache. The next student didn’t wait to be called on.

“How long has he been married? And why didn’t I know that he was married?” Asked the girl, who sounded disappointed.

“Because you only ever look at his face and his butt?” said another girl.

Neal couldn’t help it when he burst out laughing along with the rest of the class. Dr. Elric's popularity with female students, particularly freshmen, was not a secret. It must not have been a secret to the Elrics either, because Alphonse was repressing a grin as though he were in on the joke. “He and Winry have married for about nine years.”

“Are you married?” Asked the second girl, a wicked grin on her face. More laughter. Alphonse looked somewhat more flustered. He looked at the clock.

“Surely this is an alchemy class and not a dating service. Now did any of you read Reparational Alchemy or not?”

Neal pulled out his textbook along with the other students, but over the next two hours he didn’t actually hear much of what Alphonse was saying. His mind was tossed back through his years of study in this room, every other morning at 7am in lecture with Dr. Elric.

Though it’d taken him two extra years to finish his degree, Neal was not a back-row student. He had two jobs, yes, but he always stayed after class to ask questions and learn more from the professors. Dr. Elric often had to leave class in a rush, but when he had time or during office hours, he’d happily talked with Neal for hours at a time, and not just about coursework. Neal had bared his insecurities to the professor more than once: his anxiety about his future, how tired he was from working through school, how he loved one scholar and detested another. Dr. Elric had laughed with him and nodded in understanding when he needed it. He’d given book recommendations and taken some, too. After six years’ worth of after-class conversations, Neal had fooled himself into thinking that he knew Dr. Elric, that they were even friends. But he was beginning to wonder if anyone in the room really knew him at all.

“-looks less like a true transmutation circle,” Alphonse was saying, “and more like a triangle, or star, with a circle element binding it together. Like this - um… uh,” the sounds of uncertainty drew Neal from his reverie to see Alphonse Elric turning around in circles looking for chalk. There was none on the chalkboard, and none in the dispenser to the side of the board. “Oh, come on, brother,” Alphonse’s soft exclamation was audible in the quiet.

Before anyone could tell him that Dr. Elric usually kept a stash in the top drawer of his desk, Alphonse had jogged over to the pantry of supplies in the back of the room. All alchemy classrooms had one, and the department admin made sure they were freshly stocked for whatever in-class alchemy a course might require.

“The reason for this is because most reparational circles are actually arrays written in a compact form. Think of it as shorthand alchemy,” Alphonse continued lecturing, raising his voice to be heard over his rummaging. “Because you have to pack so much information into a small array, it’s important to get it right. As I said before, a lot of the detail is actually up to touch, which can make things tricky - ah, here it is.” He came away from the pantry with a large bottle of calcium carbonate and jogged back over to the desk, leaving the pantry doors ajar. “The size of the array doesn’t actually have to match the size of the object you’re repairing, but it has to correspond to the material cost of your exchange.” To the bemusement of his audience, he unscrewed the bottle and dumped nearly the entire thing onto the desk. The white powder piled on top of his briefcase, on top of their papers, on top of everything. “So if I were trying to repair a radio with cracked vacuum tubes, for instance,” as he spoke, Alphonse clapped his hands together and a high-pitched tone filled the air, almost as if he were about to–

He pressed his hands down onto the desk, there was a flash of blue energy, and there were very suddenly a dozen sticks of blackboard chalk where there had been a complete mess before. One of them began to roll off the desk. Alphonse caught it as it fell and immediately turned to draw an alchemical array on the blackboard. “Something,” he denoted while the class collectively gaped behind his back, “like this,” he drew quickly and precisely, “should work just fine. But you have to know something about mechanics before you try it, or it won’t work for very long. Now,” he turned back to the class, “Anyone want to give it a try?”

Ren immediately raised his hand. “Yes, come on up,” Alphonse encouraged.

“Okay but,” Ren said, eyes now wide and alert, where before there was only hangover. “Could you teach me how to do it like that?” he pointed to the chalk.

Alphonse gave it a passing glance and in a tone like sharpened glass said, “Absolutely not.” Ren’s face wilted in surprise, and he looked away. “But you can use the chalk, if that’s what you’re asking,” Alphonse added with a smile. It was meant to be a joke, but the look on his face when he’d answered Ren’s question kept the class from laughing.

As the freshman tried and failed a few times to repair a radio, Neal found his mind travelling from the class once more. The look on Alphonse’s face reminded him of something that had happened years ago, something that he wasn’t even sure he remembered correctly now. In his freshman year, he’d been overzealous about his classes, and had taken an upper level alchemy course with Dr. Elric. Same room, same time, in what felt like a different century. There had been a prick student in that class - a senior, Neal thought, who’d pushed Dr. Elric’s buttons the whole term because he couldn’t comprehend that their alchemy professor couldn’t actually perform alchemy. Neal couldn’t remember details, but somehow the subject of human transmutation had come up, and Dr. Elric had launched into a life story too absurd to be believed.

The permutations of the story that Dr. Elric had told had found their way into the dorms and bars around the university, and fact had morphed into myth with the rapidity afforded by a culture that was inherited by a new generation every four years. No one actually believed the stories now. There were no students left on campus who remembered the incident. But in the quiet of his own brain, Neal was beginning to remember.

Dr. Elric had said something in his exhaustion and anger that day, something about human transmutation, and his brother losing his soul, and armor, and blood, and giving up his own ability to perform alchemy to bring his brother back. He’d never specified whether or not his brother could do alchemy. With that kind of suckerpunch of a lecture, Neal had never even wondered.

“You’re getting there, but you’re leaving out the equation to remove oxygen from the vacuum tubes,” Alphonse was telling Ren, “try it again, but this time…”

He had so, so many questions.

As was his custom, Neal stayed after everyone else had left. But once the lecture hall was empty and it was just him and Alphonse Elric, he didn’t know what to say. Neal stared at Alphonse’s back as he stretched to erase the many circles and descriptions from the blackboard. Neal clenched and unclenched his fist before working up the courage to say,

“Thanks for subbing in.” He immediately realized that this was an incredibly lame thing to say. “You probably have a lot of other stuff you could be doing, so I appreciate it.” Alphonse turned to him, surprised to see a student there. Neal wondered if he had ever taught a university class.

“Oh, sure,” Alphonse’s voice was far gentler now that he wasn’t lecturing to a hall of sixty students. He seemed overall a far more relaxed, approachable person than his brother. Neal felt at ease. “I’m happy to help out.” Alphonse resumed erasing, coughing at the chalk dust.

“Why don’t you just…” Neal shrugged, and clapped his hand together, miming what Alphonse had done earlier that day. The alchemist laughed, and stood on his toes to reach a high spot on the board.

“Alchemy can’t solve everything,” he said.

“Yeah,” Neal agreed with an uncertain smile. He couldn’t let the conversation die. He had too many questions. “You said earlier that you’re here because the rest of the faculty is booked?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t mean any offense, but… the faculty is never booked. Dr. Trenner only has one class this term.”

Alphonse put down the eraser and dusted chalk off his hands. He side-eyed Neal. “Well,” he said, sounding found out. “Between you and me, the Dean isn’t all that happy that I’m here, since I don’t have a Ph.D. But he let me in because… you know the Theory of Inequivalent Exchange?”

“Yeah, of course.” It’d been a staple of Dr. Elric’s classes for years. He’d published a few books on the topic.

“Have you ever learned about it from any of the other faculty?”

Neal had to think about it. He frowned. “No,” he realized out loud.

“That’s because none of them understand how it works, much less how to teach it.”

Neal blinked at him. “Wait,” he said, not sure what Alphonse was implying, “really?”

“Ed only got them to let me lecture for him because Inequivelent Exchange will be a part of the final essay, and none of them understand how it works. I do.” He froze, and fixed Neal with a frantic look. “Please don’t tell anyone I told you that that’s on the final.”

Neal could not decide what to ask about first. How did the faculty expect students to learn a theory if they did not understand it themselves? Why was Dr. Elric teaching it if no one understood it? How long was this final essay going to be? But when he ended up asking was:

“How do you understand how it works, then?”

Alphonse was digging through his brother’s desk, collecting important papers. “Ed and I came up with the theory together.”

Neal realized that he did not know Dr. Elric or his family whatsoever, but that he would very much like to know them more.

“I always thought you were more of an alkahestrist,” he said. Alphonse smiled at him.

“Oh, so you have heard of me? Central U students usually don’t know I exist, ‘cept for the medics,” he chuckled. “I was an alchemist before I learned alkahestry. Do you know any?”

“A little. I thought I wanted to be a doctor at one point, but, uh…” Neal shrugged. “I’m a little too squeamish.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Alphonse said, closing his briefcase and pulling on his coat. “If you want to practice some time, I’ll be here until end of term.”

“Oh,” it was an unexpected kindness. “Thanks.” If it gave him more time to pick the brain of Dr. Elric’s brother, he would be more than willing to revisit the basics. “I mean, if you’re not too busy.”

“Oh,” Alphonse waved a dismissive hand. “I’m mostly just visiting family and helping out here. Aside from classes, I should have plenty of time.”

“Oh,” Neal realized that he had no idea what Alphonse Elric’s actual occupation was, aside from the translator of Xingese texts. Surely he had a job, right? Just one more question to add to the pile. “Perfect,” he found himself saying. “I’d really appreciate that.”

“Sure thing. See you on Wednesday,” Alphonse waved goodbye and was gone.

There were only four weeks of classes left, Neal realized. He was going to have to make them count.

Despite the unexpected disruption, classes passed in a surprisingly normal rhythm. However, instead of exchanging opinions and book recommendations with Dr. Elric, Neal stayed after class to learn about alkahestry with Alphonse. Or at least, alkahestry was ostensibly why he was there. He used every opportunity he could to pick out new information about the Elric family.

“Oh yeah,” Alphonse said readily when Neal asked if he and his brother had always been interested in alchemy. “We started reading alchemy textbooks for fun when we were practically toddlers.” This made him laugh. “They were the only books we had in the house - our dad was a pretty brilliant alchemist.”

“Really?” It was somehow easy to forget that people like Edward Elric even had fathers. “What’s his name?”

“You wouldn’t have heard of him,” Alphonse said, carefully copying out an alkahestrist’s star for the day’s lesson. “Van Hohenheim?”

Neal chuckled, and then felt bad for it. “No, I haven’t heard that name before, I would’ve remembered.” Alphonse didn’t seem offended in the slightest.

“I think dad was always a little embarrassed about his name,” Alphonse smiled. “Actually, I think he was embarrassed about a lot of things. He was a pretty reserved guy.”

“I take it… I take he’s passed away?” Neal asked carefully.

“Years and years ago,” Alphonse answered. It explained the easy affection on his face. “Wherever he is, I’m sure he and my mom are having a grand old time not worrying about things like this,” Alphonse turned his book around to show Neal an overly complicated and faded alkahestry matrix.

“Oh my gosh, what is that even for?” Neal had to ask, gaping at the thing. The conversation morphed away from family and toward the complexities of alkahestry. Only later did Neal absorb what Al had said about his parents.

Years and years ago… he and my mom. Neither Alphonse nor his brother were old. At most, they might’ve been five, ten years older than Neal himself. Years and years ago. The words stayed with him for a long time.

“Do people really call Dr. Elric ‘Ed’?” On the second week, after hearing Alphonse refer to Dr. Elric alternatively “Brother”, “Edward”, and “Ed”, Neal’s curiosity got the better of him. He’d interrupted Alphonse in the middle of an anecdote about travelling to Xing with Dr. Elric, and the sudden question gave the alchemist pause.

“I can hardly think of anyone who doesn’t call him that,” Alphonse laughed. “I mean, besides you students. And Major Armstrong. Or is he Colonel now? Oh, and General Mustang. Anyway,” Alphonse shrugged. “He’s been Ed as long as I can remember.”

“Wait, he knows General Mustang?” Neal exclaimed. There were some rumors, a while back, after the terrorist scare on campus. But he hadn’t actually believed them.

“Yeah, we’ve known Mustang since we were kids.”

There was not enough time to unpack that.

“Oh, um, cool,” Neal said, trying to sound nonchalant. “So… what does General Mustang call him?”

“Fullmetal,” Alphonse said, and flashed a grin that Neal recognized form his own younger siblings. “Drives brother nuts.”

Neal laughed along with him, and resisted the urge to ask what on earth “Fullmetal” meant.

He did some research in the library later, and stayed up until 2am reading about an Amestris he did not recognize. Apparently, he scribbled in his notebook next to a series of poorly-drawn alkahestry stars, Dr. Elric is the reason why the Military’s age of enrollment was raised to 18.

On the Wednesday of the third week, Neal walked with Alphonse to the library, as had become their custom, so they could discuss whatever new alkahestry topic Alphonse had picked out for the day. But they were interrupted halfway when a sleek black car pulled up to the curb. The driver’s window slid down to reveal a trim brunet man in military blues and epaulets that made Neal do a double-take.

“Elric,” the man said, in a voice Neal recognized from the radio, “why didn’t you tell me you were in the country?”

“Oh hey General,” said Alphonse, as though he’d bumped into an old friend at the grocery store. “I’ve been staying with brother for weeks, didn’t you know?”

General Mustang shook his head. “Fullmetal never tells me anything. How’s Winry doing?”

“She’s doing great - so is baby Heimel. I think brother’s the one who’s lost the most sleep so far.”

“It’s what he gets for having so many kids,” Mustang said through a smile. He glanced at Neal as if noticing him for the first time. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Oh, General, this is one of brother’s students, Neal,” Alphonse introduced, and Neal felt suddenly exposed. He’d been happily spectating on the conversation, but was now the momentary center of attention. He could not say anything, so he gave a pathetic wave and blushed instead.

“Mr. Elric’s been helping me brush up on my alkahestry,” Neal managed to say after an awkward pause.

“Oh? You’re a lucky student then, he’s in woefully short supply around here. Unfortunately, I might have to cut your lesson short,” Mustang turned attention back to the blond alchemist, “The Fuhrer’s learned you’re in town and wants to pick your brain.”

“Oh?” Alphonse did not seem to hear the words in the same gravitas that Neal had. “About what?”

Mustang glanced at Neal. “Oh you know,” he shrugged, “same ol’, same ol’.”

“Ah,” Alphonse nodded, and turned to Neal.

“Sorry, Neal, but we may have to revisit this another-”

“Oh, no, it’s fine, seriously,” the student put out his hands in surrender. How was he supposed to compete with the Fuhrer, for crying out loud? “I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Have a nice afternoon, see you then,” Alphonse smiled, and then climbed into the passenger seat next to General Roy Mustang, the man who most everyone seemed to think would be the next Fuhrer.

Of course, Neal found himself thinking. The more he learned about the Elrics, the more his burgeoning sense of flippancy grew to fill the gaps of his own understanding. Of course he’s friends with the Fuhrer and the Fuhrer’s favorite General. Why wouldn’t he be?

Much of what Neal had begun to learn about Edward Elric was publicly available. So long as you knew which records librarians to ask, it was simple enough to learn that Edward had been a state alchemist from the age of twelve (twelve! Neal still had a hard time believing it), was to this day under General Mustang’s command, and had been involved in a not insignificant number of skirmishes in the last years of Fuhrer King Bradley’s administration. It had also been fairly easy to learn that he’d grown up in a rural, relatively poor village in the east, that his parents hadn’t been married, that he had brother one year his junior, and that Elric was their mother’s surname.

But left to the mercy of the library, it was next to impossible to learn anything about his personal history. There were his three academic monographs on alchemy, but that was it. It wasn’t like other professors. Other professors had news stories, guest appearances on the radio, marriage announcements, birthdays, grown kids and grandkids who they bragged on constantly. But Edward Elric was private to a fault.

This was why Neal valued his conversations with Alphonse Elric more and more. He’d known Edward Elric for six years, and in those six years, he had learned hardly a thing about the man. But now, Alphonse had opened the proverbial floodgates, and Neal couldn’t turn away.

“Wait, was he really?” Neal asked around a mouthful of his sandwich. This particular afternoon, he was learning how alkahestry could be used for first aid, but they’d taken a break for lunch.

“Yeah,” Alphonse said, licking mustard off his smile, “I’ve always been a little bit taller than him, but when we were teens, he was honestly really short. Took him forever to hit his growing spurt.” He chuckled. “He’s still got a chip on his shoulder about it.”

“Are you still taller than him?”

Alphonse looked smug. “Yeah, so long as he doesn’t count his hair. But don’t tell him I told you that.”

Neal laughed. “Course not.”

He didn’t tell anyone anything he’d learned from Alphonse Elric, but there was so much. He learned that Winry was Edward’s mechanic as well as his wife, and that they’d been friends since childhood. He learned that Edward could not stand the taste of milk, and that he’d struggled in most school subjects as a child because he’d been so preoccupied with alchemy. He learned that he had four kids now, two girls and two boys, and that he held his classes so early in the morning so that he could go home to take care of them while Winry oversaw her automail business during the day.

All of this information was freely given, of course, but Neal felt as though there was some unspoken pact that kept him from breathing a word of it to anyone. Maybe it was the fact that Dr. Elric himself wasn’t there. Maybe it was the mystery that still shrouded his years in the military, the years leading up to the Coup. Maybe it was the inexplicable connections between Dr. Elric and General Mustang, Alphonse and the Fuhrer. Maybe it was his respect for both brothers.

But sometimes, it was hard. He wanted to go to all of his university friends, all of whom had graduated years ago, and shake them by their shoulders and make them listen to what he’d learned in the last three and a half weeks. “Do you remember that one time that Dr. Elric lost it and told us all about the times he tried human transmutation? Do you remember the look on that one punk-whose-name-I-can’t-remember’s face? It’s all true, and his life is even weirder than that. Do you remember his brother who got turned into a suit of armor? Do you remember Dr. Elric talking about that? I met him. And he’s amazing, and insane. You are not going to believe the lives these guys live.”

And many of them really wouldn’t believe him. So he absorbed it all alone.

It’d taken him weeks to muster up the courage to ask Alphonse about the one thing he’d been itching to ask for weeks. After the last regular class of the term, he’d walked with Alphonse to the library and half-listened to him talk about Xingese archives for an hour and a half, all the while sweating in his seat because he knew that this was his last chance.

It was still afternoon when they left the library to head back toward the bus station, but the winter sky was already drifting into dusk. Alphonse walked ahead of him, gold hair limned by the nearly-set sun. Neal clenched his hands, swallowed, licked his lips, and asked:

“Is it true that Dr. Elric bound your soul to a suit of armor?”

Alphonse stopped so abruptly that Neal almost ran into him. The blond swiveled on his heel and stared down at him, speechless. Alphonse’s face was shadowed in the dim evening light so that Neal couldn’t see his expression. He immediately regretted opening his mouth at all, but then Alphonse said, in a tone of more surprise than offense,

“He told you about that?”

Neal realized that he had no plan.

“It was… I mean…” he sighed. “I’ve... I’ve been here a long time. Like, a long time. Several years ago there was this… this one class, where a student asked about human transmutation, and Dr. Elric,”

“Oh wow, you were there?” Alphonse said. “Brother told me about that.” Slowly, he turned back around began walking again. Neal took it as an invitation to follow. Their shoes sounded unusually loud on the sidewalk as they walked through the pregnant silence. “Yeah,” Alphonse said at length. The sky was too dark now for Neal to see his face, but his voice sounded like he was travelling deep down memory lane. “Yeah, it’s true.”

Such a quiet, simple verification was, somehow, even more terrifying than Dr. Elric’s speech those years ago. Neal had too many questions. He always had too many questions. He had to stop asking so many questions, taking advantage of the memories of a man who’d obviously been through more than he could fathom. But he just couldn’t help it.

“And it’s true about Dr. Elric’s alchemy? About giving it up to bring you back?”

Alphonse smiled. Neal didn’t see it, but when he spoke, he could hear it. “Yeah,” the man said quietly, “that too.”

They continued down the path in silence. “He seems like an amazing guy – and an amazing brother.”

“Yeah, he is,” Alphonse said, no conceit in the statement. “The best.” His sincerity temporarily quieted the stream of questions on the tip of Neal’s tongue. The street lights began to buzz awake.

“He’s still a pretty mean teacher, if you ask me,” Neal said, and Alphonse laughed.

“If you think he’s tough, you should meet the woman who taught us,” he said.

The questions came flooding back.

It was 5:57 on a Monday in January, and Neal had to peel himself out of bed so he could shuffle over to the bathroom and let the lights burn his eyes awake. It was snowing and the world was quiet as he commuted to campus for his last first day of class.

“Alright,” Edward Elric arrived to a full classroom at 6:59 and set his briefcase down with a distinctive thunk. Every student in the hall snapped to attention - every student but Neal. “Another year, another class, another chance for you all to prove the Dean wrong when he says I fail too many students.” He grinned at them, a real enjoyment lighting up his eyes. “Welcome to advanced theoretical alchemy. Let’s have a bit of fun, ‘kay?”

That first class passed as any other class, with introductions and a syllabus and a full lecture that the newer students weren’t expecting on their first day. Then it was over, and Neal stayed, as he always did, and Dr. Elric let him, as he always did.

“It’s good to see you again, Dr. Elric,” he said when he got the chance to go forward and shake the man’s hand. The professor looked a little more harried than when Neal had last seen him. He he dark circles under his eyes and more scruff on his cheeks. But he looked happier, too. “Congrats to you and your wife, by the way.”

“Oh, thank you,” the professor seemed genuinely surprised that a student knew anything about him, and shuffled awkwardly. Neal realized that, as private as he was, Dr. Elric probably wasn’t used to receiving personal well-wishes during business hours. “And uh, and congrats to you too, right? Graduating at long last?”

“Yeah,” Neal laughed with him. “I have to thank you for that - you and your brother, actually, he was a huge help last fall.”

“Oh good,” he grinned. “Al really seemed to enjoy it here - I wish I could convince him to stay. But the Emperor’s his brother-in-law, so what’re you going to do?” Edward‘s shrug was too casual, and in an instant, all of the questions he had about Edward duplicated into new questions about Alphonse. Where does the rabbit hole end?

“Wait a second,” Neal began; his experience last term had evaporated his ability to keep from asking questions. “The Emperor? The Emperor as in Emperor Ling Yao?”

“What, do you know of a different Emperor?”

The fact that he did not did not answer Neal’s question.

A soft knock came at the door.

“Yeah?” said Dr. Elric, turning to the sound.

After a brief hesitation, the door cracked open to reveal a smaller, softer version of Dr. Elric with blue eyes, glasses, a too-big dress, and pigtails.

“Papa,” she said, hanging on the doorknob, “the mean poof-haired man is looking for you.”

“Henry,” Edward sighed, sounding equal parts embarrassed and exhausted, “what have we said about calling people names? C’mere, kiddo. I let you come along because you said you’d be nice, so be nice.”

Neal was transfixed. Knowing that Dr. Elric had kids was very different than seeing one in the flesh. The girl, who couldn’t have been older than five or six, went over to her father and he picked her up by the armpits and set her in his chair. “Henry, this is Neal,” Edward introduced. “Neal, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Henrietta,”

“Henry,” Henrietta clung to her father’s arm.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Henry,” Neal gave her a gentlemanly nod. She grinned at him. She had dimples. He was defenseless.

“Now you keep Neal in line for five minutes,” Edward pried his daughter’s hands off his sleeve, while I talk to the Dean,” Edward said, stepping backward toward the door. “I’ll be right back,” the last phrase was directed at at him, Neal realized. The door shut behind him.

“How old are you?” Asked Henry, sitting at her father’s desk like a judge at their bench.

“How old are you?” Neal countered.

“This many,” Henry held out five and a half fingers. Neal gave her an impressed look.

“Wow, you’re almost old enough to teach your dad’s classes for him.”

She grinned, only slightly bashful.

“How old are you?” Henry asked again, still holding out her five and a half fingers. Neal laughed.

“More than that.” She held out all of her fingers. “More than that.”

“How many?” she asked, baffled as to how anyone could be so ancient as to exceed all ten of her fingers.

“Twenty-four,” Neal told her. She wrinkled her nose.

“You’re old, like my papa.”

Neal chuckled, half at her and half at the expense of Dr. Elric. Dignity in the workplace did not translate home, he supposed. Still,

“Your papa is a pretty amazing guy, you know.”

“I know,” Henry said magnanimously, swiveling in her father’s chair.

After everything he’d learned about the Elrics and all he still didn’t know, he couldn’t possibly argue with that.

“Well, good,” he smiled at her. “So long as you know.”

#fma #fmab #edward elric #alphonse elric #roy mustang #post canon #ling yao #mentioned anyway #headcanon #my fanfic #my writing #headcanons #fullmetal alchemist #fanfiction

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heesgf · 5 years

Text

chilly. byounggon! college au

this is like haruto’s six types of love except it’s a gon college au; the first part is a tiny bit slow, but i promise, it gets a lot better! pls enjoy!!💕Almost 9k words, but i promise, it’s worth it? lots of flirtation, a makeout here and there, and lots of hyunsuk + junkyu bff tomfoolery!

In which two college students use different mechanisms to cope. He is the ever charming man of the hour, and she is something like an ice queen. The longer their relationship flourishes, the faster they realize, maybe they can help each other out.

The décor of the bubble tea shop is reminiscent of an 8th grade dance.

The floor is a never-ending expanse of linoleum, the radio is constantly playing Jason Derulo, and for some odd reason, the lighting is a strange cross between candle lit dinner, and pitch black janitor’s closet.

Frankly, there are times when you can’t separate your Physics homework from your English assignments; and yet, every time mid-term or finals season rolls around, you find yourself back in the same place—face huddled into the stacks of papers in front of you, and lips sipping on your passion fruit green tea. Call it a force of habit.

You are elbows deep in the law of conservation of energy, or maybe it's Gulliver’s Travels, when you decide it’s time to take a break and squint through some Netflix. It’s the screeching of the chair across from you that breaks your focus, and the shadowy figure of another person sitting down that steals every ounce of light left in the room.

“Hey (Y/N), can I borrow your pen?”

In front of you stands Lee Byounggon. His hair, much like the venue, is messy and flying in ever direction, and his eyes, peering deeply into yours, have this look that is both inquisitive, and puzzling. The smile plastered on his face is almost excessive, but his voice, like always, is smooth and gentle.

“U-uh, yeah, here.” You reply a little less enthusiastically than you were aiming for, and you toss the pen in his direction.

Byounggon takes the pen in his hand and nods in gratitude.

“Was there anything else....or?” Your voice teeters. As much as Lee Byounggon was a delight to the eyes, and the ears, and the, well, everything else; he was also notoriously known around campus as the guy that would smile his way into girls hearts, and then leave them hanging without the smallest of explanations. He, contrary to his appearance, had layers that seemed more complex than a simple request to use a pen.

When he hears your question, for a moment, Lee Byounggon looks taken aback. Or at least, his version of that; the longer you look, the more you realize his eyes are widening slightly, and then, in a flash, they’re crinkled back into that eye smile.

“Oh, did you not want me here?” He looks like he’s pouting.

“You know, on any other day, I would love to sit with you it’s just, I’m so busy right now.”

His eyes glaze over the open tab of Netflix on your laptop, and he squints at the headphones that are still lodged in your ears. His face breaks out into a crooked smirk, and he quirks his left brow.

“No, no, I totally get it, yeah,” he soothes over, and you’re praying that your cheeks aren’t as telling as your heart, which beats rampantly in your chest. “You look pretty busy.”

Byounggon suddenly stands, and there’s something that flashes over his face that you can’t quite grasp; you think you might’ve upset him, because now he’s scratching the back of his neck, and he’s avoiding your eye contact. There’s an irony in his body language. His eyes, his ears, his hands; they are so transparent. He seems nervous. But the smooth rolling of his tongue, the firm grip of his voice, somehow he could look so vulnerable, but sound like the most confident person on the planet. The combination was perplexing.

He glances at you once more, and then turns to face the exit.

“Wait, Byounggon!” You shout suddenly, and he whips around in a way that’s too comfortable, like he was expecting it. When he faces you, his chin juts out, and his eyebrows quirk upwards; his mouth is slightly open, and there’s something about his twinkling eyes that make you think he’s happy you called him.

“Could I have my... pen back?” You blurt out.

Byounggon’s face is a mixture of things; first, you think you recognize surprise, or confusion, but then his lips stretch out into a smile, and Byounggon sits back down onto the chair. He leans back, bites his lip, and stares at you with an intensity that makes your chest shake. His deep brown eyes are set on you, and the pink of his lips becomes more, and more alluring; the longer you look, the deeper you want to fall into those eyes, sink into those lips. The longer you look, you are speechless, and you barely notice what he’s doing next. Byounggon takes the pen you have, a napkin off the table, and scribbles seven digits onto the crumpled sheet before pushing it in your direction. He looks like he’s biting the inside of cheeks, and when he stands up again, you look down at the napkin, back up at him, and you feel a sense of shock.

“See you around, (Y/N).” He says with the wave of a hand.

He grabs the bubble tea off the table, and when he walks away, you’re still staring at the half crumpled napkin that lies in front of you. Suddenly, the prospect of studying feels unappealing, and distant. Your eyes are still closing in on his messy handwriting when you realize it:

Did he just steal my fucking drink?

“I, for one, think calling him is a good idea.”

Junkyu is lying upside down from your dorm’s twin bed, and Hyunsuk sits near him on the other side, occasionally joining the conversation, but mostly doing his homework.

“Yeah well, you also think it’s a good idea to take shots before your Calculus exam, so I really can’t trust you right now.” You retort back. Junkyu just rolls his eyes, picking up one of the spare pillows from your bed, and aiming it at your head.

He won’t really throw it.

“I passed, didn’t I?” Junkyu questions, launching the pillow straight for your the top of your head, and stifling a giggle when it knocks the condescending look off your face. He really threw it.

“Ouch!” You exclaim. “Are you five years old?”

Junkyu raises a finger in your direction, and makes a silencing, “shhh!” motion; then he gestures wildly in the air, and beckons for Hyunsuk’s attention.

“Hyunsuk, can you tell her she’s being dumb?”

“I’m trying to do my Chem homework? Some of us actually have important things to do...” Hyunsuk replies halfheartedly.

“This is important! Can you please have an opinion?”

“My opinion is shut up.”

“Great,” Junkyu replies sarcastically, narrowing his eyes at the boy. “Thank you for being present today.” Then he turns his attention back to you, and when his eyes grow in size, you know he’s ready to start pleading.

“(Y/N), you have to call him! We’ve known Gon, since, like Junior High. And I’m telling you! He’s a really cool guy, you just gotta get to know him.”

“Mhmmm.” You answer, not looking up from your phone. “He sure seemed really cool when he stole my bubble tea right off the table, in broad daylight.”

You’re interrupted from your conversation when Hyunsuk starts laughing hysterically.

“I’m sorry, he did what?”

You whip your head around to face him and furrow your brows.

“Is that funny?” You question, narrowing your eyes.

Hyunsuk shakes his head. “No, no,” eyes glued back down to his papers. “Not funny at all.”

“(Y/N),” Junkyu repeats. “You’ve got to loosen up.”

“I’m loose!” Now you’re flailing your arms, and Junkyu still doesn’t seem convinced. “I just, I just don’t want a boyfriend right now, okay?”

“Oh really?” Junkyu asks, pointing his fingers at the open Netflix tab on your computer. On your recently watched, you can see the still frames of the Notebook, Love Actually, and Sex and the City.

“Is that why you spend every second for your free time watching Rom Coms?” Junkyu’s face pinches in what looks like disgust, and for a second, you contemplate throwing the pillow back at his head.

“That is not the same thing, Kyu!” You exclaim, and you can hear Hyunsuk sighing from across the room.

“Stop playing yourself, (Y/N).” He says softly while shaking his head. God, what was with them?

“Shouldn’t you be doing your homework?” You ask playfully. Hyunsuk only laughs and sticks his tongue out at you. When you get up to dust your pants off, and head toward the bathroom, Junkyu jumps up in excitement and follows you toward the door.

“Are you calling!?”

“No, Kyu, I’m going to the bathroom. Can I do that? Will you allow it?”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “I guess...”

Drama Queen.

***

Later in the evening, you’re sitting in Junkyu and Hyunsuk’s shared dorm; Junkyu’s been hammering you for the past couple hours to call Byounggon, and he’s been anything but subtle. Something along the lines of ‘Hey, Kyu, where’s the remote?’ and ‘You know, you should call Byounggon, he might know’, and then the eventual ‘that doesn’t even make sense!’. Hyunsuk mostly stays out of the conversation, but every once in a while, when he knows you’re especially frustrated, he ruffles his hands through your hair and lets out a giggle that’s almost impossible to stay mad at.

You’re trying to convince the boys to watch To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before for the third time, but they’re not buying it.

“I’m just gonna be bold and say it, I don’t think Lara Jean is that cool,” Hyunsuk shrugs. Before he continues to go on his mini rant, there’s a tentative knock on the door.

“That’s God telling you to shut up.” You shoot back at him, and Hyunsuk rolls his eyes when he hops off the bed and heads toward the door. Junkyu’s half way through a bag of hot cheetos, and fixated on the door.

“Who is it?” He mumbles, mouth still full of cheetos.

“Do I look like I have laser vision?” Hyunsuk clamors.

You start giggling and Junkyu just crosses arms; when Hyunsuk opens the door, you and Junkyu keep out of the entryway and try to catch glances of the person standing there. Hyunsuk lets out a nervous laugh, and his glance backwards makes your stomach churn.

“Oh, hey, Byounggon!” Hyunsuk’s enunciating from the front of the room, and immediately, Junkyu drops the cheeto bag out of his hand, and ushers you off the bed.

“Hey, bro. Can I come in for a sec? I just wanted to... ask you about something.” Byounggon’s voice echoes in the drafty hallway, and suddenly, it seems like you can feel the icy rush of air that’s blowing Hyunsuk’s hair, and making the hem of his shirt sway.

“Yeah, dude, no worries. Just give me a sec, I need to uh... put on my pants!” Hyunsuk’s reply feels strained and anxious, but he smiles, and it’s that smile that’s blinding like morning light, and soothing like warm embraces. You thought it would work.

“But... you’re wearing pants?”

Okay, so maybe it didn’t.

“Bye!”

***

“You can’t be here, right now!” Hyunsuk whisper shouts after slamming the door shut. He’s running toward the bed like a mad man, and pacing around the room with his hands through his hair.

“What do you want me to do? Disappear?” You answer frantically. Now, you’re off the bed and pacing back and forth with him. All of a sudden, with crumbs of hot cheeto dust falling off his lips, and onto the fresh white linen of the bed, Junkyu comes up with an idea:

“The closet!” He says in triumph, and now he’s standing up too, and ushering you toward the tiny sliding door with slots of blinds.

“No!” You whine.

Hyunsuk glances at the small closet and winces. But then he looks back at the door, remembers that Byounggon is still standing awkwardly behind it, and then he nods fiercely.

“Yes.” He says calmly. He opens the closet door, packed to the brim with Hyunsuk’s jewelry, Junkyu’s turtlenecks, and a whole lotta things you can’t even recognize. You pout at Hyunsuk, hoping to change his mind, but he’s pouting right back.

“5 minutes tops, okay?”

You look at him in disbelief, but the look in his eyes tells you he really means it.

“Okay, okay! Fine! I’ll get in the stupid closet.” You mumble. The steps you take toward the dark box are forced and heavy, but the sigh of relief Hyunsuk lets out in the end make you think it’s all worth it.

“I love you, (Y/N)!” Junkyu sings from the other side when he shuts the sliding door over your body, now pressed up against God knows what. You numbly nod your head and lean back into the mountain of clothes that sits behind you.

At least it smells good in here.

***

“So, what’s on your mind, Bro?” You can hear Hyunsuk’s voice through the closet, and if you squint really hard, you think you can see the fluffy blonde strings of his hair.

Byounggon, at least you think, is sitting across from him on the bed with his legs crossed. He’s wearing an over-sized white t-shirt with dark blue skinny jeans, and you hate that you love the way his single earring dangles against the side of his neck.

“You guys are close with...(Y/N), right?” Byounggon’s voice, for the time in a long time, sounds less like the confident drawl you’re used to, and more like the soft and tender murmur that is far more compatible with the flushing of his cheeks, and the wandering of his eyes. The way your name falls from his lips makes you shiver against the warmth of the clothes that shadow around you, and it’s a feeling that makes your heart flutter, and your stomach sink.

“Yeah,” Junkyu responds. “We’re pretty close, what’s up?”

Byounggon lets out an audible sigh, and then he takes his bottom lip between his teeth.

“I don’t know... I just, we had a weird run-in earlier, and I can’t stop thinking about it?” He runs his hands through his hair. “I’ve always kinda liked her? I gave her my number and everything, but I don’t know, she didn’t really seem into it.”

“Nah, (Y/N)’s not like that, Man. She likes everybody! There’s no way she wouldn’t like you!” Hyunsuk chimes in response, shaking his head adamantly. But Byounggon doesn’t seem convinced.

“I stole her fucking drink, Bro.”

“Yeah, why’d you do that?” Junkyu asks.

“I don’t know!” Byounggon stammers in response. “I was just, I was freaking out! I was trying to... look cool.”

You watch as Hyunsuk places his hand on Byounggon’s shoulder; he’s smiling a little, and at the same time, scrunching his nose.

“Don’t worry about it, dude. There’s no way she doesn’t like you. But, if you want her to like you, you know, like that, then I don’t really know how she feels about it. It’s up to her.”

“Yeah,” Byounggon breathes out. “You’re right. Thanks guys.”

You’re still watching as Byounggon gets up and heads toward the door. You’re still watching as Junkyu and Hyunsuk both stand up with him, and you’re still watching as you feel your heart hammering out of your chest, and when the air of the cramped closet seems to be running out like sand in an hourglass.

You’re still watching when Byounggon trips over one of Junkyu’s berets and stumbles toward the door, and when you let out an unhinged, and quite noticeable, laugh.

“Uh, what was that?” Byounggon asks, eyes sweeping around the room in confusion.

“That,” Hyunsuk struggles to find the right words. “That, was my... Furby.”

“Your... Furby?”

“Mhmm.” Hyunsuk’s voice is a slightly higher pitch, and the words sound like their fighting their way out of his mouth. “That’s my Furby. It’s always making noise when it’s not supposed to. Sometimes... it just, does that, in the middle of the night.”

“That’s kinda creep, Bro.” Byounggon remarks, crinkling his nose.

“Creepy,” Hyunsuk repeats. Then he spares a glance in your direction. “Annoying. Frustrating. Aggravating. It’s all of those things.” While he’s still turned toward you, he mouths something that looks like “Shut up!”... or maybe it’s “Fuck you!”... you can’t tell.

Byounggon nods his head, and giggles a little bit. He turns toward the door, and this time, he looks like he’ll actually leave. But then his head peaks back around toward the guys, and he gestures in their direction.

“Are you guys coming to Seunghun’s party later?”

“Probably not,” Junkyu answers. “Have fun though. Tell Hun to be a good host this time and not puke on the guests.”

Byounggon giggles again, and with his foot through the door this time, he nods his head and steps out.

“Alright, I will. Thanks for the help guys.”

“Yeah, no worries, dude. Have fun.”

And with that same rush of cold air, and a soft wave goodbye, Lee Byounggon walks back out the door.

***

“I can breathe.” You groan as Junkyu opens the closer and releases you from your temporary prison.

“Don’t be dramatic.” Junkyu chides. “It was like, three minutes.”

“Me? I’m the dramatic one? You cried for like three weeks when we watched Les Miserables!”

“It was sad!” He retorts. “And how many times have you made us watch that stupid Netflix movie?”

Your mouth falls open, and suddenly, feels a little dry. Junkyu points at you and narrows his eyes.

“Exactly! Shut up.”

“You got me.” You admit, and fall limply onto the bed.

“You guys are fucking dumb.” Hyunsuk groans, walking towards the door. “I’m getting snacks.”

“Says the guy with the Furby.” Junkyu snickers into his pillows, and you feel yourself starting to laugh hysterically.

“I hate you both.” Hyunsuk mutters.

“Wait, I’m coming with you!” Junkyu exclaims, running out the door after him. “I’m out of hot cheetos.”

God, you loved these idiots.

***

Three minutes into their absence, you start to think about what Byounggon said. And without even thinking about it, you take the crumpled napkin out of your back pocket, and unfold to the numbers that are scribbled underneath. You stare at those numbers like they’ll jump off the napkin and make the decision for you. A couple times, you start to type the first three digits; but that’s when you feel something creeping in the back of your throat, a sense of hesitation. Then you think about what he said again.

‘I’ve always kinda liked her.’

You press all seven digits into the phone and press call.

As the dial tone begins to ring in, you’re telling yourself to press end, over and over and over, but as much as your mind drones on and on, your fingers remain where they are, and your ears are listening intently.

He won’t pick up. He won’t pick up and then it’ll be like nothing ever happened, and I can just play it off like—

“Hello?”

The sound of his voice shatters your thoughts like glass to hard stone. The sound on the receiver is muffled, and you’re not sure if it’s the poor quality of your old phone, or the poor company he’s surrounding himself with. In the background, you can hear the sound of soulless teenagers shouting, drinks clinking, and booming music. The beating of your heart is rampant, and loud, but you can hear his surroundings like they’re your very own. You’re trying to force your throat, trying to make a sound, but something, or someone, stops you.

‘Gon, baby, who are you talking to?’ You can hear a voice whine on the other side of the line, and then the sound of shuffling. It makes your jaw slack and your hands shake around the receiver; and suddenly, this overwhelming sense of stupidity looms over you, and you’re embarrassed that you thought this could ever be something other than what’s happening right now.

“J-just give me a sec,” you can hear him whisper. “(Y/N)?”

You hang up the phone.

***

When Junkyu walks back into the room, your eyes are stinging with tears.

“Hey, I forgot my wallet, is it under the pillow you’re sitting on?” He says mindlessly, eyes wandering around the room until he stops to take in your pained expression. He tilts his head to the side, and comes closer.

“Hey, hey. Is everything okay?” He whispers, gripping your chin and forcing you to look up at him. You offer him a tight smile.

“You called?” He asks, and he wraps his arms around your waist, and pulls you close. You nod into the warmth of his neck, and he hums into your hair.

“It didn’t go well?”

You nod again, and Junkyu, now running his hands over your scalp, is also running his hands down your back to calm you down.

“It’s gonna be fine, okay? You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”

You pull away, wipe your eyes, and nod your head.

“Thanks, Kyu.” You sniffle, and he grabs you a tissue off the nightstand.

“Always.”

In a moment's time, Hyunsuk is moaning his way through the front door with his hands full of Shin Ramen, Lays Potato Chips, and Coca Colas.

“Kyu, you said you’d help me with this stuff! And then you just, ran off!” Hyunsuk empties his ocean of snacks onto his bed, and then squints his eyes at you in curiosity when he takes in the scene in front of him.

“Hey,” he says softly, as he rushes closer to you. “You good?”

You nod, and Junkyu nods too.

“Yeah, she just got some Cheeto dust in her eye.”

Hyunsuk nods in understanding and pats your shoulder.

“I got you.” Then he pops open one of the Coca Cola cans, takes a large swig, and averts his eyes to the TV.

“So what’re we watching?”

“To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.” Junkyu quips matter of factly, and Hyunsuk’s face twists in disgust.

“A-Are you serious? W-why?”

“Because I love that fucking movie.” Junkyu snaps. “Now, stop talking shit!”

“Fine,” Hyunsuk presses. “But I said what I said... Lara Jean is not that cool.”

“SHUT UP!”

For the first time in a long time, the bus is not filled to the brim with crowded bodies and wandering toddlers. With the occasional glance out of the clouded window beside you, you sit in the second to last row; legs crossed and ears attuned to the melodious rumbling of the bus. The bus ride is bumpy roads and many, many unnecessary red lights, but that’s to be expected. What you were not expecting, however, was the eager body of Lee Byounggon rushing to the back of the bus at the next stop.

Byounggon comes rushing down the aisle of the bus like he’s running toward the finish line at a track meet. Except, right now, you think he’s running a little faster. You spare him a glance as he stops in front of where you’re sitting, and flashes you that smile; it’s that same smile he makes when you ask him if he’s finished his homework, that same smile that peers back at you when he steals one of your pencils; that smile that encapsulates misplaced confidence. Right now, that smile watches as you fiddle with the volume button on your phone.

“Music not loud enough?” His voice rings like a wind chime. You’re not even listening to music.

Your tongue darts out of your mouth when you look at him, and it’s partially because you’re still shaken from your encounter days ago, and partially because he looks so good. Byounggon stands wearing a denim jacket, and the tufts of fur surging out of the collar frame his long neck, perfectly contrasting the dark cascade of his hair. For a second, your eyes linger, and then, with a peak upward, you take in his amused expression. It looks so natural on him. But then again, so did those flushed cheeks, those crimson ears, and that pinched expression from a few days before; you wondered which one was real.

When you don’t respond, Byounggon takes it upon himself to slide into the seat right next to you. His body is warm, and when the top of his exposed knee brushes against your ankle, you feel your body stiffen.

“Can I sit here?” He asks.

“None of the other 30 seats available peaked your interest?” You gesture across the entire span of the bus; but Byounggon doesn’t bother looking. Now, he’s shrugging his shoulders and biting his lip.

“I thought I’d sit with a friend?”

“Friend?” You repeat. “Friend?”

“Yeah, friend, you do know what that is right?” The sound of Byounggon’s laugh prevents you from shoving him straight off the seat, and onto the cold floor. You give him a sour glance.

“Yeah, I know what that is, you asshol-,” you start, but Byounggon cuts you off with another airy laugh.

“Geez, I was just joking, relax.” He lifts his hands, in that way that he does, and he puckers his lips in thought. “You called me, the other night, right?”

“Mmmm,” you squint and tilt your head, pretending to contemplate. “Don’t think I did.”

“Really?” He draws out. “I have caller ID, you know.”

You hope he doesn’t notice the way your pupils widen, or the way your hands, still fiddling with the volume, start getting clammy.

“Must’ve just been a butt dial, or something.” You shrug. And then he nods. And then he smiles.

“Butt dial, huh?”

“Yup.”

“So then... you put my number in your contacts?” You want to slap the smirk right off his face. Or maybe kiss it.

“No,” your voice trails off. “I didn’t.”

He hums out. “I mean, you must’ve because I don’t think it works otherwi—,”

“Okay! I called you! I was just... gonna call you out for stealing my bubble tea.” You mumble quietly, pointing your gaze down at your fidgeting feet.

Byounggon doesn’t respond, he just slowly nods his head and bites his lip. For a second, you think he looks disappointed. And then his face breaks out into a smile.

“So where are we going?” He announces loudly, clapping his hands together.

“We?” You deadpan. “I’m going to the library. You are going...,” the words don’t come as easily as you wish they would have, “wherever...you’re going.”

“Good one.” He teases. “Mmm... why don’t we go to the arcade?”

“Did you hear anything I just said or...?”

“Arcade it is.”

“Byounggon, I’m not—,”

***

“I cannot believe I’m here right now.”

You, through much avail, are standing in front of a claw machine and a pool table. The arcade looks something out of a 90’s catalogue, and it looks like it hasn’t used since about then, too.

You are frowning under the arcade’s sorry excuse for lighting, and Byounggon smiles brightly against the dark tiles on the wall.

“C’mon,” he calls out, walking towards the claw machine. “I’ll win you something.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, and sit with him, side-by-side. Byounggon fondles the clutch of the game, and once, twice, three times, you watch as the stuffed animal he picks up falls back onto the mountainous pile.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the point of the game is to take the stuffed animal, not drop it, and then put it into that box in the back over there.”

Byounggon’s tongue waves out of his mouth, and he licks his upper lip. His jaw is tight, but his face is still stretched in that crooked smile you love so much, so you know he’s not mad. He scrunches his nose, and one of his eyes squeezes shut.

“You’re funny.”

He tilts his head to the side and gestures toward the machine.

“Why don’t you give it a try?”

Leaning into the machine, you playfully crack your knuckles, and this time, it’s your face that’s breaking out into a smile.

“Which one do you want?”

Byounggon is giggling at your sudden burst of confidence, and his eyes flick over the green stuffy at the very back.

“The dinosaur,” he says fondly, inching closer to the machine, inching closer to you. You pretend not to notice.

Byounggon is fixated on this moment in a frenzy of amusement and curiosity. When your eyebrows pull together, and you’re focusing on the claw machine, he doesn’t bother hiding the intensity of his gaze. He didn’t care how you were holding the clutch, that the dinosaur had been captured by the claw, that it was lurching toward the slot—he could only focus on you. The way your hair swept over the front of your face. The way your tongue peaks out of your mouth when you’re concentrating. The way your eyes glaze over when you’re staring at something you care about. He was entranced by that gaze; hypnotized. He memorized the pattern of your soft blinking, and the way your eyes seemed to tell him how you were feeling right in that moment; happy.

He wanted you to look at him that way.

Byounggon is still thinking about the way your eyelashes flutter by the time you take the fluffy green dinosaur out of the ‘winner’ slot and parade around the arcade in a wild rampage.

“Here,” you exclaim, shoving the fluffy dinosaur in his direction. “You can keep it.”

“T-Thanks.”

***

The walk back to the bus stop is breathtakingly quiet. And by that, you mean that the sound of Byounggon’s soft breathing is an oddly tranquil cross between sweet lullaby and exercise induced asthma. The way the white puffs of air are released into the chilly winter afternoon captures your attention, and the myriad of airy white coils makes something unfamiliar stir up inside your chest. You think it looks like art.

“Here,” Byounggon clears his throat, lazily shrugging the denim jacket off his shoulders. “Take this, you’re freezing.”

He now regards the way your hands are rubbing together under the poor insulation of your hoodie, the way your mouth seems to be sealed to prevent it from chattering, the way your nose is flushed a crimson red, and in Byounggon’s opinion, it’s excruciatingly adorable. You bite your lip in a moment of contemplation, and then you firmly shake your head.

“Nah,” you wave your hand. “I-I’m good.”

When the words stutter out in a shiver, you want to close your eyes and groan in frustration. You almost start to chastise yourself for your lack of warmer clothes, but then you remembered you were supposed to be in the library right now, and the library had perfect heating.

“Just take it, (Y/N). You’re shivering.” You want to shake your head again, say no, but now his eyes are digging deep into yours, and it takes you back to that place that makes your throat itch and your mind blank. “Please?”

“Okay.” You breathe out. “But, if want me to wear it, then I’m gonna keep it. I’ve always wanted one of those denim jackets, you know, the ones with the fur on the inside?”

Byounggon starts laughing and he shakes his head, at the end, he rolls his eyes and looks back at you.

“That’s cool,” He murmurs, and he seems like he means it. “I’ve got like, three more.”

“Okay.” You nod, hesitantly taking the jacket from him, and slipping it around your shaking body. When the fur on the inside makes contact with your icy skin, it’s a feeling of relief and euphoria. You tightly shut your eyes and sigh into the warmth he’s provided you. You look at him once, and then you skip upward to the bus stop, leaving him trailing a few steps behind. From the bus stop, you turn your head and smile toward him.

“It’s not that warm.” You chide. And Byounggon only laughs, running forward to catch up.

***

On the bus ride, Byounggon’s been tapping his fingers against the condensed window, and drawing miscellaneous figures in the collected water vapor. From the corner of your eyes, you can see a twinkle in his eye that’s far too pure, far too innocent, to ever belong to a boy with his kind of reputation. He’s still staring at the window when you let your head fall against his shoulder. It was silly of you to think he’d let that go unnoticed.

“Whaaaaat?” He gasps, mouth falling wide open. “Did you just... initiate... physical contact... with me?”

“Gon?”

“Yeah?”

“Shhhhh.”

***

The walk back to your dorm is less awkward than you thought it would be, and when Byounggon leans against your door, one hand on the frame, and the other lingering on his side, you feel like leaning in, and falling into him completely.

“I’ll see you later, (Y/N).” His voice is barely above a whisper. You nod your head, bite your lip, and wave him out the door. When he walks out of sight, and steals one glance back to look at you, you flash him a sudden smile. He returns it, and the rush of energy surging through your body makes you want to slam the door behind him and jump up and down in glee. Before you can even begin to flutter at today’s excursion, you are met with the amused voice of your tried and true.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Junkyu’s voice booms from top of your bed. On instinct, you jump back in fear, and strike a hand to your chest.

“Kyu?! How long have you been waiting here?!”

“Since the morning... I thought we were gonna get bubble tea after you studied at the Library? If that’s even where you went,” he huffs, wiggling his eyebrows at you, the look in his eyes a little too promiscuous.

“Nothing happened.” You state blankly. “We just ran into each other on the bus.”

“Is that why you’re wearing his jacket, (Y/N)? If that’s even your real name!”

You looked at Junkyu once in exasperation, and then again, with a stupid smile.

“Kyu, you’re being ridiculous right now.”

“Seriously though,” He murmurs, corners of his mouth inching up into a soft grin. “I thought we didn’t like him?”

Now, you realize, your body is swaying, and your eyes are shifting from the floor, to the ceiling, to Junkyu, and then back to the floor. The plains of your cheeks feel hot, and you want to sigh when you realize they’re probably turning red, too.

“We like him?” Junkyu repeats, this time jumping off the bed and towards you. He takes your hands in his. “Do we like him?”

“I don’t know, Kyu,” you whine out. “Maybe?”

Junkyu doesn’t restrain himself, and jumps wildly into your embrace, rampantly shaking you back and forth. A few seconds later, when Hyunsuk strolls through your door, he takes one look at the sight in front of him and furrows his brows.

“Wow. What’s going on here?” Hyunsuk’s eyes are wide and his lips are pursed into a smile.

“(Y/N) has a crush!” Junkyu teases, and your cheeks feel hotter than they did before.

“Do you guys have any concept of privacy?” You groan.

“Nope!” They both sing, and Hyunsuk joins in on the group hug, patting your back, and laughing.

“I guess we’re not a throuple anymore?” Hyunsuk randomly bursts out.

Oh God.

“We should throw a party.” Hyunsuk’s voice rings in your ears. He’s situated on your dorm’s desk, struggling to read his textbook under your room’s poor lighting, and balancing a pencil on his nose.

“We,” you repeat. “-should study for our Bio final.”

“Mmmm. That doesn’t sound like fun.” Junkyu murmurs. He, is currently scrolling through his instagram feed, and abandoned the workings of mitosis about two hours ago.

“We’re studying, Kyu.” You remind. “It’s not supposed to be fun.”

Hyunsuk shakes his head adamantly and takes a swig of his Mountain Dew. He shakes his finger at you.

“You got it all wrong, (Y/N). This is college. It’s allllllllllll about fun.”

“Plus, you can invite Byounggon if you want,” Junkyu sings from the side, waving a blurry selfie from Byounggon’s instagram account at you.

“Just because I kinda, sorta, have a crush on him, doesn’t mean my whole world revolves around him, you guys! Geez.” You lean back into your bed and wrap yourself in the covers.

“Hey, (Y/N)?” Hyunsuk questions.

“Yeah?”

“How’s that taste?”

“What?”

“I said, how’s that taste?”

“How’s what taste, you dumbass?”

“All that haterade!” Hyunsuk giggles back at you, and then he runs over to Junkyu, who gives him a hi-five, and soon follows suit.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t giggling too.

***

The party happens on a Saturday night.

Right now, your eyes are surfing the crowd of rowdy college students, shifting over the empty bottles of beer, the awkward grinding of couples, and for some reason, a box of tampons?

College is weird.

Hyunsuk’s walking around in something that looks awfully similar to a toga; you’d asked him about it, but he just rolled his eyes, mumbling something about how you don’t understand fashion, (Y/N)! Junkyu, on the other hand, is playing limbo with your friends Seunghun and Midam. They don’t have a limbo stick, so they’re using your Hello Kitty broom.

“(Y/N)!” Hyunsuk shouts, carefully stepping over people’s shoes with a large tray of Jello shots perched on his shoulder. “Can you hold this? I wanna play limbo.”

You shake your head in disbelief and begin to laugh, taking the tray from his hands.

“Yeah, Suk, I’ll take it.” And he places a kiss on your cheek in excitement.

“I love you, (Y/N)!” He calls out, and then in a drunken fury, he’s already starting to play with the rest of them.

“That’s a lot of alcohol for one person.” The heat of Byounggon’s breath fans over the back of your neck, and you know it’s Byounggon by the way your arm breaks out in goosebumps. When you turn around, you take in his appearance completely. Before you, he stands in a black denim jacket with dark wash jeans; his dark sweeps down into his eyes a little bit, but not so much that you can’t decipher those specs of dark brown that bore into you. His lips are curved into a sideways smile, like they always seem to be; but this time, you care less about the curve of his lips, and more about how soft they look.

“Hey.” You breathe out.

***

“You know, if I wasn’t so drunk right now, I’d say that you were staring at me.” His voice, like that day in the cafe, like that day on the bus, is smooth and cool. You assume it’s the alcohol.

You catch his gaze and fiddle with the hem of your shirt, somewhat out of breath, and somewhat in a whirlwind of confidence you didn’t know you had.

“Yeah, well, you’re drunk.” You retort, shrugging your shoulders. You catch the way his eyes linger on the skin of your collarbone, and you feel yourself gulp. He’s not as subtle as he thinks he is when he’s drunk.

His tongue runs over the plump expanse of his lips in a way that makes the your heart singe in your chest, it’s almost sinful. He’s still biting his lips when he looks down at the floor, and then he looks back up at you, and his smile, like always, is electrifying.

“Okay.” He nods.

“Okay.”

***

Somehow, you’re no longer in the safe confines of Hyunsuk’s dorm, but rather sitting on the edge of the bathroom counter top with Byounggon’s lips running all over your neck. The cold, slightly damp, surface underneath the sheer cloth of your skirt provides a sense of discomfort that’s hard to ignore, but the way Byounggon sucks on the sensitive skin below your ear makes you feel like nothing else exists. You are running your hands through his hair, tugging on instinct, and breathing hard into the mirror that stands behind your head. He breathes deeply into the side of your neck, and it’s enough to make your body erupt in soft chills. His grip around your waist softens when he brings his lips back to yours, and he plants a kiss on your lips; this time, not fast, or harsh, but slow, and sensual. The way his lips linger when you pull away makes your hands quiver, and you’re still thinking about the way he bites your lower lip by the time the kiss is over.

Byounggon moves his face slightly away from yours, and he’s looking into your eyes with that intensity you can’t quite place.

“I wanna know if something will ever come of this, (Y/N).” The sheer vulnerability in his voice makes your heart palpitate, and your throat hitch.

“I like you, Gon.” You say tenderly. “I really, really do. I just—I think about, things.”

His eyes are still boring into yours, and he blinks consecutively, you know he’s confused.

“What things?”

“Just, things, Gon. Like, like when you were at Hun’s party, a-and I called you, and there was that girl—,”

“What girl?” He cuts you off. “I wasn’t with a girl that night. Nor have I been with any girls since.... since you, (Y/N).”

You know he’s telling the truth by the way his voice breaks at the end. It’s that voice. Lee Byounggon is a boy that oozes confidence in ways you can hardly fathom, and because of that, he is good at hiding. There were times when his palms would sweat, and his cheeks would flush, and his throat would close, but he still sounded like the most confident person on the planet. In this moment, you think he sounds nothing like that boy. You think he sounds hurt, dejected, honest.

“I-I don’t know, Gon. I just, I-I don’t know,” Tears are stinging your eyes, and then they pool up, slide down your cheeks in hot rushes; by then, you are closing your eyes in disappointment. Disappointment in yourself.

“Are you really scared I’m gonna break your heart, (Y/N)? Or is it that you’re afraid of letting yourself go?”

The flood of emotions that comes over you is far too overbearing to be contained in the box-like expanse of the dimly lit bathroom, and so you push yourself off the counter, and fling out the door in a rush of running mascara, and swallowed emotions.

You can still hear Byounggon calling out your name when you let yourself out of Hyunsuk’s dorm, and tearfully walk back home.

“I think something’s seriously wrong. She never says no to bubble tea!”

“She said no to bubble tea?”

“Yeah! I asked her if she wanted some, and she was just like no I don’t feel like it. What? How do you just not feel like it? She always feels like it! Even that one time we watched Scream and she felt like puking! She drank it! And she puked!”

“Something is seriously wrong here.”

The sound of Junkyu and Hyunsuk’s deliberation makes your eyes close in aggravation, and your mouth widen in something reminiscent of a laugh. The boys have been huddling together, out of their mind all morning trying to put together the pieces of last night. It really didn’t help that they were both hammered out of their minds, and that the last thing they remember was watching Seunghun accidentally snap your Hello Kitty broom in two during a wild Limbo accident.

You push yourself out of the bathroom, and suddenly, Junkyu and Hyunsuk sit in complete silence, and shine encouraging smiles in your direction.

“Heeeeey, pretty lady,” Hyunsuk welcomes. “What’s up?”

Your eyes crinkle in distaste, and you poke him in the shoulder playfully.

“I could hear everything you guys were saying, you know?” You remind, and then the smile falls half way from his lips, and he bites his cheek. Junkyu looks to you with a gentle smile, and pats the empty spot next to him on the bed.

“Did something happen?” Junkyu asks softly.

The memories of last night have been playing back in your head on repeat since you entered your dorm mid-breakdown. Junkyu and Hyunsuk realized you were gone a couple minutes later, but by the time they entered your dorm, you were already trying to force yourself to sleep. They collectively decided talking to you in the morning would be a better idea. But even after a night’s worth of contemplation, you can’t seem to find the right words.

“Did he do something?” Hyunsuk questions, and his chest puffs out a little. The gesture makes you smile fondly.

“No, no,” You explain. “It was nothing like that. Honestly, it was mostly my fault.”

Junkyu lets his head fall on your shoulder, and Hyunsuk rubs his hand down your back as you explain.

“I don’t know, I just, I like him, I really do. I’m just....,” You swallow, and a feeling of shame falls over you. “Scared?”

Junkyu notices your change in demeanor and he grabs your hand suddenly. He squeezes your hand and snuggles into your side.

“Feeling scared is natural, (Y/N). But sometimes, you need to take some risks if it means you’ll experience some of the most beautiful things in life, you know?”

You nod into his embrace, and Hyunsuk joins in.

“Damn,” Hyunsuk fans out. “Where was that fucking deep advice when I got my hand stuck in the vending machine last week?”

And even though your cheeks are still wet with tears, the room erupts in laughter.

***

Now, you’re swaying back forth on a swing implemented by your campus as a “brain break”, and the wind that sweeps underneath your feet is fresh and exhilarating. For the first time in a long time, the sky is not outstretched in muted grey, but instead, a light and radiant blue.

“Hey.” You hear Byounggon’s voice from behind you. Chills are rising from the back of your neck and you’re not sure if it��s because of the passing of the wind, or the sentiment in his voice.

They didn’t.

“Suk and Kyu told me you’d be out here.” He explains, before taking the swing next to you.

They did.

Your eyes glaze over his face with such tenacity, it reminds Byounggon of that time when you were playing with the claw machine. He remembers the way your eyebrows pulled together, the way your hair swept over your face, the way your tongue peaked out of your mouth, that way you gazed when you looked at something you cared about. He remembers the way he craved for that gaze, and right now, right before him, he thinks he sees it once again. He bites his lip to prevent the smile from breaking out onto his face.

“Look, I wanna apologize,” he starts, but then you shake your head and grab his hand. He’s shocked by the gesture, you know because his body tenses, and he looks back at you with eyes squinted in curiosity.

“No,” you tell him. “Don’t.”

He nods slowly, and you take that as a sign to continue.

“I,” You take a breath of fresh air, you stop swinging. “I want to apologize to you. F-for everything. For being so difficult, for not t-trusting you. I’m sorry for projecting my fears onto you, because you didn’t do anything wrong. And you’re right. I am afraid of letting myself go.”

Byounggon nods his head and squeezes your hand as you continue. He shifts closer to your side, and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer into his embrace. You let your head fall onto his shoulder, and you let yourself move closer into his chest, closer to his beating heart. He wonders if you can hear it beating wildly in this moment.

“It’s okay to be scared, (Y/N),” He murmurs into your hair. “We don’t have to do anything. We can just, stay like this. And whenever you’re ready, we can try, and you know, do the couple thing....I-if that’s what you want, of course.”

You nod into his crook of his neck, and smile into the warmth of his chest. He’s swinging back and forth now, out of anxiety or excitement, you’re not sure; maybe both.

“Hey Gon?”

“Yeah?”

“I wanna try.”

Months of sweet glances, chaste kisses, and hiding from Hyunsuk and Junkyu pass smoothly like the seasons, and Byounggon loves every minute of it. You do, too, of course. But you’re a little less obvious about it.

There are times when you remember the bus ride, or the arcade, sometimes you think about the notorious party. And each time, you regret that you spent the early stages of your blooming romance separating your boyfriend into different parts. There were times when you thought that the Byounggon that stole pens, and sometimes kisses, was different from the Byounggon that blushed uncontrollably when you ran your fingers through his hair, or shivered when you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

Over time, and with experience, you’ve come to realize that there are no parts, and that Byounggon, has always been the very same. He, since the beginning, has been that boy that loved you unconditionally and with a fervor that was truly commendable. And you, though sometimes you’re too shy to admit it, love him more than you could’ve ever imagined loving anybody. You stopped thinking about the things that you made unhappy, and started thinking about the way he made you feel when his lips are pressed against yours, or when his fingers are tangled in your hair. And which part of him was real, well, that wasn’t really a question anymore. It almost embarrassed you to admit how long it had taken you to realize. Which part of him was real?

All of him.

***

“So what’re we watching?” Byounggon’s voice booms. He’s been filing through the movie posters on Netflix’s homepage, and seemingly struggling, as nothing seems to be the right fit.

“You guys should watch Mission Impossible,” Hyunsuk calls out. “Now that’s a movie.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Junkyu replies. “(Y/N), watch whatever you guys want, and don’t let Hyunsuk poison your date night.” Now he’s singing out, and wiggling his eyebrows.

“Mmmmm,” Byounggon hums. “What about ‘To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before’? It’s recommended.”

You feel a sudden rush of nostalgia wash over you, and you catch a glance of Hyunsuk, who is already cringing.

“Nah,” you gloss over. “Honestly, Lara Jean is not that cool.”

Hyunsuk looks like he’s about to burst into tears, and Junkyu’s eyes are widening in shock. Byounggon’s not sure what’s going on.

“I’m so proud of you!” Hyunsuk cries, and he’s almost riled up enough to run over to you, and give you the biggest hug you’ve ever received.

“Okay, C’mon Drama Queen,” Junkyu pushes his shoulder. “Let’s leave the love birds to... do their thing.”

Your cheeks flush in embarrassment, and you want to throw the remote at Junkyu’s head.

“Bye, Kyu!” You seethe. “Bye, Suk.”

“Bye!” Junkyu calls out whilst opening the door. “Have fun! But not too much fun... but if you have too much fun, make sure you’re using the right kind of pro—,”

“GET OUT!”

Junkyu slams the door shut before the pillow you launch can hit him.

***

“Hey, Gon?” You mumble. His head is in your lap, and you’re winding your hands through the soft locks of his hair. When you look down at him, his eyes are fixed on the TV screen, but when you look away, he continues to stare back at you.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

His eyes take in your serene expression, and he quirks an eyebrow upward.

“Thank you for what, baby?” He questions into your thigh.

“Just for... everything.” You whisper bashfully, and the sight makes his eyes crinkle together in a smile that just takes your breath away.

“You’re cute,” he murmurs, pulling your neck down for a slow, but sweet kiss. You lean into the soft caress of his lips against yours, and sigh against his lips, pulling away to kiss the side of his cheek.

“Hey Gon?” You ask after a few minutes of lying together. Now, you’re cuddled into his side, and the movie you’re watching feels distant.

“Yeah, baby?” He’s rubbing his hand down your side.

“You wanna pick up some bubble tea?”

His face twists into something puzzling and playful. He looks down at you and pokes his finger into your cheek.

“But I thought we were watching a movie?”

“No, we are, it’s just, I hate to bring this up... but remember that one time, when you stole my drink, I just feel like you kinda owe me—,”

“Ohmygod.” He groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Will you ever let that go?” And now he’s giggling, and shaking his head.

“I just,” You ponder for the right words, and you look over his face once again. The corners of his mouth are lifted, and the way his eyes shut makes your mouth curve into a small smile. You shrug dramatically into his chest. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget about it.”

Byounggon leans down, eyes fixated on your lips, and hands pushing the stray strands of hair out of your eyes. His lips meet yours, and it’s a kiss that’s warm, and emotional, and now it feels like you’re talking about something much deeper than some stolen bubble tea.

When he pulls away, his face lingers in front of yours, and your noses are almost touching.

“Yeah,” He breathes out. “Me neither.”

***

THE END.

if u made it this far ily!!!

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