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elriel-oblivion · 3 years

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So I started this in the last week of 2020, and I'm ready to post it 😊 I've still got a couple other wips I'd started before this one but I haven't been bothered to finish those lol so I'm putting this one out first. Anyway, this'll be 6 parts long; I'll prob put up the next part in three or four days.

I'll put word counts so you can gauge how long each part is and if you wanna read it 😅 Also lemme know if you'd like to be tagged

Word count: 2.2K

AO3

Ashes from the Deep

Part I

The shadows were colder than usual tonight. On better days, their chill wrapped Azriel's bones in an icy embrace, a comforting freeze numbing any semblance of feeling in his wasted heart.

But this miserable night, they were searing cold, the kind of cold piercing the highest of mountain peaks; the kind of cold that penetrated the brain itself. He shivered as he travelled through those shadows, dark mists and wisps coiling like vines about his head.

Maybe he was deliberately searching for the coldest areas. Maybe he wanted a complete absence of feeling: physical, emotional, spiritual. It would certainly be easier to feel nothing than trying to quell the frigid rage inside. How could an avalanche be stopped once it started?

Further and further he moved through his shadows, dawn chasing him from a few hours away. Mountains and villages surged past through those charcoal mists, making way to depthless forests and ravines. He clenched his jaw tight against the cold, memory guiding him home.

But the fresh blood he'd seen earlier, and the mutilated remains of that little girl, one wing torn off and lying bent at the edge of the dirt path ... Her unseeing eyes were glazed, that shine as bright and true on his mind as the glint of moonlight on the blade of Death. And her scream. Cauldron, it curdled his own blood.

He'd been but a minute late. A matter of seconds were all that stood between him and the sadistic bastard who'd brutalised that child. Barely a heartbeat in his lifetime.

He blinked once to rid himself of her stare. Twice.

The image remained, muddying with his path home. His hands clenched and unclenched, nails biting into his skin, but the girl's hazel eyes and her ashen skin and the fingers outstretched for that severed wing remained an imprint on his vision.

Why was this affecting him so much? It wasn't the first time he'd seen horrors like this. But if Azriel wanted to be honest with himself, some days were harder than others simply because they were. Some days, the despair rattled his core and tossed him far out - because he was a person and emotions, feelings, these things were too abstract to be boxed in.

Everything had a limit. Had Azriel ever truly reached his?

Sometimes Azriel himself didn't understand how he kept it all in. How he didn't react or display any sign of having seen or heard the things he did. Sometimes he was repulsed by himself because of it. At least Cassian and his rare vomiting showed some of the humanity inside.

Azriel gave away nothing. Was there even humanity in himself? Everyone but his family looked at him like he was an unhinged monster imprisoned by his Illyrian skin. Like he was moments from escape and they would be his first victims.

Or - not just his family. Her. Elain. Did he consider he family? Perhaps it was too early, or even too inappropriate to do so.

Either way, how could he stain the sudden image of her with himself, with the horrors he'd just seen, had always had the displeasure of seeing? She was lovely and warm and beautiful and he was dark and cold and hideous.

Elain. Something inexplicable stirred in him at the thought of her.

He tried to calm it, this heat, this single star in his midnight sky. But it remained. And it grew.

And he was disgusted. Ashamed. He was not worthy of her.

And it ached. Another unrequited love.

That word snapped something in him. Mocked him.

Love.

A choking sound ripped from his throat and he welcomed it, let it mount into a scream, let it tear through his body and soul. Like that monster was finally breaking free. It was invigorating yet scorching. It burned him from the inside out but the cold of those shadows permeated his mind so heavily, he forgot the essence of corporeality and only his soul seemed to drift.

His ragged breathing sounded, throat parched. Where was he? Through the shadows, all around him, there seemed only darkness. Was he flying? No, the shadows sang their usual baritone thrum as opposed to the high harmony of the wind.

Above, no stars glistened. His eyes strained but nothing peeked through. It wasn't often that his shadows became this thick; usually thin and wispy, they now shrouded his being, coalescing over, in him. He became the cold, a shadow, darkness itself, floating through the ether, higher and higher like ashes on the wind.

But even ashes settled down at some point.

Unless his soul truly were ascending, unless this truly were death. It almost seemed too easy. All the battles, those two great wars, the poison that shot through his veins and stole his breath as per Hybern's whim. Poison that sometimes woke him up in cold sweats, a phantom memory of its iciness picking through his body as though he were being cut up by the sharpest blade ...

Sometimes it even felt like his own blade.

No, this couldn't be death. A mere scream, the image of lives lost, a bloody fight - he hated to admit that these were commonplace among his memories, his life. But in doing so, he knew death was too easy an aftermath for what had happened tonight.

Death, an ascent. But he was sure when his time came, his stained soul would descend like the demon he was.

So he grounded, drifting down weightlessly until the solidity of rock steadied him. He would not go to that darkest of places yet. But he was still exhausted. So damn tired of everything. He feared that if he dropped into a slumber right now, he'd not get up for a lifetime. As it was, his legs almost gave out, but he forced some remaining strength back into them. All he had to do was get home now.

He stepped out of his shadows; Devlon's camp was quiet around him. A fire to his far right sputtered in the harsh winds and Azriel swept himself back into his shadows.

This time he travelled faster, composing himself, locking his muscles and bones up, clenching his jaw. He let that familiar cool comfort drain his rage, cleaning it through his veins before it settled in the frozen lake of his heart where the rest of his darkness lay, inescapable through the impenetrable foot of icy wrath and sorrow. He savoured his shadows, a confidant in their own right, thanked them for their understanding and the escape he found within them.

But they were growing warmer now. Azriel squinted through them as they shifted him across land and water - the scape of Velaris and its brilliant lights greeted him. Closer to home now, he could breathe with a looser chest but this was still unusual; his shadows shouldn't be warmer, they should be cool and refreshing, like the autumn night breeze beyond.

His wings rustled, body reacting to his shadows' autonomy before his thawing mind caught up. 'Where are you taking me?' he murmured.

Mist swirled about him and the shadows deposited him at the far edge of the dimly lit back garden at his High Lord and Lady's riverfront estate. Why would they bring him here? Rhysand and Feyre were at the mountain cabin, Cassian and Nesta were together in Illyria and Mor was at the Winter Court. As far as he knew, Amren was at her own apartment so the only person left was -

'Azriel!' came Elain's voice. It was distant in a way it shouldn't be.

Azriel leaned against a tree, pretending to fiddle with the Siphon atop his left hand. Breathing was difficult but he swallowed and exhaled in a shudder.

He needed to fully compose himself before anyone saw him like this. If only his damn shadows hadn't taken control for those last few moments, he'd be in his own home and lying in that swirling darkness in peace. Though, he supposed, it was his own fatigue that had yielded that control.

'Azriel!' Elain cried, stopping in front of him. Her face was caught between a frown and a wince and her arm was raised slightly. 'You don't look okay.'

As always, he was momentarily stunned by how unafraid this small female was of him. Here he was in his full armour, every bit the monstrous warrior that sent his people scurrying into their homes and locking their doors, and yet Elain stood strong before him. Like she saw not a killing machine but a person.

She never even commented on how his shadows made to disappear around her. Perhaps she hadn't noticed.

He swallowed before he let out what he thought was a light laugh. 'I'm fine, don't worry.' But he could hear the hoarseness of his voice, now facing the consequences of that scathing scream. And his limbs felt even heavier than before, like someone had injected liquid lead into them.

'You don't have to pretend with me, Azriel,' she whispered, lowering both her gaze and arm.

He paused, trying to catch her gaze. The constant light in her eyes whenever she looked at him was a balm to his soul. He could use some of that right now.

He reached out an arm, so impossibly leaden right now - if he could just get to sit down -

'Can I wash your hair, please?'

He started. 'You want to wash my hair?'

Elain's eyes flicked back up to skirt over his, up to his hair, where they stayed pinned. 'I'm positive that's mud and you shouldn't sleep with that in your hair. It'll only take a few minutes.'

Shit. He hadn't even thought of his appearance after that bloody fight earlier. How that had slipped his mind? He ran a hand through his hair, and surely enough, crumbs of dirt rained down.

Although, he really hadn't expected to turn up here of all places. In the privacy of his own home, he wouldn't have cared if he were missing a whole damn limb, if only it meant he could sleep like the dead.

Not to mention that sleeping with a little mud was the least an Illyrian warrior's problems. But Elain's care was something of a punch to his gut. When was the last time someone had truly tended to him for reasons that weren't battle or holiday related?

'You've managed to get some on your face, too,' she said, brow furrowed as she stared at his cheek.

Her eyes were so deep and focused, he wished they would just meet his once. But of course, that level of scrutiny he'd come to learn from Elain meant shyness. Just shyness. She was so endearing, he could've laughed with such fondness if he weren't so damn tired. He wished this whole damn night would be over already.

His leg faltered slightly and he stumbled forward.

'I'm washing your hair. It'll help relax you into falling asleep.'

He raised his brows at her, but she simply took his arm and began leading him towards the house. She looked so small before him but didn't slow despite dragging his bulk behind her.

Halfway across the garden, he pulled her to him with his free arm, his shadows saving the both of them the energy of walking through that mansion of a home.

'My bathroom,' she murmured. Elain didn't balk through the five seconds of that darkness, didn't even look surprised. She showed no sign of hearing the spike in his pulse either. Thank the Mother.

He set them in her bathroom, and she didn't look at him once as she flitted around the chamber, pulling a chair from her bedroom to the sink and grabbing a towel, soap and a jug from the cupboard. Standing there, his breathing began to smooth out.

The window was open, a chill breeze sweeping in. The faelights were dim and their placid light sent a dusky illumination over Elain's features. Some bottles of oils and herbs sat on the edge of the bathtub. Azriel had heard of people using oils for bathing, but herbs? Perhaps they were like flower petals, used for their scent.

Towel in hand, Elain waited at the sink, placing the soap and jug down. 'I think you'll have to collapse your armour for this.'

Azriel nodded, tapping his Siphon. Within seconds, that second skin of cold scales and gleaming wrath was safely stored away. Just his plain black trousers and tunic were left.

Elain's eyes caught every moment of the transformation. 'It's beautiful, all of it.'

He didn't even know if she was speaking of his armour or the basic clothes underneath or what, but his face warmed slightly, wings rustling.

'Please sit,' she said, gesturing to the chair. As he did, she wrapped the towel around his shoulders, fingers hovering above his forehead for a few seconds.

Those seconds felt perennial. He almost shuddered as her fingers made contact with his skin. Her hands were so gentle as they pushed his head back, and he shifted in the seat. He lowered his wings, and she stepped into the space he provided. She was still as he got comfortable, only turning the tap once he was settled. There was a slight crease between her brows, and he clenched his fists to keep from smoothing it out.

Sounding so much like his own mother that his throat tightened, she whispered, 'You can close your eyes.'

So he did.

Feedback is welcomed, thanks for reading 😊

#elain archeron #azriel #elriel #acotar #elain x azriel

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deeranger · 3 years

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Fic Writer Questions!

@oddsocksandstuff tagged me in this, thank you so much, sweetie! ❤️

1) How many works do you have on AO3? I’ve got 40 so far (of which 25 are SPN fics). There’s more to come!

2) What’s your total AO3 word count? 486,667, apparently. That tells me each of my fics has an average wordcount of 12,166.675… Seems about right. I was never any good at keeping things short.

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they? Uhh… On AO3 I’ve written for Supernatural, Supernatural RPF, X-men (Cherik) and McFassy (James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender). But I’ve written a lot when I was younger that has never made it online, including NCIS, Pirates of the Caribbean, and lots of weird one-shorts starring everyone from Michael J. Fox to Kevin Sorbo from “Hercules: The Legendary Journeys”. 🤨

4) What are your top 5 fics by kudos? “A Lesson to be Taught” – an SPN Wincest pwp fic where a dominant Dean fucks (and spanks) Sam and they discover that Dean apparently has a daddy!kink. Comes with a photo manipulation too! There be dick.

“Taking Game” – a semi-dark medieval Cherik (Charles Xavier/Erik Lehnsherr from X-men) AU. Basically, Charles is a poacher hunting on king Erik’s land to his great dismay. And so, he’s captured and gets the choice between losing his life or serving the king for a bit… Dubcon and smut ensues. “Only Like This” – a little SPN Wincest dub-con fic about hopelessly pining Dean doping Sam just so he can touch and kiss his oblivious little brother. It’s okay. Sam won’t remember when he comes to. “It’s Only Carnal” – A dark SPN Wincest noncon fic where soulless!Sam needs to blow off some steam. And when it comes to carnal activities his brother isn’t exactly a novice – so why not use Dean’s body to make them both feel good? “Demonized” – a long and dark af SPN noncon fic written in collaboration with the awesome @palishere. Sam is captured by some nasty demons who use him to lure in his brother. At first it seems the demonic scumbags are just really perverted and have a weakness for sexual torture, but they turn out to have ulterior motives…

5) Do you respond to comments, why or why not? Yes, always. I think it can be a bit demotivating for a reader to leave a comment and get zero response – and so, they might not bother to comment on the next fic. At least, that’s how I feel personally. And besides, I really want to let readers know that I appreciate them taking the time and effort to actually tell me what they think.

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? Oufff… Seriously? How can I possibly pick just one when 99.8 percent of my fics are not only dark af but have gut-wrenching ambiguous endings as well? I, err… I’m gonna have to think really hard about this one, hold on… *Insert buzzing cicada sound*… Uhh… Well, I guess it might be… “Play or Pay” – a dark female!reader-insert Wincest fic where demon!Dean has you and Sam trapped somewhere underground. Sam ends up being on the receiving end of the demon’s cruelty when he tries to save you. Using Dean’s body the demon ends up raping Sam while the reader tries to escape to get help... There’s a little twist in the end. Loads of dead dove here, including death (not Dean or Sam). “The Orange Hour” – where undercover inmate!Dean has to rape CO!Sam in order to save both of their lives and get them out of the jail in one piece. It doesn’t go completely as planned. (Comes with an nsfw photo manipulation). “Demonized” – loads of bottom!Sam torture, full of hurt and absolutely no comfort... It’s just… I dunno, I think I and @palishere had a collective meltdown in the noncon and angst department. Sorrynotsorry.

8) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written? Nope, I’ve never in my life written a crossover. Usually, I’m too laser-focused on 1 obsession at a time. I can’t multitask, okay?

9) Have you ever received hate on a fic? Yes, the fandom purity police has visited me on AO3. The usual self-proclaimed know-it-alls vomiting their bullshit all over the comment section about how “problematic” noncon is and how “sick” I must be. I thought about moderating comments for a while, actually – but I just deleted their follow-up comments until they left me alone. 😤

10) Do you write smut? If so what kind? Yes!! Gimme! Usually, I write noncon smut or just good ol’ pwps that feature some sort of dominance. That’s it. That’s my jam. In general, the only smut I don’t write is the cute, fluffy, feel-good, cuddly stuff… My smut’s usually pretty rough and/or some sort of dub/noncon.

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen? Yes. Someone stole “It’s Only Carnal” and posted it as her own on some Portuguese fanfiction site. She even replied to comments, answered questions and talked about how much she loved writing it, etc… Luckily a sweet mutual on Tumblr let me know about it and I reported her for plagiarism. The stolen fic was taken down shortly after and the account deleted. Goddamn thief. 😡

12) Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes. Honestly, I can’t remember which fic(s). But people have contacted me on AO3 and asked for permission to translate my stuff into Chinese. I have - of course - happily allowed them to. It’s such an awesome compliment to get, I think!

13) Have you ever co-written a fic before? Yes, 2. “Demonized” and the fluffy Ficfacers prompt fic “The Masks We Wear” starring Sam and Dean taking their pranks a step too far. Basically, the brothers get angry with each other and they need to talk it out… No smut in this one, can you believe it?!! But that was kinda the prompt we received. The prompt was literally: “Sam and fluff”. Anyways, both fics are co-written with the lovely @palishere. You can find her AO3 here. 😊

14) What’s your all time favorite ship? Wincest!!! Definitely. Gimme all the brotherfucking, please. No contest. And coming in on second place I guess there’s Samifer – never paired consensually, though. I just love Lucifer messing with Sam’s head and torturing him in all kinds of cruel ways.

15) What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will? Oh, that’s a mean question… I have a noncon WIP where Sam and Dean are in prison. I wrote a whole story outline, gathered my own little dictionary of prison slang, etc… But I never made it past page 10 or something. Sam was supposed to get jumped by a gang of inmates and then Dean was supposed to helplessly watch from the sideline, offering to trade places if they’d just leave his little brother alone… And after that it’s all about a mix of healing and vengeance… But the story has been lying on the shelf for more than a year and I doubt I’ll ever continue it. Oh, wait! I almost forgot – I have a long Cherik WIP sequel to “To Have and to Hold”! Just checked, its wordcount is 18,729! Holy crap…. What a waste, huh? But I honestly don’t think I’ll ever finish it, because I’m not into Cherik anymore. That ship has kinda sunk for me…. So, now I’m hyperfixating on Supernatural, yeah?

16) What are your writing strengths? Description, I think. I just love details and setting the mood. I like to think I’m pretty good at writing in English too even though it isn’t my native language… I wish to be better and expand my vocabulary but I’m doing okay nonetheless.

17) What are your writing weaknesses? Description, I think. Yes, you read correctly. I often describe things TOO much. Sometimes to the extent where the pacing gets so slowed down that I feel like the scene loses its ‘feel’. I don’t know if it’s just in my head, but that’s my major concern about my writing. That and my signature ambiguous endings, lol.

18) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? Love it. It can be difficult to pull off, but if you get it right it can be magical. Just don’t overdo it and make sure that the reader can follow. I don’t think I have any fics online where I do it, but I’m not a complete stranger to it either.

19) What was the first fandom you wrote for? Ack, my poor brain trying to go back to when I was friggin’ 13… You know how many years ago that was?! 25!!! Okay!? *Huffs*…. Anyway, I THINK it might’ve been Keanu Reeves’ character in “Johnny Mnemonic”. Or maybe David James Elliott’s character as Harmon Rabb in the early seasons of “JAG”. I dunno. Either way this question makes me feel really old and I don’t appreciate it. Don’t @ me. 😅

20) What’s your favorite fic you’ve written? That’s probably a tie between “The Orange Hour” and “It’s Only Carnal”. They’ve both got nice pacing and that’s my biggest challenge, I think. Also, I love the whole Morse code thing in “The Orange Hour”. I don’t even know what happened or how I came up with it, but hey, I can surprise myself if I want to, I guess! And of course there’s the smutty noncon and all of the hurt… So, those two fics are my personal faves. 😏

I’ll tag @jackandthesoulmates, @pinkoptics, @palishere, @wrenseroticlibrary, @decadent-prince, @negans-lucille-tblr, @juinae and @impala-dreamer and everyone else who feels like doing it! Feel free to ignore, of course.

#dee answers #fanfiction questions #personal

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yeojaa · 4 years

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wait !!!! find her jk with that prompt the other anon sent!!! can u plssss that’s literally something find her jk would actually do🥺🥺🥺🥺

[ read finders keep hers ]

pairing. jjk x (named) f!reader. rating. general. tags. idiots in love. like, that’s all there is to say. angst central, my dude. wc. 2.4k. author note. i meant to make this short and end with some tender lovemaking but... i cannot be trusted near a keyboard so you get this word vomit instead. xoxo!

You love Jeon Jungkook. Have, you think, since before you knew what the word love meant.

(Maybe since you were children and you’d still stood a chance against him, bursting with pride from a job well done, young enough that your parents’ kind words felt better than anything in the world. Before he’d turned into the president of the Casanova Club and he’d just been your and your brother’s best friend. Little Jeon with the unbelievably big eyes, always so curious about everything.

Or maybe since your tenth grade White Day, when he’d bought you your favourite candies and pressed them unceremoniously into your hands, too many to hold so they fall to dirt and tumble around you. He’d stooped to snatch them all up, shoving them into the pockets of your coat. “Because we’re best friends or whatever,” he’d said with this toothy, silly smile.

More likely during university. That time you’d maybe (read: very) foolishly made out, liquor fueling the tangle of your limbs and how utterly good he felt within them, a nectarine dream in his brand new G Wagon. You’d thought he’d laugh in your face, mumble something about no, we can’t - which he had - but he’d also taken you home, tucked you in and climbed in beside your inebriated self.

Definitely once you’d started seeing each other, spending more time in his bed than anywhere else. It’d been nearly impossible to separate head from heart, falling deeper and deeper into the Jungkook-shaped black hole that seemed to eclipse everything else. You’d fallen head over stupid heels, leaving bits of yourself hidden among his things. Your lip balm in his trouser pocket, perfume on the collar of his favourite turtleneck, shape of your mouth alongside monogrammed initials.

You hadn’t meant to.

Love him, that is. It’d simply happened in between all the laughter, the eye rolls, the smiles. Threaded between each action and cemented by the thud of your heart, beat into the ground like a drum.)

Sometimes, though, you don’t like him. Oftentimes, in fact.

You and Jungkook are as different as can be.

You’re in business development at a tech firm; he’s the technically unemployed son of a real estate mogul. You invest most of your money; he spends his as if it’ll never run out (which it likely won’t). You grew up with an older brother; he’s got two younger sisters. You drink to celebrate, to wind down; he drinks to prove a point. You believe in love - have to, looking at your parents and feeling how you do about him; he knows it exists but up until recently, had zero interest in it.

You wonder still, seated at the table with your group of friends and their partners, whether that still rings true. (Deep down, you know it doesn’t. You know he loves you, wants you in a way he’s never wanted anyone else before, but your brain is a fickle thing, playing tricks when it shouldn’t.)

Would he be happier without you? Better off without you?

Your thoughts mock you - just as he does, roguish smile turning his entire expression into sunshine. Inescapable, all-encompassing, so blinding it’s almost hard to look at. Trained on the girl he’s chatting up at the bar.

This is what Jungkook does. What he’s always done. You should be used to it, really. The man’s charm is always turned up to eleven, always in full effect even when he doesn’t mean it to be. It’s simply part of who he is- young and rich and devastatingly, heartbreakingly handsome.

Still, you can’t help the emotion that swells somewhere deep in your stomach, jostles the meal you’ve just had and turns your insides into a sea of nausea. You know when he’s just being friendly and you know when he’s flirting. It’s a terribly thin line but one you recognise, intimately familiar with the two sides of his personality.

Right now, he’s flirting. Doing that thing he does, one arm folded on the counter top, unblemished hand resting somewhere along his hip, silver of his rings acting as a beacon beneath the dim restaurant lights. His other hand slots itself into the pocket of his coated jeans, tattoos thrown into stark contrast against his skin and the black of the denim. There’s that smile of his, more a smirk but sunny, radiant, beautiful. It lights up his entire face, steeping his expression in something warm. The dimple in his cheek winks with each laugh - you can only imagine the one on the other side does the same, cut deeply into his skin.

Don’t be mad, you tell yourself. He’s your Jungkook, bad habits and all.

You love him. You love him. You love him.

If he notices your stoicism, he doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong or if you’re okay or what’s up. Barely even speaks to you, save to toss his arm around your shoulder and tug you close, practically tug you into his lap while his friends share stories of their week.

It’s your usual Friday night dinner. Something you’ve done with this ragtag group for as long as you’ve known them. An excuse to go out and drink and eat some damn good (and often free) food.

You wish you could enjoy it like you normally do. Instead, you’re preoccupied by the way a perfume that isn’t yours lingers on his collar - seeps beneath the fabric and marks him up like a possession. It’s too sweet - cloying sugar apples and coconut - nothing like your usual earthy wisteria and dewy rose. It stings your nose when you inhale too deeply, nestled into the familiar shape of Jungkook’s frame, settled between the vertebrae you know best.

You hardly notice when he does speak to you, rousing you from thought you can’t quite place any longer.

“Ready to head home?”

The rest of your friends are going about their business, slipping their coats on and exchanging ideas for plans the following morning. (Saturday brunch is a very popular thing, though it tends to lean late lunch versus true breakfast-brunch.)

You nod and slip from beneath your lover’s arm, plucking your purse up as you rise. You’re ready to get out of here, ready to scrub away the melancholy that lingers like a thin film across your skin.

He must have realised sometime between your silence in the car and your lacklustre kisses in the elevator. You think he must, as he nearly slams the front door of his penthouse shut, kicks off his Chelsea boots and lets them tumble together just off the welcome mat. (Not the reaction you’d expected, but you’ve learnt to never expect anything from him. As much as he might be your best friend, Jeon Jungkook plays by his own set of rules.)

He doesn’t wait for you to undo your own shoes, carefully undoing the straps of your Jimmy Choos and setting them where they belong before you follow the sound of his footsteps.

When you find him, he’s stripping off his jacket and tossing it haphazardly across the back of his desk chair, keys and wallet and phone dropped none-too-gently upon wood. He says nothing even as he crosses to his closet, steps inside and slips off each piece of jewellery: assorted rings and his Rolex - everything but the bracelet you’d gotten him for graduation.

His belt goes next, set back within the confines of its velvet lined drawer. Through the hole goes the button of his jeans, down goes the zipper, and then he’s in nothing but his vaguely sheer dress shirt, boxer-briefs, and silly printed socks (yellow bananas on black fabric, for reasons), looking every inch the adonis he is.

You still haven’t said a word, carefully hanging your dress in the small space you’ve carved out for yourself. You don’t really know what to say - how to approach his apparent frustration when you don’t know where it comes from.

Is he upset with you? Had you, somewhere along the line of your own sadness, done something to upset him?

You’re running through all the scenarios, lost in thought, when his voice breaks the quiet. Snaps forth and hits its mark - a perfect shot. “Seriously?” There’s a fickle quality to his tone, a pettiness that you recognise when he hasn’t gotten his way, when he’s not quite sure what to say but knows he wants to have something. (It doesn’t come out often with you, but you’re intimately familiar with it still. His I-want-to-fight voice.)

“Pardon?” You’re not expecting him so close, close enough to reach you but far enough that you can tell he’s purposely put this distance between you. It feels strange - further apart than it is.

“You’re not going to say anything?”

You blink. Once, twice, three times. When you speak, it’s full of confusion, paired with your brows gathering in a little knot of bewilderment. “Anything about what?”

“What happened at dinner.”

He sounds so utterly deadpan, you can’t help but laugh, a sound of disbelief rather than amusement.

“You mean you flirting with that girl?” Even saying the words feels awful, makes you want to crawl into bed and forget about it all.

Jungkook, on the other hand, looks like you’ve just handed him the answers to all of life’s questions. His entire face rearranges, all the pieces matching back up to form a proper puzzle. There’s a certain smugness to it now, caught in the round of his cheek and how it ticks higher with his grin. “So you did notice! I fucking knew it.”

“Of course I did.” You want to be appalled. Know you should be. (But it’s Jungkook and you love him.) “Kind of hard not to.”

He’s the devil in disguise, snapping you to him with a flex of his arms, hands curled around your waist. It’s clear he’s pleased, absolutely tickled pink that you’d fallen for his silly little trick. “Gotta keep you on your toes,” he croons, eyes twinkling, mouth wobbling with the strain of keeping his laughter hidden.

He expects you to agree - maybe roll your eyes and pat his cheek, laughs along with him and give him some sort of shit about how he’s an idiot - and visibly starts when you push yourself away, two palms flat against his chest.

“Sure.”

One word. Nothing like he’d imagined.

“Baby?” You’ve made it two steps - two whole steps, which is two too many to Jungkook - when he’s pulling you back, trapping you against his chest with his arms looped around your shoulders. “Where you going?” He’s kissing along your shoulder, trailing warmth everywhere he touches.

He still smells like that girl’s perfume.

“Can you get off me, please?” You’re more polite than you normally are, working hard to keep calm when he only tightens his grip. Of course he thinks you’re kidding, thinks you’re pouting and playing just like he had when you’d returned home.

When you repeat yourself - a little harder, a little quieter - he seems to realise how wrong he’s read the situation.

“Angel—” You’re swept around, left to stare into the neat white of his shirt as he peers down at you, waits for you to meet his eyes. You don’t, staunchly focused on the buttons of his Oxford, how they strain over his broad chest. “Baby.” Now he’s the one full of reprimand, disapproval colouring the single word that’s normally so sweet.

“What?” It’s just as bratty as he was earlier but somehow worse, touched blue.

“What’s wrong?” Jungkook seems genuinely perplexed, concerned and maybe, just a tiny bit frustrated. He’s not used to you lashing out like this, soft and yet unyielding, hidden behind a door he’s fumbling with the keys to.

“You.”

“—me?”

You’re not one to throw out things you don’t mean, carefully picking and choosing your words. It’s something you’ve always done - far more responsible than your idiot best friend who’s never had to worry about a thing in his life.

The line of his mouth dips, pulls into a frown as he studies you and tries to crack open the windows to gain some insight. It doesn’t work well; he’s faced with a stone wall.

“Why’re you mad?”

You want to laugh. Do, actually, so short and abrupt it’s more of a scoff. “What’s wrong with me?” You’d pull away if you could. (Realistically, you could, but you’ve always been too soft for him.) “You spent almost all of dinner flirting with someone else.”

“Yeah— to make you jealous.” As if that makes it better. As if that doesn’t tear a giant hole right in the centre of your chest, launches your poor heart out of the airlock to fend for itself in the emptiness of his expression.

You don’t know why it feels worse to hear it out loud. You’d figured as much.

(Jungkook had done this in the past, though always jokingly. He’d rarely been invested enough in a girl to go to such lengths but you’d seen it once or twice. Always the age old adage of wanting what you can’t have.)

You wish you could separate the then from the now. Remind yourself that he does care, that this is his twisted, stupid way of showing his affection - of keeping you around. (You know he’s just as vulnerable as you - maybe more, sometimes - but he shows it poorly. Pushes you away when he tries to pull you in.)

Tears are welling, spilling across your lashes faster than you can yank them back. Something about being an angry crier.

“Good job,” you mean to snap, to make him feel how you do. (Small - so very, very small.) Instead, it’s terribly quiet. A whisper that gets lost to the cotton poplin. “Now I’m jealous.” And miserable and insecure. All things you usually aren’t, that only Jeon Jungkook manages to bring out in you.

“Baby,” he tries again, crushing you to his chest, jut of his chin resting atop your head. His hugs had always been your favourite - swallowing you whole, making you feel safe - but it’s too much now, a prison cell rather than your familiar bed. “I’m sorry.” He’s kissing again, stamping his affection into the dark of your hair, brushing over and over with the soft of his lips, his rounded adorable nose, “I thought—”

You know what he thought. Know where he’d been coming from (a place of immaturity, a gilded golden room with Jeon Jungkook stamped across the door) but it doesn’t make it any better.

Doesn’t make it hurt any less.

#anon.eml #bts #bts au #bts imagine #bts drabble #bts angst #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook drabble #jungkook angst #jungkook imagine #incoming.eml #work.zip #drabble.zip #finders.doc #jungkook.doc

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radiantroope · 4 years

Text

Heart of Gold || Rafe Cameron

pairing: rafe x reader

requested: no

summary: your mental health is slipping and your boyfriend will do anything to help you.

warnings: swearing, depression, implied suicidal thoughts, mentions of drug use/abuse, fluff; if any of these are triggering please read with caution

word count: 1.6k+

author’s note: rafe is not a murderer in this fic. i love non-canon rafe. i wrote this as a vent the other day when i was having a hard time. i’m good now though<3 also, i suck at summaries so i’m sorry.

masterlist | add yourself to my tag list

You felt numb. Completely and utterly numb. The hollow feeling in your chest only felt to grow with each hour. The soft fabric of your pale yellow duvet cocooned you in the bed you wished to never leave. You stared blankly at the wall in front of you.

You stopped crying hours ago. Remnants of tears stained your flushed cheeks. The tip of your nose had turned a rosy color and your eyes that were once so full of life were puffy and bloodshot. Your arms tightened around your legs as the daunting thoughts loomed inside of your head.

Rafe Cameron was no stranger to your inner demons. He had his own as well and that’s what brought you two together. Shared traumas of being berated for everything you did. Feeling unaccomplished no matter what you did. Feeling unloved by the very people who were supposed to take care of you the moment you took your first breath.

Rafe knew you needed your space sometimes. He knew you had to work out your thoughts and emotions on your own and he was okay with that. You had it way harder than he did, being a Pogue — someone he never could have imagined falling so hard for. Though, when he hadn’t heard from you in three days, he started to grow worried. He sent you a good morning text, an “I love you” text in the afternoon, and a goodnight text before he went to bed each day. Despite the state you were in, he always got a reply. When this time he didn’t, his mind went into overdrive.

The Kook knew your parents spent all day on the mainland every Wednesday so he hopped in his truck and made his way to the South side of the island. He just needed to see you and make sure you were okay. He knew the longer you isolated yourself, the darker the thoughts in your head would get. He wasn’t going to risk you doing something stupid in a moment of weakness like he’d done before.

“I don’t know what else you want from me dad! I try so damn hard, but nothing is good enough for you!” you shouted at your father from the other side of the living room.

This had been going on for almost two hours. For a while, you sat in silence as your father called you every name in the book. He told you how he raised you better than this. He compared you to your older sister who had gotten a full ride scholarship to Julliard. You barely skimmed the surface in school. Not seeing the point since it was rare for anyone to actually make it out of The Cut.

“I want you to do better. I want you to stop treating this house like a god damn hotel! You come here to eat our food, use our shit, and sleep one night a week! You may as well move the fuck out at this point!” your father’s voice got louder with each sentence, face turning red in rage. “Go move in with your perfect little Kook boyfriend in his big perfect house and mooch off him! You’re worthless, Y/N! I’ve lost all the faith I had in you.”

The fight happened three days ago, but you couldn’t get your father’s words out of your head. They kept spinning there, along with every other hurtful thing he’d said from the moment you turned sixteen.

You’re worthless. You’re lazy. You’re stupid. You can’t do anything right. Who would ever love you?

You didn’t hear the front door or the footsteps walking down the hall. You didn’t hear your bedroom door open and gently shut seconds later. The voices in your head were far too loud.

Rafe’s heart dropped at the sight of you curled under the blanket. Your knotted hair was splayed out on the pillows. He almost couldn’t even see the rise and fall of the blanket due to your shallow breathing. He walked around the bed and let out a soft breath. The emotionless expression on your otherwise beautiful face caused a tightness in his chest.

The blue eyed boy crouched down by your head and gently brushed your hair away from your eyes. He watched your eyelids flutter and your gazes met. It was like you were looking through him, a sad smile spreading across his lips. He whispered, “Hi, sugar.”

As your brain registered your boyfriend was the person in front you, the floodgates in your eyes reopened. A small cry left your lips as you released your legs and reached out of the covers for the boy. He didn’t hesitate to climb straight into the bed with you. His muscular arms enveloped you, pulling you tightly into his chest. You couldn’t control the sobs that wracked your body.

“Oh, baby,” Rafe breathed, feeling tears burn in his own eyes. Seeing you in such a state was never easy and he had trouble keeping his own emotions at bay.

He buried his nose in your hair and closed his eyes. One of his large hands rubbed up and down your spine, trying to consol you. He quietly cooed, “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

The sandy haired boy held you in his embrace until your harsh sobs turned into small whimpers. You sniffled every so often and your body still trembled against him. He brought one of his hands up to your hair and worked his large fingers through the knots. He knew you probably needed a good shower but he was going to wait until you’d calmed some more before he moved you. He placed a soft kiss to your forehead right at your hairline, causing you to look up at him.

“Why do you love me, Rafe?” your voice was barely even a whisper. He definitely wouldn’t have heard you if you weren’t pressed chest to chest. “I can’t do anything right. I’m a waste of space. You deserve someone better.”

A deep frown pulled at the Cameron boy’s face. He knew you were only saying it because your parents had embedded it in you. They’d said things like that to you so many times that you started to believe them. He always did everything in his power to remind you that you were incredible and so loved — even if it was only by him.

Rafe brought his hand up and cupped your cheek, thumb brushing down the flushed skin and over your jaw. His tone was stern but his voice was soft as he said, “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“I love you because you’re a strong woman with a heart of gold. You go through hell and still wear a smile on your face to everyone on this island. You go out of your way to help people when they need it, even if you get nothing in return. You defend your friends and I even when we don’t deserve it.”

The Kook’s heart leapt when he saw the corners of your mouth twitch. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip. His bright, ocean blue eyes stared into yours with complete adoration.

“Remember when I was an addict?”

How could you forget? It was two years ago, early in your relationship when you learned of his addiction. You remember every sleepless night staying up making sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit when he was going through withdrawals. You remember having to help him shower when he was too weak to stand on his own. You remember having to change the sheets once a day when they were covered in his sweat. You remember taking the angry outbursts when he desperately wanted a fix and couldn’t get it.

You remember the three times he relapsed and you had to start the process all over again.

You remember the one time he overdosed — and you almost lost him forever. That’s when he finally realized he was killing himself and checked into a rehabilitation center. Topper and Kelce cleaned up their acts along with him. None of them wanted to die over an overpriced white powder that gave them a temporary high to numb their pain.

“You visited me everyday in rehab, even when I gave you every chance to walk away. You never gave up on me,” Rafe’s thumb made its way back up your cheek and over the protruding bone. “I’m not giving up on you, baby. I will spend everyday, for the rest of my life, reminding you that you deserve the world. That you are smart, beautiful and the absolute love of my life.”

Your lips turned up in a smile. It wasn’t a big one, but it was something, and Rafe had never been so happy to see it. He tilted his head down and captured your lips in a sweet kiss. Your hands that had been gripping the front of his polo slid around his back. When he pulled away, you rested your head on his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart.

“Move in with me,” Rafe said after a moment of silence.

Your head lifted immediately, nearly knocking his chin as you stared wide eyed at him. He chuckled at your shocked expression and tucked your hair behind your ear.

“I’ve got some money put away. We can get an apartment and it’ll cover a few months. We can get jobs and I’ll go to school,” Rafe’s fingers trailed over your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “What do you say, princess? Wanna start our own life?”

You couldn’t stop the grin that enveloped your face as you thought about what he was suggesting. You wouldn’t have to be criticized by your parents anymore. You’d be free to do whatever you wanted with your life, and you’d have the man of your dreams by your side. So you nodded, bending in and pressing your lips to Rafe’s passionately.

“Let’s do it, baby,” you whispered against his lips, squealing softly as he pulled you on top of him and attacked your face with kisses.

tag list (strike through means it wouldn’t let me tag you): @queenk00k @jjsmentalpolaroids @ims0golden @jjmaybcnks @sortagaysortahigh @jjmbanks @letsgofullkook @scandalousfemale @drewswannabegirl @ilovejjmaybank @allielozoya @x-lulu @oldschoolimagineblog @teenwaywardasgardian @pheyward let me know if you want to be removed

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olynix · 4 years

Text

Ok, so I read this au a while ago where people had one eye representing the nation their soulmates from, and one their regular eye color, basically in this au Ozai chose Zukos left side to burn him on because of the mark, and I thought of this:

From practically the womb Zuko was forced to wear a blindfold because (this is my addition) when people see they’re soulmate they get what’s basically a replay of their lives so they know them better (partly from an awesome au I came across) anyways, Zuko was basically always blind and when he later learned firebending he used it to “see” by making the air around him a couple degrees warmer and (taking this from the neroun bender au where he can control peoples impulses because of the energy in things’ bodies, yeah sorry for taking so many aspects) using the energy inside of people to tell where they’ll move and where they are specially in general. He only takes the blindfold off at night when he’s absolutely sure he’s alone and often practices with his swords and bending then (bending as a child and on the ship) It gets to the point where people forget just WHY he has to wear a blindfold, and only get remembered during the Agni kai (in this au hes half blind cuz of it). During his banishment he still wears it, even in the earth kingdom (he changes it to an earth kingdom one tho) and in this au he is ALSO a ton kinder (still a hothead but I’ll give an example) when he first comes to the South Pole his men spot a light and notify it so he says to go to the southern water tribe (the boat doesn’t crash into the walls, per his orders probably) and, since his regular way of “seeing” can’t be used (he hates the poles), stumbles into the tribe with only his uncle by his side yelling for the people to give him “that old geezer avatar!” And, when Aang comes proceeds to scoff because *this is a child, a tiny child, and he’s not stupid* he also gets hit smack dab in the face with a snowball and TWICE with the boomerang but that’s irrelevant, no casualties caused by him because *these will be his people soon enough, he can’t HARM them!*

Ok so example out of the way he’s joined team avatar (early, because I love those kinda aus, basically he sides with them instead of azula and bonds with Katara differently because she can’t see his scar due to the blindfold and doesn’t know he has one) and later (like a couple days it’s night and he’s practicing his swords, firebending is reserved for the day by now, and did I mention Zuko practically never sleeps cuz of nightmares? No? Well he’s a next level insomniac to sum it up nicely) and Sokka catches him (yes this is a Zukka au read the tags) when Zuko turns around to see who it is they immediately bond, and Zuko covers his scar quickly exept he’s too late and Sokka already knows because of the bonding. (Yes I know it sounds cheesy but I’m writing all this on mobile and don’t feel like going into detail) After this? I have no idea where to go with it. But on a completely unrelated note zuko can also bend lightning (in this au its an inherited trait) and can also breath lightning because I said so (he learned it from his uncle, id ask for feedback but this is basically just brain vomit and if you read all that kudos to you, feel free to add anything you feel like it and if for some godforsaken reason you decide to write this clusterf*** please give me credit! And show me too!)

#alta au #zuko #zukka

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theonetheycallhannah · 4 years

Text

The Treatment of Captain Syverson-Chapter 14: No Call No Show

Characters: Shane Benton (OFC), various other original supporting/secondary characters

Summary: We find out where Shane went Monday after work and exactly why she hasn’t been responding to any attempts at communication…and unfortunately, she’s not just taking some “me time.”

Want to reminisce about when this was just a happy little fluffy romance? Return to chapters past, or look at my other smutty drabbles here!

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: SHANE FIGHTS BACK, BUT DEFINITELY GETS HER ASS KICKED, SO FAIR WARNING, IT’S VIOLENT. Language, mature themes, emotional abuse, mention of narcotics (morphine), vomiting, foreshadowing and mention of potential future violent/non-con/dub-con activities, but if those acts occur, they will not be portrayed on the page, but rather between chapter or section breaks, so don’t worry. Also, I use the “R” word, but not to discuss non-con, but rather to add an educational note about why one should yell “fire” when one is being assaulted. Basically no Sy material whatsoever, but he’s mentioned, so I’m tagging it as such! Shane being somewhat blasé about her mortality. I really don’t want to trigger anyone, so please read with caution or wait until you emotionally are ready to deal with our girl going through the shit.

Author’s Note: Really REALLY nervous about this one. This is not the resolution you are looking for, my friends. In fact, it’s not a resolution, at all. Lol. I foresee many people disliking this chapter for some reason or another. That’s actually okay. It’s not a chapter you’re meant to “like” per se. I don’t “like” it. I’m prepared for it to get very few notes, and I’m positioning it anyway. I think it’s some of my better writing, but I hated putting Shane through the ringer like this. It’s just one of those chapters you “get through.” And honestly, if you truly didn’t like it please give me feedback so I can improve and tweak. {For reasons other than “My beebeeeeee!” or “never mention anything less than consensual ever again kthxbye” because a) of all, MY beebee too, and b) of all, that’s what warnings are for and why they should be read.} That being said, I hope it at least tides you over until the next chapter. At least you know where she is…not that THAT’S a big relief under the circumstances! Lol!

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism.

Tags:

@onlyhenrys

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@summersong69

@titty-teetee

@bloodyinspiredfuck

@agniavateira

@oddsnendsfanfics

@omgkatinka

@thisismysecretthirstblog

@misslaland (apparently deactivated, idk what’s up with that)

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@tumblnewby

@suavechops

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@wheretheriversrunintothesea

@heartfelt-pen

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Hope I’m not forgetting anyone! If you want to be notified when I post a new chapter or work, I’ll be happy to add you to my tag list! Stricken blogs are getting personal messages from me when a new chapter is uploaded because Tumblr’s faulty tagging system will not stand in the way of me delivering what the people want!(?) lol! (Although…their lackadaisical notification system might…sorry for that. I have no control. lol!)

X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@

Previously, in Virginia…

"Shane left work Monday and hasn't been back since. No one has seen her. Apart from you, I presume. "

"I haven't seen her in about a week and a half. I'm training out of state for a job. I've been away from my phone since Monday, and I just got back to it now."

"She isn't…with you? I assumed…"

"Well, you know what they say, Susan. I'm coming back early if I can manage it. See if I can do something to help find her."

Three days earlier, in Missouri…

Shane blinked her eyes open to little avail. She couldn't tell where she was, other than what seemed to be the back seat of a fairly new-model large vehicle, like a Suburban or a Tahoe. She thought it was new because the new car smell was still overpowering the nicotine and tobacco odor of at least one of its occupants. She could also smell the sickly sweet stench of artificial cherry permeating the cabin. The source must be very close to her nose as she lay there helplessly restrained while the vehicle jostled down the road. The smell reminded her of the horrible liquid pain reliever her mother would give her as a child when she had a fever or leg pains. She had taken enough of it then to make her averse to most cherry flavorings as an adult. She wanted to retch.

She could also make out the faint glow of a dashboard lit with LED lights, brighter and softer than those of older models. But she soon had to shut her eyes again. Her head was throbbing and her memories were fuzzy. She remembered very little of Monday…was it still Monday? But she was trying to think, despite the pounding of many drums in her cranium where a brain should be.

She remembered staying at work late to finish notes. She remembered heading home…and she remembered forgetting her phone at her desk and deciding to turn around to get it…when suddenly she was surrounded by vehicles and unable to move without having an accident. Had she known the circumstances then, she would have tried to muscle through. The horrific events came flooding back in traumatic flashes like lightning, or the pulse of passing streetlights in an unfamiliar city.

She remembered…

The glass by her left ear shattered. A hooded, hulking figure reached in through the new opening, fumbling for the handle to open the door. She'd had the presence of mind to fight back there. To punch at the probing extremity. But the extremity hit back, landing a solid smack against her left cheek, stunning her for long enough that the cruel apparition found the unlock button, pressed it, and opened the door. She didn't go quietly. She fought like the hellcat her mother always told her to be. Her foot found the odd solar plexus and groin before enough dark nemeses arrived to overpower her. They dragged her away from her car and out onto the pavement of the church parking lot she'd used to turn around. She did not make it easy for them. She kicked and punched and tried to twist out of their grips like vices. She yelled "fire" as she was taught as a young woman, not knowing the men's intentions, but certain they weren't kind, and knowing that yelling "rape" was not always effective at summoning help. Either way, it didn't matter. She could have shouted anything. No one was near enough, or cared enough, to come to her aid. As soon as her soft hands hit the gritty pavement, though, the violence intensified. She lost count of how many times she got kicked in the back, stomach, ribs. One asshole even kicked her in the tit. She'd find out who that was and he'd find himself in a special brand of pain…if she ever got out of this alive. She heard them calling her awful names that she was sure she hadn't earned, and especially not from these guys. About six of them, she thought. She hardly knew six guys. She certainly didn't know six guys that would want her roughed up like this. She heard one of the men start to say "Come on, guys, we better save some for--" and with that, she blacked out to the tune of the distinct "thunk" of a wooden baseball bat making contact with the back of her head.

She wanted to forget…for it to be a terrible nightmare…to wake up.

But she was awake. This was a waking nightmare. The cold leather on her cheek was made colder by the harsh air conditioning blowing toward her from above and below. She shivered from the chill and from the terror she was trying to suppress. Where were they taking her? For what purpose? And for whom were they leaving parts un-bruised…though it didn't feel like it.

She finally felt them slowing, heard a turn signal clicking, the courtesy of which she applauded despite her position in the active abduction taking place, and felt the gentle displacement of her body toward the driver side, knocking her head into the door. A right turn. Not that it would matter too much, but at least when she escaped, and she made herself think "when" and not "if," she would know which direction to turn to get back to town.

The blow to the head had left her sensitive to light and sound. As she was yanked from the back seat, all she could see was the glow of a dusk to dawn light above them. Normally a soft, guiding light, this one just as well have been the sun itself the way it stung her tender eyes. She squinted against it, thankful as she never would have thought to be, when a shroud was placed over her throbbing head. She could still hear the power coursing through the bulb and fixture, though. Normally a dull hum, in the state she was in, it was as loud as accidentally switching your TV to the snow channel at full volume.

"Bring 'er inside." She heard an unfamiliar male voice say.

Two strong, ruthless hands grabbed her by the armpits, causing her to cry out in pain. Such a tender place to bear weight, and why even big strong Sy hated crutches…Sy. Would she ever see him again?

"Shut up, bitch, or we'll knock you out again." She believed them, and being fairly certain she had at least a mild concussion, she wasn't sure what a second blow of an indeterminate velocity might do to her brain. She dealt with the stabbing pain as the men dragged her across what sounded like gravel, then grass, then something hard and smooth, maybe the slabs of an old, sunken, and somewhat uneven footpath. Soon, she felt the pain of her knees hitting what she assumed were porch steps. One, two, three of them. She was trying to concentrate through the fog now setting in, and maintain consciousness. Paying attention to the sensations, she told herself, was not only helpful for that task, it might help her escape. Remember the scents, too, she reminded herself. She tried to shake off the nauseating cherry and cigarette stench from her olfactory glands and take note of the bouquet around her.

Burnt leaves…gasoline…engine grease…the tang of sappy, just cut firewood…straw…manure…this seemed to be a farm. With a barn nearby…perhaps with horses. She loved horses. If she could find a gentle horse in the night…escape might be easier than she'd anticipated.

Entering the house was a noisy affair. There was a metallic keening from the spring of an aluminum screen door. She imagined it had one of those big swirly cross beams like her grandma's used to have that she always though was supposed to resemble a butterfly. A heavier, wooden door creaked open as the three figures muddled their way in, and the floorboards protested, as well, at the weight of her captors. So, she thought, not only a farm house, but an old farm house.

"Where do you want her?" the man on her left asked into what she only knew as the void, so far.

"Take her to the cellar. I've got things set up down there." a familiar voice chuckled and growled. How did she know the voice? Was he a patient? She couldn't think of anyone she'd treated that would want her abducted and brutalized.

"You got it, E." Ugh, for some reason it bothered her when guys referred to each other by their first initials. Girls, no big deal. But bros…there was something so thoroughly douchey and…familiar about it all…

"Hold on." the man called "E" said, and she heard footfalls approaching her. As he got closer, she smelled…patchouli and incense…and the sea…and it brought back a rush of pain from past trauma followed by literal pain from his punch to her gut. She hadn't been expecting it. Obviously. The wind had been taken out of her. Literally and figuratively. She did know this man…all too well.

"We've got some catching up to do, sweetheart." the pet name dripped like venomous honey from the tongue of the snake before her.

"Elliot." it wasn't a question. She coughed the name out like a pill that had gone down sideways.

Her escorts continued their transportation of her prone body to its destination…she didn't want to think FINAL destination, but the more she learned about her situation, the more she worried that she wouldn't make it out alive.

They had to get creative in carrying her down the narrow staircase to the cellar. They argued for a moment about who would take the top half and who would go backwards.

"How about the one who takes my top half goes forward and the bottom half goes backward?" These idiots. Where did Elliott find clowns like this who needed to be told by their prisoner the best way to sort out their domestic dispute.

She thought she felt them shrug, and silently take her advice as she felt herself being lowered down the stairs, feet first, panic threatening to overtake her restrained limbs.

When they got to the bottom of the stairs, they stood her up to remove her shroud, and cut the zip ties from around her ankles and wrists. She then noticed a small cell that reminded her of the ones in the sheriff's offices in some westerns she'd seen. She started to freak out, anticipating her future in that horrid place.

"Guys, please. No. Please don't do this. I don't know what Elliott's told you about me, but I'm a good person. I don't deserve this. I have a job and friends and a family who will worry sick about me. I am begging you to let me go. Please!"

"You're wasting your breath, lady." one of the men said, gruffly.

"PLEASE!" she appealed, desperate to get through. "Don't you guys have wives or girlfriends? Mothers, sisters, aunts, or female cousins? What if a woman you cared about was in this situ---" and before she could finish the question, one of the men punched her for what felt like the thousandth time tonight. She fell to her knees, vomiting. And the world went black again.

~~~~~~~

There were no windows. There was no clock. There was just a small twin mattress in one corner of the cell, and a bedside commode in the other. As accommodations went, it was hardly a Hilton, but it could have been worse. It was all lit by a 60-watt bulb in one of those hanging fixtures her dad had always called a trouble light situated on a hook on the side of one of the exposed joists outside the cell. He'd had a similar one for the longest time. He and mom will be worried sick before long, if they aren't already, she thought. The light was aptly named for these circumstances she was in. Trouble. A heap of it. And no idea of how to get out of it.

And honestly, no idea why Elliott would want her here. How he could do such a monstrous thing as having her kidnapped. How he came to live in this place when he never worked a day in his life. She was so confused. She hoped at the very least, he'd give her answers before he murdered her, if that was his plan.

She had woken up on her side, almost her stomach, with her right cheek on the scratchy surface of the bare mattress. Whoever put her to bed had been wise to position her like this given the likelihood that she might puke again. She noticed a small bucket, presumably for that purpose, next to the mattress. There was a caseless pillow next to her head, but she hadn't found that comfort during her nap of…she couldn't tell how long. Not that it mattered. The more she slept, the less time she'd have to process this horror movie she was currently living out.

She heard the door open at the top of the stairs and Elliott shout at one of his flunkies, "What do you MEAN you didn't get her phone?" a pause while indistinct words came from said flunky across the room, or maybe the house. "Well, find it. Tear that piece of shit Explorer apart if you have to. I want that phone." She took exception to her sweet little Norah getting called a piece of shit. That was her Millennium Falcon. And yes, she'd gotten flack for naming her Norah the Explorer, but she didn't care.

Elliott stomped down the stairs, grinning the most infuriatingly happy grin she'd ever seen on him. She wanted to maul him. To tear those stupid eyes out of their sockets with her own fingernails. But she controlled her anger and resisted even acknowledging his greeting of "Hey, sweetheart."

She ignored him.

"It's good to see you."

Silence.

"I missed you."

She stared right through him.

"I heard you and that meat head soldier broke up."

She scowled at him.

"There she is. There's my girl."

"I'm not your girl, Elliott, and I haven't been in years. Why am I here?" She broke. She couldn't take it.

"We'll get to that why soon enough. First, let's talk about why you and Cap'n Crunch are no longer breakfasting together? Soggy cereal? Limp toast? Was he letting you leave the table unsatisfied?"

"As if you ever satisfied me when we were together." She spat back, calling Elliott out on his notorious selfishness in all aspects of life and relationships.

"I've changed."

"Bullshit." she rolled her eyes.

"It's true!" he insisted. "I can give you references."

"I honestly don't give a shit. We're not together. Sy and I are. Happily. And you better let me go soon. He was expecting me at his place after work. He's probably out looking for me right now." she lied. It was worth a shot.

"Now it's my turn to call bullshit, because I know that isn't true." He looked at her with that patronizing stare he had.

"You don't know shit, Elliott."

"I know that your boy took off over a week ago for Virginia and hasn't come back, at least not the way he left. I believe he's supposed to be gone at least a few weeks. Maybe a couple of months. He wasn't sure at last report."

She was literally willing him to burst into flames before her. Her gaze revealed her hand.

"Told ya. You think you're the only one with connections at the fort? I've got me a sweet little sergeant who works in ATC over there. She can out-squat anyone else on base…and let me tell you, it shows." he lifted his eyebrow, lasciviously.

"You disgust me."

"Why? You never seemed to mind my…sexy imagination." he winked at her.

"No, I'm happy that you're getting it good on the regular from an ass that won't quit. But come on. You clearly only got with this girl because you thought it would give you the upper hand against me."

"Well, that's very self-absorbed thinking."

"Really, Elliott? Do you see where we are right now?" they looked around at the dank cellar and he shrugged, unable to deny or rebut. "And this woman. Does she know about this little scheme?"

He gave her one of his more evil grins. "Who do you think kicked you in the tit?" Okay…she was new levels of pissed off now.

"Why…the actual FUCK am I here, Elliott!?"

"Well, Shane, you embarrassed me with that little stunt at the bar a few weeks ago. You thought you were hot shit, parading your sasquatch of a boyfriend around in front of me, in my town, humiliating me as all of my friends watched. And then that dickhead sucker punched me in the parking lot. I shoulda pressed charges. But him being a veteran, I knew how that woulda gone in this town. I didn't have a snowball's chance. So I waited. And I planned. And I was patient. And I watched for my moment. And it finally came. I've been watching you leave work every night for the past week, and you're always with someone, or headed somewhere else, or going straight home. Last night…last night I knew was the night when you didn't leave until after 7. You were the last one out, and I knew that it had to be then. The plan, not that you need to know, is to plaster your social media with humiliating photos, piss off everyone that you love, including your precious Sy, and alienate everyone you've ever cared about until you're miserable and alone."

Shane was crying now. She thought she might be sick again. She reached for the bucket. The delusion of this man thinking that anyone in that bar besides maybe the ones that were there with him that night gave a shit about him. Thinking that the town was his. He was a nobody there. He hadn't grown up there, he didn't work there, he didn't participate in community events. He was kidding himself if he thought anyone cared enough about him that he should feel shame over her relationship with Sy, especially five years after their relationship with each other had ended.

"How's that for a 'why,' sweetheart?" he boasted.

"It's making my ask myself a lot of questions. Like why I ever agreed to go out with you all those years ago. Why I didn't see the signs that you were a psychopath sooner. And why I put up with your terrorism for so long thinking you'd ever really change. I can't believe I ever slept with you, you absolute barbarian." and she heaved into the bucket, non-productively. She hadn't eaten since lunch, and that had to be well over twelve hours ago.

"Well, ya did. And ya can't change the past. But I'm about to take your future into my hands. As soon as we find your phone, we're gonna have us a ball, little girl."

"You honestly think I'll cooperate with any of that?"

"You won't have a choice." he held up a little glass vial. "Morphine. A tiny dose of this stuff, and you'll do anything I tell ya."

"Please. Just let me go now, and I won't press charges. I won't go to the cops, at all. I'll call in to work with a headache, or something and you can live your life with Sergeant Squats and we can leave each other alone."

"A good offer, but I need to get something out of this. I need my pride back."

"And you're gonna get that by dragging me through the mud online from my own Facebook account? Is that really the way you wanna do this? When you could just show me what a great life you've built for yourself. This is a great place here, it seems, I mean, I only smelled it, and felt how big it was while I was getting dragged around the place. But, Elliott, if you had just told me about all this, I would have been happy for you!"

"This place is Sasha's."

"Oh." she grasped for something, anything to make him see how insane he was being without saying the words. "Well, I'd still have been happy for you finding an established woman with a great job. Why couldn't you have just written me a letter telling me that? An email! Something."

"This is how it's getting done, Shane. Because this is the only way that truly ruins your life in the process. Because at the end of all of this, the backlash is going to be too much for you, and you're not going to be able to handle this life anymore…"

"No. Elliott, no."

"Yes. You're gonna take one last hit of the morphine and drive that shitty Ford right into the lake."

"You used to care about art. About beauty. You used to be sensitive. You used to have a soul. What happened, Elliott? What happened to your humanity?" Shane asked, crying, in mourning for the man he used to be. The one that she used to care for.

"I fell in love. And she broke my heart. And nothing has been the same."

"Elliott, I didn't mean to…"

"Oh, fuck, not you, don't be stupid. No, Kara. I met her right after you kicked me out, and SHE broke my heart." he turned and started up the stairs, pausing to look over his shoulder and say, "I'll be back when I have your phone. And I'll bring friends." before he ascended, shutting the door firmly behind him.

She had never been so relieved to NOT have her phone in her life. Hopefully, her coworkers had it safe and sound, and locked up at work.

Up Next: Chapter 15-Recon

#netflix sand castle #Sand Castle #captain syverson #Captain Syverson x OFC #captain syverson fanfic #sigh for sy #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill x ofc #this is either a bit angsty or it will give you angst it is hard to say

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savedbybangtan · 4 years

Text

Not Delulu (1)

Summary: You always hated women who dated kpop idols and are so glad that your ultimate bias, Kim Namjoon, has never disappointed you by being involved in such a scandal. You swear you’re not a delusional fan who doesn’t want him to be happy. You truly just want what’s best for him.

Apparently, He just wants whats best for you, too <3.

3,197 words

Chapter warning tags: mild invasion of privacy?

Part One

Fingering through wistful fabrications of reality is my favourite hobby. Who knew time travelling was so easy? With a simple turn of a page, - something that takes mere nanoseconds - I can transcend dimensions and look into the past while reading the lines of a page. The only problem with reading books is that when you travel through time and space, your body is still in the present, operating on some badly programmed autopilot mode. As your eyes scan the books, other body parts mindless wander if you do not pay attention. Hence, you shouldn’t read as you walk.

However, as you walk through the aisle in this nook of your local bookstore, busily scanning the shelves for a particular new stock, you realise that not everyone had gotten this memo of the faulty autopilot mode.

A hard, large object seemed to be hurled at you, making you stumble to the floor. Your shoulder took most of the impact of the collision, but there was no other damage done. Your fall was broken by the shelves you grabbed onto during your descent.

“Wh-What,” a raspy voice from above turns about confused. He must have been the hard, large object. His oversized, grey hoodie is low on his head. His white hair conceals his face even more.

A book is opened in his hand. The same exact book that you were dying to get your ,hands on. You try to grab onto the floor to get up and that is when this tall figure looming over you finally notices your presence. “Oh!…” He grabs onto your forearm to help you up and you allow him to.

Somehow, he lost his footing, so when you brace yourself on him, he ends up falling too. The book he already had, the few in his other hand, and an entire row on the shelf he bumped into are now on the ground.

“Shit!,” you exclaim. “I’m so sorry.” You frantically begin picking up the books. You really didn’t have time for this. Your shift will soon start. You were only supposed to be in here for a few minutes, but not only did you spend about 10 minutes looking into the tiny store for the title, but now you’ve made a mess.

“No, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I lost my footing,” he admits shyly, but obviously upset.

His voice…It can’t be…

“I was the reason you fell in the first place.” He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head as he picks up the books quickly, not even bothering to organise them. “I wasn’t looking at where I was going.” You both simultaneously reach for the final book on the floor, another psychology book. You only knew it was a psychology book because you had that exact title sitting on your desk home. He adds it to the little pile of books he wanted to buy. “I apologise.”

You were sure now. You realise he is the love of your life, your idol, your ultimate bias – Kim Namjoon, RM of BTS. You recognise that low, deep, sultry, raspy, sexy voice from anywhere.

Don’t scream. Don’t get weird. Don’t scream. Don’t get weird.

It must be annoying when people get weird so DON’T get weird.

“I-It’s okay! I don’t blame you… Youuu… were reading Into the Spine by Montgomery.” Shit, why were you stumbling on your words so much? Be normal. “I understand. I’m actually looking for that same book. Just tell me where you got it and its all forgiven.” While you spoke softly, you straightened your work uniform.

“Sure,” he smiles politely. “They’re by the entrance since they’re new.”

“T-T-T-T-T-They are?” Shit, why are you stuttering after realising it was Joonie- Namjoon. It might be weird to be called a nickname by people you don’t know. He’s a celebrity so he might be used to it though… You realise, even with his black face mask on, he was smiling awkwardly at you.

“Yeah. You must have missed them when you came in.” He grabs your arm and it feels as if a lightning bolt hit your body. If you moved or jerked, he hadn’t noticed because he continues to lead you to the table near the entrance where the stacks of copies were.

You blush profusely, but he takes this as you being embarrassed for missing something so obvious. Act normal. “I must have been so excited to just get this book I made a beeline straight to the nonfiction section.” You laugh nervously.

“I don’t blame you,” he mimics the first words you say to him. “Montgomery? Great author. I can’t wait to see what he has to say now about ‘brain power’,” Namjoon laughs. “He might go a bit overboard with his imagination, but he sure knows how to put things into perspective.”

“Yes! Everyone I talk to tell me that he’s a quack and says they don’t understand why I read this word vomit, but this guy is a genius!” You laugh, getting comfortable.

Namjoon just stares at you for a while. He nods. You can feel the conversation ending but didn’t want to let it go.

“Uhh… That book,” you point at the other book in his hand that you recognised earlier. “It’s good. Be prepared for some of the remarks in that one!”

Namjoon follows your eyes to see what you were talking about and throws his head back in laughter when he realizes. “Yes! It was a wild ride from cover to cover. I have my own copy at home, but I am getting this one for a friend.”

“Oh my God! Then, have you read Going into the Lamp? Oh my God, when she drowns her sister! I don’t know why she thought it was a good idea to include that in the book!”

Namjoon just looks at you with his eyes slightly widened. “I… I’m actually reading it now… I didn’t reach that part, yet.”

You accidently spoiled the book for him. “I’m SO sorry. First, I bump into you, and now I’m giving out spoilers you didn’t ask for. Please, forgive me,” you drawl with your head down.

He tuts and you want to crawl into a hole and hide. “What am I going to do with you? You’re so bad… Tell you what, have lunch with me and I’ll forgive you…”

What?!

You snap your head to look at his face and see mischief in his eyes. You decide to play along. “Sigh, I guess that’s the least I can do.” Fuck work. You are not passing up the opportunity to eat with your earthly god.

You pay for your book quickly and meet him by the door.

“Where do you want to eat?” You ask.

“I’m actually not familiar with this area. You tell me what’s good.”

He likes Korean food, meat to be particular. You should know this after watching every interview that includes in about twenty times over. There’s a little restaurant just a few blocks from there that you know he would love. You often had lunch there thinking about how much he would love it.

You spoke about books and theories about them on your way to the restaurant, feet falling into step together, but getting out of sync once in a while due to his long legs.

It was so natural. Sometimes, you forget that he was a normal human being.

The scent as you approach the building has your stomach growling and you do not miss the way his pupils dilate when he smells it too. In there was quiet and not crowded, as usual. It sucks for the owners, but that’s why you love this place. It was often empty. Honestly, if not for their deliveries, they would be out of business. You both go to the counter and order. It takes a while since this was his first time there. Your card is in your hand the entire time he speaks, but when he finishes, he gives them his card.

“Wait! I thought this was me apologizing, that I was buying you lunch.” You hold onto his card to stop the server from taking it. Three people were now grabbing onto it and looking at each other in confusion. You offer your card that was in your next hand and the server looks at Namjoon for permission, as if she wasn’t listening to you. He shakes his head.

“I only wanted company. I planned on eating alone,” you further your argument. “At least let me pay half.”

Someone coughs behind you. There are about two other people waiting their turn, looking angrily at the two of you. He takes the opportunity of you being distracted to give his card to the cashier again.

Because you were holding up the line, you just let him win.

Namjoon grabs a seat in the corner, facing away from the windows and door. He makes sure his hoodie is secure over his head as he huddles into himself. You realise he is doing this to avoid being caught.

Caught!

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He can get in trouble for this! It finally dawns on you that it looks like you’re on a date. Who do you think you are to even sit across his excellence? It would not be fair to the rest of his stans.

But, its not like you’re like other girls. You don’t want him just because he’s cute. No, your bond is much stronger than any other. You would take care of him. Heal him.

You don’t deserve a Namjoon, but he deserves a you.

You worship him.

Imagine the headlines if Dispatch sees this. Finally, everyone will know for good that Namjoon is yours. You wouldn’t mind if the world found out and misinterpreted the scene.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by food being placed in front of you. Namjoon pulls down his mask to his chin, but his face was still obscured by his bangs.

How long were you sitting across from him imagining these crazy things? You say an expletive in your heart and play it off. “Uwaah, no matter how many times I come here, I’m still amazed by the food. I promise you will love it. I’ve been eating here ever since I started working in this area.”

“It looks great.” He takes a tentative bite into the beef. His eyes light up and a sense of pride washes over you. You knew your man. His shoulders move into a little dance absentmindedly.

You’re endeared by his actions so you sit and admire him eating. Namjoon stops when he realizes how quiet you’re being. He coughs to clear his throat. “So…” he ventures embarrassed. “What made you get into Psychological fiction?”

“I always loved reading. I guess I just realized I liked reading these books more. I think Kafka was the pivot that made me go deeper.”

“It’s the same for me actually.” Namjoon went on to explain how he started reading about psychology, which led to a conversation about both of your favourite authors, reads, stores, forums, clubs, etc. The food was long gone but the refill of their beers are full.

You practically scream at the story he tells where a friend of his thought he was reading erotic novellas the entire time. “It was really so embarrassing. We were in public and really said, ‘don’t you read about romance and sex all the time. Tell me what I should do to be more sensitive.’ I wanted to die on the spot.” He slumps further into his seat to express this, but he is smiling brightly looking at you laugh so hard it looked painful.

“Hey, I never got your name,” he points out mid-chuckle. “I don’t think I asked before, but I’m K-“

“Kim Namjoon,” you finish his introduction for him for him. “Sorry, I’m not gonna sit here and act like I didn’t recognize you. I’m army and I know my bias from his voice. Also, I’m ____.” You look up at him worriedly. Its true. You didn’t have it in you to lie by letting him introduce himself.

Namjoon is caught off guard and goes red. “You’re lying about me being your bias I’m sure. You don’t have to do that,” he flusters.

You open a compartment of your phone case revealing his photocard, “I keep it there to look at whenever I feel unmotivated or insignificant. Your words during lives really helped me with my anxiety. I even watch videos of you at the end of concerts to hear what you have to say. It really pumps me up,” you express with your body.

This shocks him visibly. “Don’t look at me like I’m lying. You really helped me a lot when I was trying to study for college entrance exams, and when I failed and found that I didn’t make it to my top, and only, choice. I didn’t apply anywhere else and decided to work part time and follow my dreams, like you sort of did.”

“Either way, I’m glad BTS could have done that for you.”

“Me too. My parents were hella mad, especially since they thought I should have been a doctor or lawyer just because I got good grades in high school. I don’t care too much about what they think, though. Most great people’s parents didn’t approve what they did. I mean, look at Pip from Great Expectations.”

“I don’t think there is one single happy person out there who does what their parents wanted them to,” Namjoon agrees.

“Like in the great words of Aristo-“ you begin, but get cut off by a loud ringing in your pocket. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you whisper as you scramble to answer it.

Embarrassingly enough, it was your boss and you were sure that Namjoon could hear what is being screamed at you even though your phone was not on speaker. He looks at you in wonder as you try to explain to her that you will be coming soon and how you were running late. A particular jab concerning your coworker’s incompetence to handle yours and her own work, especially when you couldn’t handle your own station, has Namjoon railing over in laughter.

“Yes, ma’am. I will be there in a few minutes! I’m sorry ag-“ the dial tone sounds before you can even finish your sentence. Dejected, you could not help the pout as you lift your eyes to take your one last good look at your obsession. “I’m sorry, Joon, I was only supposed to stop to the bookstore for five minutes. I had work after.”

“Do what you have to do.” He looks at you sympathetically. “You’re such a bad girl. This would make you,” he checks his watch beneath his hoodie, “an entire hour late.”

You both get up to clear the table. “Thank you for lunch again.”

“Thank you for coming with me,” he retorts.

You walk outside the store together, but had to walk opposite directions. This is when Namjoon realises that he wont ever see her again. Unless…

He spins around and grabs you wrist. “Um…” He can’t speak with her looking at him like that. “Can I… have your number?”

He spoke so quietly, you wonder if you have heard correctly, or if it was the wind playing tricks on you. His hand is surely on yours, and he is certainly looking at you, but you still are in a rush.

Grabbing a napkin and pen from your pocket, you quickly jot your name and number down. “Hey, you can just put it in my phone.”

You shake your head. “Sorry, I’m in a rush and I do not want to mess this up.” You always make such terrible typos on the regular. You don’t trust yourself to input the correct the number when youre filled with adrenaline. You shove the napkin to his chest which he grabs for. “I’ll talk to you later,” you ask, unsure. Not waiting for his response, you begin to sprint into the direction of your job.

Namjoon stood there staring after you for a few heavy heart beats. You were perfect. From the arch of your brow as you hung onto every word he enunciated to the sloppily tied tennis on your feet that did not shaking once during your conversation.

He holds the number out to admire your handwriting. It was so neat, cute even. He brings the napkin up to his nose to see if he can smell even a little of you on it. Of course, with his mask on, he was not able to smell much of everything. As he pulls it down to appreciate the napkin more, a white van that had passed him rather quickly slammed brakes and was now reversing towards him.

He scanned the area and notices someone just across the street from him filing him with a smartphone.

His identity is well hidden today. So he does not feel threatened by the filming. He is afraid of the man coming out of the van with a huge, high tech camera.

He shoves the napkin he cherished so ardently before in his back pocket and makes a run for it.

Or so he thinks.

The napkin flutters to the ground slowly, heavily contrasting the speed that Namjoon ran away.

Later that evening, he rummages through his clothes. He strips to his boxers, standing in the middle of his apartment with a blank stare. Your number is nowhere to be found. He had no way to speak to you. His last interaction with you will have been his last interaction with you.

Tears fall down his cheeks proudly when he realizes this.

He takes a few deep breaths. This is not over.

You mentioned that you worked in the area. He will just have to go back there and look for you.

You wore a black golf shirt, leggings, vans, a black sports bra (from what he can tell by the print through your top), probably a thong (since there were no pantylines shown as you walked), and…

And…

His erection stood proudly looking up at him.

He let his mind get carried away thinking about you. Trying to focus again, he fights through his memories to figure out which store’s workers wore black shirts with no logos or crests.

Nowhere.

That’s it – nowhere he’s been. Meaning it’s a store he had no purpose for, and judging the direction in which you ran, it had to have been that local shop. Namjoon searched Google maps street view for a few minutes before he finds the only place that can be where you worked.

He smiles proudly. All was not lost.

Fucking creep! Stop following me! Namjoon’s ex’s voice rang through his head.

“Will it be creepy if I show up on her job? She never told me where she worked…” he thinks aloud to himself.

Namjoon opens his phone again, but this time to find your work phone number. He calls the number provided, but since it was 10:34pm, he can assume that the small tailor shop was closed.

Tomorrow.

A/n:

I hope there weren’t too many mistakes! I originally made an outline for this months ago as a joke, but as I wrote it, I realised that it was kinda deep lol. satirical even.

Also, fics are so hard to find on tumblr, but I feel like theyre so good here! I use ao3 to search for authors and follow their tumblr if they have one. I think I’m gonna start cross publishing.

#knj #bts fic #yandere namjoon #yandere bts #kim namjoon scenario

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shakespeareanwannabe · 4 years

Text

Protective Instincts

Santiago Pope Garcia x F!OC

Summary: After everything he’s done, Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia can’t fathom the idea of bringing a child into the world. But sometimes, life doesn’t work out exactly as you’ve planned. *Based off of some wonderful headcanons written by @darksideofclarke*

Warnings: Pregnancy fic (so if you’re not into that, please don’t read), swearing, reference to smut (but it’s only like one line), references to blood, death (of adults and children), and PTSD

A/N: Hi everyone! So this is my first fanfic post on Tumblr (I have an active account on ff.net, and if anyone is interested in reading that, I can send you my account name). I really enjoyed writing for Pope, it was really nice to spread my wings outside of the Supernatural fandom, so please let me know if you enjoyed this, because I’ve got so many ideas for how to turn it into a series. Hope you enjoy! And let me know if you want to be tagged in any future chapters that come out.

15 steps to the left.

Stop.

Turn.

15 steps to the left.

Stop.

Turn.

Repeat until the worries of the mind and the heaviness of the heart disappears.

“Hey, baby, I’m home!” Pope’s voice calls out, causing Rebecca’s steady steps to stumble.

“How can I face him? How can I tell him?” her mind anguished.

She found herself stopped in front of their large bay window, staring out into the street as her wonderful, loving boyfriend walked up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her, not noticing how she flinched as he hands come to rest on top of her still soft stomach and planted a gentle kiss on her neck.

“How was your day?” he questioned, seemingly content with the picture of domestic bliss that they undoubtedly made, as he nuzzled his nose in between her shoulder blades.

“It was fine,” she murmured quietly, folding her arms around her chest.

Pope shifted, his nose gently brushing her ear as he twisted to look at her profile.

“What happened?”

What had happened? How could she answer that when every molecule in her body was seemingly at war with each other? When her heart was rejoicing but the tiniest voice in the back of her mind was throwing up red flags because they had never talked about this before and she had no clue how he was going to react? When every instinct inside of her was screaming ‘protect’ and every emotion was yelling ‘share’?

“I…I think we should sit.”

Pope felt his heart stutter but nodded as he gently led her to the couch. Was this the moment he had been dreading? Was this when karma kicked in and took away the best thing that had ever happened to him?

“Bex, please…” he kept his hand on her thigh as they settled next to each other on the leather couch. “Are you okay?” Hesitantly, she nodded, and Pope sighed with relief. “What’s going on, baby?”

She shifted slightly, pulling away from his hand and playing with her fingers in her lap. “Umm…you know how I haven’t been feeling great the past week or so?”

He nodded, leaning forward. “Yeah, did you go to the doctor today like I asked?”

He had had to beg her to go. She had insisted that it was just the flu, probably coupled with her oncoming period in the next couple of days. She usually felt like shit when that time of the month rolled around, but the constant vomiting had been new, so he had pleaded with her daily for the last four days to go to the doctor. In hindsight, she had been resistant because she had a sneaking suspicion, but, again, her instincts had been at war with each other.

“Yeah, I went…” It wasn’t until her breathing hitched and Santiago lifted his hand to brush away a tear that she even realized she was crying.

“Baby…” Rebecca looked up and met Santi’s dark eyes. She could read the fear reflected in them and it only made her feel worse. Her sweet, burdened man had fought a war, lost friends, and here she was, scaring him in the comfort of his own home.

“I’m pregnant,” she blurted, wanting to see that worry washed away from his expression.

Instead, she saw the walls slam up in his eyes.

*******************************************************************************************

Pope had the unfortunate experience of being too close to an explosive as it detonated. He’d felt the shrapnel dig itself into his body, felt the heat burn his skin, but, for Pope, the worst part was the ringing in his ears. When the dull sound of tinnitus overtook everything. He’d had men, friends, best friends, screaming in his face but had been unable to hear them. The roar of the fire and the scream of bullets flying sounded like he was hearing them from deep underwater, Catfish could be hollering in his ear that they had to move, but he couldn’t make out the words.

“I’m pregnant…” Rebecca blurted, hesitantly glancing back and forth between his face and her lap.

Now, he was sure that she kept talking. Hell, he could see her lips moving. But the words…they weren’t reaching him. Everything was white noise, he was moving through water, the scar on the back of his neck started to burn.

One thing the military had taught Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia was how to listen to his instincts. He was a damn good leader, he had a loyal crew of men who depended on him and had his back, and that was partially because his instincts were usually pretty spot on. If that feeling in his gut told him to stop, they stopped. If it told him to run, he was dragging his team alongside him at a dead sprint. If it told him to shoot, he shot.

Now, his fight or flight was telling him one thing.

Pope rose from the couch, his eyes just skating past Rebecca’s panicked expression, his brain not really absorbing any new information, like how her lips were moving in a repetitive pattern.

“Santi…Pope…Santiago…Please…Santi…Pope…Santiago…Please…”

His ears were ringing, but his eyes knew her lips well enough to understand, even if that information wasn’t making it to his brain.

Wordlessly, emotionlessly, almost lifelessly, Pope paced to the front door, shrugged on his leather jacket, donned his sunglasses, pulled his keys out of his pocket.

Open the door. One step over the doorframe.

Turn.

Close the door. Lock it.

Five stairs. Fifteen paces.

Unlock car. Get in. Key in ignition. Seatbelt on.

Start car. Shift gears. Peddle on the right.

Drive.

Santiago had no destination in mind, no plan. For once, the man with a plan had no plan.

“I’m pregnant…”

He felt the whizz of a bullet flying by his cheek.

“I’m pregnant…”

The blood of a civilian spurted through his fingers as he tried to put pressure on the wound.

“I’m pregnant…”

The bodies of kids lined up outside of a village that had just been bombed, that they hadn’t gotten there in time to save.

“I’m pregnant…”

Every echo of Bex’s voice brought a new memory.

Car bombs exploding in Afghanistan.

The numerous deaths of innocent civilians in Iraq.

The countless executions of sicarios in Colombia by the police force.

Tom and the complete fuck up that he had led his friends into.

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

Pope looked down for a split second and saw Rebecca’s photo lighting up his screen.

It was a photo they had taken on the Fourth of July. He had taken her out to Will’s cabin out in the middle of the woods, deep enough that none of the seasoned veterans would be able to hear the fireworks exploding overhead. She had spider-monkeyed her way around him as he sat on a log next to the campfire, arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs around his waist, and chest pressed tightly up against his back, and when Benny had seen the way he had smiled at her over his shoulder, he had snapped the photo with his phone.

For a split second, Pope was torn. Did he cave to the guilt that was starting to gnaw at his gut and answer the phone? Did he shut his phone off so he wouldn’t have to hear the rattling sound in his cupholder? In the end, he did neither.

His instincts were driving him to continue down the road, and his heart wouldn’t let him shut off his phone, so he ignored it. He knew she would begin to panic if his phone sent her straight to voicemail but leaving it on allowed her the peace of mind to know that he would answer…eventually. When he was ready.

Pope didn’t pay any attention to his dashboard clock, nor did he pay any mind to the sun that was slowly crawling its way across the sky. He knew hours had passed, he knew that Bex was calling him every ten minutes or so, and he knew that the emptiness of the road and the repetitive hum of the tires below him was soothing his mind.

When his truck dinged, alerting him to the news that his truck had about ten miles left before it ran out of gas, he pulled over, stopped, and refilled the tank with what was left in his gas can before continuing.

He paid attention to the traffic and to the periodic buzzing of his phone, that was it.

Hours passed, his phone buzzing every ten minutes like clockwork until the sun hung low in the sky. Until his phone stopped buzzing.

At the first ten minute mark when his phone didn’t buzz and his and Bex’s smiling faces didn’t appear on his screen, approximately six hours into his drive and approximately around the time when Pope realized he had been driving in circles for at least the last four, he glanced down to make sure that his phone hadn’t died.

Ten minutes after that, he pulled onto a farm road, slowing to a stop on the side of the dirt road. His heart was racing as though he had been running for the past six hours, and he couldn’t understand why.

13 minutes after that, his phone came to life again, a pixelated likeness of Catfish’s face appearing in the dimming light of the sunset. Bex was in that photo too, Frankie pressing a kiss to her cheek while winking at Pope behind the camera.

Pope sighed and cleared his throat, hoping to convey a lightheartedness when he greeted, “Hey Fish, what’s goin’ on?”

Pope heard a screen door slam shut as Frankie growled, “Estúpido hijo de puta.”

Pope pulled the phone away from his ear, making sure it was actually Catfish calling and not some crank call. “Frankie?”

“Santi, do you want to tell me why I’m here with your hysterical girlfriend and you’re not?”

Pope felt his heart sink in his chest. “Fish, I—”

“Bex nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack when she called,” Frankie talked over him. “Sobbing so hard she couldn’t get the words out. I gunned it over to your place thinking you had been kidnapped or something, man. Had an SOS text ready to send to Benny and Will, only to find out that you had just left and you weren’t answering her calls. What the fuck, Pope?”

Pope stepped out of his truck and leaned back against the door, staring out at the reds and purples and golds of the sunset.

“…she’s pregnant, man.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And?” Pope wrenched himself away from the truck and began pacing up and down the abandoned stretch of road. “And I don’t know how the fuck to be a father! I don’t know how to raise a kid to be a benefit to society and not a colossal fuck up! After all the shit I’ve done, all the blood on my hands?” Pope took a shaky, shuddery breath, pressing the phone up to his forehead as he wished he could keep it together. He shouldn’t be saying anything. He should bury all the shit so deep down it never sees the light of day. He should, but it was also Frankie Morales he was talking to. His ride or die since day one. The guy who, no matter what was happening, always gave it to him straight. The brain behind Pope’s brawn.

“What gives me the right, Frankie?” Pope mumbled as he brought the phone back to his ear. “I’ve killed people…I’ve gotten people killed…I’ve let people die…That kid is gonna come into the world all innocent, take one look at me, and see a killer. H—How am I supposed to raise a kid when I can barely keep my own shit together half the time?”

The line was silent for a long time, and Pope helplessly dashed at the water that had pooled in his eyes.

“No sé cómo hacer esto, hermano,” he whispered.

Finally, he heard the telltale rasp of Frankie running his hand over his face. “Chill the fuck out, bro,” Frankie told him in a voice that somehow managed to be both soothing and commanding. “Holding that kid will be the best thing you ever do in your life. The only thing that makes all of the shit worth it.”

“But—”

“No buts, Pope. You wanna know how you’re gonna raise that kid? You’re not,” he said simply. “You and Bex are gonna raise that kid together. You’re gonna make mistakes, and screw up, and so will she, but as long as you’re there, and you love that kid hard, and you actually give a shit, then you’re gonna be leaps and bounds above half the dickheads out there that call themselves dads.” Pope squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears that were threatening to roll down his cheeks. He didn’t know if Frankie knew that his partner and friend was tearing up in the middle of nowhere, but he also knew that Frankie (and Bex) were probably the only two people on the planet who wouldn’t give him shit for it.

He just couldn’t help it. Six hours ago, his world had exploded, and now Frankie was helping him put it together piece by painful piece. Worst of all was how badly Pope wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that the kid would make all the bullshit he had gone through worth it, but he didn’t dare imagine it. It was too good to be true. He was too broken, too beaten down to make a good father.

“Listen man,” Frankie grunted, and Pope’s keen ears picked up a shuffle in the background that told him Frankie had sat down somewhere. “I’ve got the same blood and shit on my hands that you do. Worse, even, if you consider that mess I got myself into without you. Does that make me a bad dad?”

Pope was already shaking his head. After the mess in Colombia, after Yovanna had decided that he wasn’t worth her time, Pope had come home and settled a few blocks over from where Frankie and his fiancée at the time (now his wife), Charlotte, had settled down. Pope had seen Frankie with his son, Mateo, more times than he could count.

“Frankie—”

“Exactly. And considering where my head was at when Charlie told me she had a bun in the oven, I shoulda been. I could’ve messed that kid up bad…I thought I would, but I didn’t.” Frankie sighed again, and Pope could visualize him scratching at his facial hair. “Santi, bringing that kid into the world is the only thing that’ll make up for all of the shit. Believe me.”

Because it was Frankie, his right-hand man, his best friend, Pope allowed himself to hope. He allowed himself to close his eyes and imagine it. A little baby nestled in his arms, curling up against his chest like he hadn’t killed countless people. Dark eyes looking up at him the way their mother looked at him, with love and kindness, like he didn’t have blood on his hands. A chance to do some good in the world, to bring some light into his life. A chance to raise a kid who could be better than he ever was. Who wouldn’t tear the world down in a storm of bullets and bombs, but maybe, just maybe, build it back up with smiles and love.

Pope choked back a sob. “Frankie, I fucked up.”

“Nah, hermano,” Frankie chuckled. “Your girl loves you. The only way you can fuck up now is if you don’t come home. Then, I’m morally obligated to hunt you down and castrate you.”

Pope chuckled a watery laugh as he climbed back into the cab of his truck. “I’m on my way now.”

“Good, my ass is getting cold from sitting on your front steps,” Frankie laughed.

Pope laughed again, a real laugh this time. “Go home, cabrón.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who has some major ass kissing to do, jackass.”

Pope waited as he could hear Frankie getting into his car. “Seriously, man. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, bro,” Pope heard Frankie’s car start in the background. “Just fix it.”

“I will.”

“Oh, and I call godfather!”

Pope laughed as he hung up and sped down the road. If he kept on this road and obeyed the speed limit, he could make it home in half an hour. He was determined to make it home in twenty.

*******************************************************************************************

It may have been the worst parking job Pope had ever done, with half the car parked on the grass, half on the asphalt, the back end blocking most of the sidewalk, and a few inches between his rear, driver’s side tire and the back end of Rebecca’s car, but he didn’t care. The jovial spirit that had overtaken him at the tail-end of his chat with Frankie had vanished as he got closer and closer to home. He needed to see his girl. He needed to make things right.

He waved as the lights on Frankie’s minivan flashed twice before pulling away from the curb across the street, grateful that his friend had stayed until he had gotten home, and jogged up to the front door, quietly unlocking it and stepping into the silent house.

The lights in the living room were off. As Pope stumbled over the jumble of shoes at the front door, he caught sight of the pile of tissues sitting on the coffee table and felt his heart sink and those tears he had been choking back fight their way up his throat again.

A dull light shone from behind the kitchen door, and Pope tentatively approached it, pressing gently at the swinging door to take a peek inside.

When he caught sight of her, his heart shattered inside his chest.

He’d always thought Rebecca was beautiful, from the second he had caught sight of her at the physiotherapy clinic. Drenched in sweat and red-faced, that had been his first impression of her, but her smile and the playful glint in her eyes had bewitched him in an instant.

He’d seen her dressed to the nines, looking like she’d stepped out of one of those fashion magazines that she kept in her bedside table. He’d seen her in sweats after a day of cleaning house. He’d seen her naked as the day she was born, whimpering and moaning as he painted her chest with his cum. She’d always been beautiful. Stunning, gorgeous.

Even now, Pope had to acknowledge the melancholic beauty that surrounded her. The remnants of tears that clung to her eyelashes, the blotchy red patches that stained her skin, the weariness that tugged her whole body down until she was slumped in her seat at the kitchen table, feet propped up in his seat, her phone just barely visible from where he stood, propped up against her bent legs, one elbow laid across her knees while the other arm was bearing the weight of her head, hand cushioned in the sleeve of her oversized white sweater.

“Baby…” he murmured, pushing his way into the kitchen and standing in the low light cast by the lamp in the center of the table.

It took her a moment, but she finally looked up, tears welling back up in her red-rimmed eyes as she gasped out a sob at the very sight of him.

Whatever had been holding Pope up until that point – call it stubbornness, call it pride, call it resolution – dissolved at that sob.

One step.

Two steps.

His knees hit the hardwood floor as he choked out a sob, tears finally spilling down his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he cried as he buried his face into Rebecca’s thighs. “I’m so, so sorry…”

He didn’t know how long he knelt there, tears turning her pale blue jeans dark, pain radiating from his knees, up to his neck and throughout his limbs, voice growing hoarse as he repeated the words again and again and again.

Finally, finally, Pope felt that touch of grace as she slowly, gingerly raised her hand and began to carefully card it through his thick salt-and-pepper curls. Her touch of kindness only served to make him cry harder as he raised his head and gazed upon her tear-stained face.

“I’m so sorry, mi alma,” he rasped, shuffling forward until his forehead was pressed into her lower belly, where the life they had created together was just beginning to grow. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered into the small band of skin that was revealed where her sweater had ridden up.

After what felt like hours, Pope stirred, slowly peeling himself off the floor to stand in front of her. With a hopeful look in his eyes, he extended his hand to her and prayed to a god he wasn’t sure he believed in that she would take it.

*******************************************************************************************

Rebecca eyed his extended hand suspiciously. Part of her wanted to slap it away, scream at him for the anguish he had put her through the past few hours, and make him sleep on the couch until the baby was born. But the other part of her, the part that could see the tremor in his arms and legs as he stood there and the pleading look in his eyes and the deep lines that were etched in his forehead, that part of her coaxed her into gently unfolding from her curled up position and taking his hand.

Gently, Santiago helped her to her feet and led her out of the kitchen, down the hall and into their bedroom. She stood there in the doorway as he moved around the room, dropping his black t-shirt and dark jeans into the hamper, placing his watch on his nightstand, and plugging his phone into the charger, until he stopped by her side of the bed, tugging the covers down and looking at her with that same pleading gaze.

Slowly, hesitantly, she followed his lead, stripping down to her bra and panties and sliding under the covers that he was holding up for her. In a flash, Santiago slid into his side of the bed and pulled her tightly to him, her back to his chest with one of his hands gently cradling her still flat belly.

As he pressed a gentle kiss to her bare shoulder, she couldn’t help the shuddery, teary gasp of that one word that had been at the forefront of her mind since he had shut the door in her face and locked it behind him: “Why?”

Rebecca heard him sigh, a long, weary breath out that spoke of exhaustion and trauma.

“When you told me…everything just kind of shut down. All I could think of was to protect.”

“Protect who?”

She felt him shrug. “Protect myself. Protect you from me and all my bullshit. Protect the baby from the fuck up they have as a father.”

“Santi…” she whispered mournfully. “You know I don’t—”

“I know,” he interjected before clearing his throat. “It’s just…I’ve done some really bad things in my life, Bex. I’m not a good person,” he continued in a whisper. “You know some of the stuff that I’ve done, but most of it is so classified I doubt I’ll ever be allowed to talk about it. And I don’t want to. I don’t want you to ever hear about it. So, when you told me we were having a baby, my mind just kind of shut down. All I could think of was how many people I’ve killed; how much blood is on my hands.”

He trailed off as a dark silence loomed over the room.

“You scared me…” she finally whispered.

He chuckled darkly as he rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “I scared myself,” he admitted. “I just…I couldn’t imagine how any good could come out of this. I…” he paused, and Rebecca rolled over to face him, watching his Adam’s apple work in his throat. “I don’t deserve to be a dad, Bex.”

She nodded, tears springing to her eyes again at his admittance. She wished he could see what she saw. He was good with kids. So good with them. Watching him with Frankie’s son Mateo was one of the most adorable sights she had ever seen. He would be such a good father. But…she couldn’t force it on him. She knew he had baggage, knew it when she met him, but things had been so good between them that she had hoped they would be okay.

“I…uh, I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to do, Santi,” she murmured, desperately trying to keep the tears out of her voice. “You can be as involved or—”

“Oh baby, no. No, no, shh…” he pulled her into his chest, banding his arms tightly around her back until her head was nestled into his shoulder and his face was buried in her hair. “I’m gonna be better, okay? I swear to god, I’m gonna be better for you and this kid. I called Will on the drive home, and he’s gonna help me find a group to talk to about all this. I can’t promise it won’t happen again but I’m gonna fight as hard as I can to be there for you one hundred percent.” He peeled his face away from her neck and angled himself to look directly into her eyes, their noses almost touching. “I’ll read all the parenting books and go to any and all classes you sign us up for. I’m gonna be there for every appointment. I’ll learn how to give massages if you need me to rub your feet or your back, and I’ll go out for any cravings you might have, even if I have to drive all the way across town at 3 o’clock in the morning.” Tears began pooling in her eyes again, except this time there was a small smile on her face. “When the baby comes, I’ll do whatever you want me to do. You can break my hand if you need to during labor. If you want it to just be us, it’ll just be us. If you want a whole damn camera crew there to document the whole thing, I’ll make it happen.” He pulled her closer and cupped her face in his hands. “I’m gonna get a good job, baby. No more side jobs, no more private sector. I’ll take whatever 9 to 5 I can find to help take care of us. Hell, I’ll take two jobs if you want to be a stay at home mom. Or, if you want, I’ll stay at home with the kid. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do it.”

Finally, Rebecca laughed as happy tears streamed down her face. “You’re rambling, babe.”

Pope laughed too, a happy, relieved sound as he pressed his lips to hers for the first time that evening. “I know, I know,” he whispered, wiping her tears away with his fingertips. “I just need you to know that I’m all in. Whatever you want, whatever you need. Whatever this kid needs. I’m here. I’m gonna be a dick sometimes, and I’m gonna make mistakes, and I’m gonna be so far out of my league between you and this kid, but I’m gonna be here. I swear to god.”

Rebecca giggled, pulling her hand from his chest to play with the grey baby curls at the back of his neck. “That’s all we need,” she whispered as she pulled him closer to plant a sweet, loving kiss on his lips. She pulled back and ran a fond hand over his cheek. “Just promise me, next time this happens, you let me know. Just a word or a gesture or something?”

Pope nodded, ashamed of his actions. He was always the first to go in, guns blazing, no thought to his own safety if it meant protecting his team. But the second he found out about the baby, he had left his most important teammate behind to fend for herself.

“I promise, baby. And I’m so sorry…” he nuzzled into her cheek and pressed a gentle kiss to her dimple.

She smiled at him as she rolled over and rested her head on his bicep. “We’re gonna be okay, babe,” she yawned, her eyes drifting closed after the emotional day she had had.

Pope nestled in behind her, not leaving an inch of space between them. Lying there, happy with the woman he loved in his arms, Pope took a deep breath and allowed himself to drift off, her words echoing in his mind. They would be okay. He’d make sure of it.

*******************************************************************************************

Tags List: @darksideofclarke, @writefightandflightclub, @eternallyvenus, @rae-rae-patcha

#santiago pope garcia x oc #santiago pope garcia #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfic #oscar issac #fanfic

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fyeahnix · 3 years

Text

Title: I Got You Pairing: Bangalore/Wraith (Voidstrike) Other Characters: None Rating: Teen and Up for language and mild nudity Words: 1440 Prompt: Taking Care (Sickfic) Other Tags: Sickfic, Bathing/Washing, Cute, Overprotective Wraith, Mentions of vomiting Summary: The first time Anita's been sick in years and she's knocked on her ass by the flu. Good thing for her a special someone is there to take care of her.

If you like it PLEASE REBLOG. You can read it here or on AO3, via the link found in the notes of this post. Please read on AO3 if you prefer correct formatting!

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Anita hasn’t been sick in eight years. Not since she turned thirty, and even then, it was only food poisoning. Friends and coworkers dragged her out to celebrate at Hollygroove’s renowned sushi restaurant. Woke up the next morning to the worst vomiting and diarrhea spell of her life. Swore off sushi for five years after. She doesn’t count it, not officially, but it’s the last time she recalls that isn’t from childhood.

Anita. Never. Gets. Sick.

Until now.

Bullshit.

She lies back in the bathtub, nearly submerged in lukewarm water. The lingering odor of the peppermint bath bomb burns her sinuses but allows her to breathe clearly — quite the feat for the past twenty-four hours. But, it’s peppermint. She despises that acrid, wintery stench, and wiping the persistent scowl off her face proves more difficult as time passes.

Wraith's idea.

Wraith sits curled up next to the tub, hair tied back in a loose and lazy half-ponytail. Anita’s dragon-adorned muscle shirt hangs off her upper half, her own heather-grey sweatpants covering her bottom half. Her phone rests propped up on the side of the tub, playing some loud, dramatically-styled animation that surprisingly hasn’t annoyed Anita after… three episodes? Wraith’s sucked in, sunken-in eyes trained on the bright colors and grotesque transformation sequence of this monster-of-the-week monstrosity of a show.

“Oh shit, that’s new…” she mumbles to herself.

Is it? Anita’s attention wavered an episode and a half ago. Hard to focus when her brain pounds against her skull and her entire body burns like a malfunctioning furnace. The shivers haven’t subsided either. They wrack her body in waves, rippling cloudy bathwater around her. Not to mention the muscle aches. Her obliques and back and thighs and shoulders throb something fierce, and not in the pleasurable post-workout burn type of way. She’s miserable, dejected, and exhaustedly weak, and all the positive effects from the once-piping-hot bath have long since worn off.

The credits roll on the animation and a prompt pops up for the next episode. Wraith pauses it and rests her chin on the side of the tub, staring at Anita as she smiles sympathetically.

"You okay?"

"No," Anita rasps.

"Ready to get out?" she asks with a gentle tilt of her head.

"I'm ready to pass out. For like five days. Everything hurts."

Wraith dips a fingertip in the tub. "Yeah, this water's freezing. Time to get you out." She moves her phone to the sink countertop and grabs the clean washcloth. She hesitates, tips her head a few degrees, “You want to or…?”

Anita’s ears and cheeks sear at the insinuation. She leans forward, slowly, reaching for the washcloth, but the world spins around her as she does. She screws her eyes shut. Takes a deep breath to recenter.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it." Wraith lathers the cloth with some fancy body wash Anita knows she doesn't own. "Can you sit up okay?”

Anita huffs. She grips the side of the tub for support. Pulls herself forwards to a sitting position and winces. It's difficult, her muscles screaming for her to stop, but if she stops moving long enough and trains her eyes to one spot, namely on Wraith, she'll survive. "Kinda."

"Don't worry. I got you." And with that, Wraith, soapy washcloth in hand, settles at the crook of Anita's neck.

Anita's nostrils flare as she relaxes and closes her eyes. She savors the touch at her neck, under her jaw, around her back and shoulders, and under her breasts. The water's cool against her hot, sensitive skin, every glide of Wraith's hand filling her with renewed vigor. The soap's aroma, lavender, overpowers the stink of peppermint. For a fleeting moment, the agony and pain of the last twenty-four hours subsides.

Still, guilt strikes her in the chest, and her eyes flutter open to fix her gaze on Wraith. Anita hates being dependent. Always been one to enjoy taking care of her loved ones. Always took care of herself, too. But this? This is… pathetic. Can’t move half an inch without dizzy spells. Stomach rides close to the edge of vomiting. She feels… useless.

"What's with the sad puppy eyes?" Wraith asks. “Arms up.”

"Should have gone to your match today." Hard to keep the bile down. She inhales slowly, then exhales. Repeats the process. It subsides, for now.

"What do you mean? And” — Wraith recoils and grimaces as her eyes flash white — “please don't throw up on me again?"

Anita ponders. Question’s obvious, but is the clarification worth it? Does it even matter?

Wraith lathers the washcloth again. "Bang, it's just us. Talk to me."

She attempts an eye roll but even that hurts. She settles for a sigh instead. "You don't have to stay here. Takin' care of me like this."

"You're right. I don't." Blunt and direct when it matters, but that's Wraith. "But I am. I'm here because I care about you. And I know you'd do this for me twenty times over if given the chance."

The scowl on Anita's face dissipates, the tight tug of a genuine smile emerging in its wake. Wraith's words melt her on the inside and for the span of five seconds, nothing on planet Solace is wrong or out of place. When Wraith scrubs her ribs and mid-back, the dejection and doubt return.

"Still feel bad, though. Can't imagine it was easy gettin' that across to Young."

"You feel bad for having the shit kicked out of you from the flu?" Wraith clicks her tongue. “It happens, Bang. And don’t worry about Jacob. He and I had an… understanding. If you wanna call it that."

The mischievous smirk on Wraith's face conjures too many possibilities and scenarios in Anita’s head. Curious as a cat, even as Wraith's gliding hand over her belly and hips beneath the water elicit a flinch from her.

"Babe" — Wraith hesitates, blue eyes dilating at the mention of her pet name — "what did you say?"

Wraith stops, lets the washcloth drift to the bottom of the tub beside Anita's thigh. She chuckles to herself, a smug "do you really wanna know" expression playing across full lips. If Anita didn't know Wraith well by now, she'd assume a civil discussion. But that's not how Wraith is. The claws unsheath when she wants something badly enough. Or if anyone dares drive a wedge between them.

"Well, I went to his office yesterday and we spoke. And by 'spoke,' I mean I may have yelled at him. And by 'yelled at him,' I mean I may or may not have threatened to gouge his eyes out and feed them to his Prowler pup. So, my match is postponed until tomorrow evening, which means… I get to take care of you for longer."

The flutters in Anita's belly force a burning blush out of her. Neither have shied away from seeing the other at their absolute worst — anxiety attacks and episodes, drunkenness and hangovers. God, Anita loves this woman with every fragment of her soul.

"If I weren't so sick, I'd kiss you."

Wraith chuckles. "If you weren't so sick, I'd kiss you back." She grazes wet fingers down Anita's jaw, coaxing her forwards to plant lips on Anita's forehead. "You're burning up, by the way. Let's get you out for real this time."

Anita hums as Wraith fishes for the washcloth. With careful, diligent hands, Wraith washes the rest of her body. The water's cold now, and with each drop that trickles down her back and chest, she longs to be out of the water and back in comfortable clothing.

Anita fights through vertigo when she's pulled out of the bath, shivers as she stands naked and freezing and dripping. Wraith towels her down from head to toe and helps her into underwear, sweatpants, and a t-shirt. With patience and slow, timed breathing, Anita ambles to the couch where she lies halfway on Wraith's lap, blanket draped over her.

Wraith grazes the back of her head, the nape of her neck. Tender and caring and sweet as always. She whispers about ordering food or at least making ginger tea — Anita objects — but gently chides that she should hydrate and get her stomach settled.

It's the truth and there's no denying it — the burning and freezing, dizziness, muscle aches and sour stomach — it's all there.

Anita acquiesces, a curt grunt and groan that conveys her annoyance and discomfort. Wraith coos, calms her with a gentle hand across her arm and shoulder. A simple caress proves to be all she needs to know that she's loved, that's she seen and heard.

That she's taken care of.

#Apex Legends #Bangalore #Wraith #Anita Williams #Renee Blasey #Voidstrike #Bangawraith #writing #nix fics #tw vomit #if anyone's wondering #yes this is the fic I commissioned noxlotl to create an illustration for #turned out wonderful!

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mypassionfortrash · 4 years

Text

KICKS (part five)

After you and Roger nail down his limits, you finally set a date for your first kinky playdate. And, more importantly, you open him up to brand new sensations!

WARNINGS: Strong D/s themes; restraints, edging, overstimulation, facesitting and anal. STRICTLY 18+. NOTES: Still going strong with this one! Thank you so much for all the kind words and amazing feedback on the first few parts. This chapter’s really long (over 6,000 words) so please brace yourselves! AND PLEASE, IF YOU LIKED THIS, SHARE IT!

CATCH UP: Part one // Part two // Part three // Part four

Tags: @jennyggggrrr @sarahgurl09 @scorpiogemini @johnricharddeacy @brianssixpence @hellohellothere12 @crazylittlethingcalledobsession @internationalkpoplova @thefairyfellersmasterstroke @six-bloodyminutes @hannafuckingsucks @dancingcoolcat @cherries-n-rocknroll @theedwardscollection @inthelapofrogertaylor @lnnuend0 @just-my-sickly-pride @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @johndeaconshands @loveandbeloved29 @toreyyyyyy

“Scat? Like… Jazz singing?” Roger’s eyebrows hiked up. “Definite hard limit.”

“You poor thing,” you muttered, wrestling with a scantily clad mannequin.

Roger looked up at you from behind the cash desk. He shrugged. “Well, what does it mean, then?”

“It means shit.”

He scowled, sticking out his tongue. “People get off on that? Having people… shit on them? Fuck that!”

You shrugged and fastened the clasp on the harness bra you had dressed Melanie the Mannequin in. Then you assessed her hard plastic, but still very naked, rack. “Yep. People definitely get off on it,” you said, reaching for a roll of black bondage tape. Melanie didn’t have nipples, but she still looked far too nude to be front and centre in the shop window, so you bit off small strips of tape and stuck two ‘x’ shapes across her breasts. That might keep the locals quiet, you hoped.

“Definite hard limit,” he hummed, checking the box next to ‘scat’ in the book. “Ok, so watersports?”

When Melanie was safely back on display, you turned around to find Roger nodding as he continued to study the book of kinks.

“I love watersports,” he said.

“That doesn’t mean what you think it does either, Roger. And I’m not going to wee on you.”

“Wee on me?” he repeated, narrowing his eyes. “Oh! Oh, fuck, no! Limit limit limit!”

Perching up on the opposite side of the cash desk, you grabbed the book. “Alright, so we’ve got blood, needles, breath play, scat and watersports as hard limits. I’m going to add vomit to this as well because I’m assuming you’re not into that?” you began, glancing up at Roger.

He gave a swift nod in response.

“And feet, hair removal, enemas and blindfolds as soft limits. Why the blindfolds?”

“Betsy.”

“That’s fair.”

“And you want to try orgasm denial, overstimulation, chastity, restraints, spanking, queening – for obvious reasons – as well as pegging with a question mark and… humiliation.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure what pegging is,” Roger said. He knew. The peachy-pink flush that flashed over his jaw and up to his ears gave him away.

“Remember Big Red?” you asked, nodding towards the display on which Big Red lived.

His voice grew smaller as the redness seeped to his cheeks and down to his chest. “Yeah?”

“And how you said you didn’t want anything in your bum? Ever?”

Roger nodded and rubbed his palms together.

“Well, pegging is when your partner puts things up your bum.”

His teeth sank into his lower lip and tugged. “That… that sounds interesting.”

“Still want to try it?”

Roger swallowed hard. Then he nodded.

“And you know what queening is?”

“Not really, but it sounded fun,” he said enthusiastically. Then he leaned forward, furrowing his brow. “What is it?”

“It’s when I sit on your face and you…” you trailed off, flicking your tongue through your fingers.

“Oh, wow! Sign me up!”

“Let’s do that as a reward for you,” you reasoned. “And you remember all of my rules?”

Roger recited your list like a well-prepared boy scout, looking pleased with himself. “No kissing. No touching unless you ask. No penetrative sex.”

“Good.”

“I… I was also reading in the book that some people like pet names – titles – when they’re… you know.”

You laughed and looked down at your hands. They were clasped together on the desk in front of you. “You usually get around to that once you know you’re going to be playing with someone on a regular basis. Why?”

Roger shrugged and smiled sweetly. “I don’t know. I’m just curious what you’d call me.”

“I’ll have to think about that one. See what you’re like when you’re needy and begging,” you purred.

“I can’t wait,” he sighed. “When do you want to… you know?”

Your insides contracted at the thought. ‘It’s too soon,’ your brain screamed. ‘He’s not ready. You’re not ready!’ But the burn between your thighs told you otherwise. Your heart did too, fluttering inside your ribs like a caged animal dying to be set free. “Tomorrow night sound ok?” you blurted.

Roger’s eyes brightened, lighting up even in the corner of the dingy little shop he found himself visiting. “That sounds great.” He went quiet for a moment, poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “What will I wear?”

“Well, you’ll be naked for most of it. It won’t matter much. Wear whatever you think will be comfortable.”

“Are we going to Doxy?”

“No, it’s probably better to start off at either your place or mine,” you explained. “Just in case things take a bad turn and you drop really badly.”

“Drop?”

“Sub drop, sorry. Sometimes if you’ve had quite an intense session, you might feel a bit sad or depressed. So it’s always a good idea to be somewhere where you can have some food, a nap, a bath, hugs. Whatever you need to get yourself feeling a bit better.”

“That makes sense,” Roger said. “I can come to you if you want?”

“Perfect. Just make sure you don’t drive to mine. I’d get a taxi there and back, but if you’re feeling shaky afterwards, you can stay the night. I have a spare room.”

“What time?”

“Eight sound alright?”

“It’s a date.”

Nerves paralysed you all day as you waited for eight o’clock to roll around – and for your playdate with Roger.

You toyed with the idea of cancelling.

You poked at the thought of feigning food poisoning or the sniffles.

And briefly entertained the notion, after spending two hours in the bath, of staying in your pyjamas for the whole session – why make the effort if you weren’t going to have sex?

But one phone call to Andie was enough to coax you into the right headspace. As much as you hated her for it.

“But I just don’t feel sexy!” you whined, rifling through your lingerie drawer. “I barely know him.”

“Well, you’ve got enough in that bloody wardrobe of yours to make yourself look sexy, don’t you? Fake it ’til you make it,” she said bluntly. “And besides, maybe this is what you need.”

“What?”

“A very attractive man that clearly wants you but can’t have you. Might do wonders for your confidence.”

You huffed, pulling out a bralette and a pair of silk french knickers.

“He’s a dish. And if you want, I’d be more than happy to take him off your hands.”

“Not necessary,” you said, shuffling out of your bathrobe. “I think I can manage.”

Andie perked up. “So what’s on the cards for tonight, then?”

Using one hand to put your knickers on was a bad idea, so you stuck the phone receiver in the crook of your neck. “What was that?”

“What are you going to do to poor princess Roger?”

“I reckon I’m gonna…” you paused, slipping on your bralette. “I think I’ll start slow. Maybe with a massage or something and work my way up.” Imagining what he’d sound like when he begged slapped a smile on to your face. “I think I’ll edge him until he’s absolutely desperate to get off and then…”

“And then what?” Andie purred.

“I’m going to let him. Over and over. And if he whines, I’ll ask him if he’d rather be belted.”

“You big softie! He’s already turned you to mush.”

“I don’t want to scare him off! And besides, I don’t want to hurt him. I think he’s still a bit hung up on what his ex did to him.”

“Listen to me, you’re going to be just fine. He’s definitely comfortable around you, and that’s the hardest part.”

“Thanks, Andie.”

“And I want details tomorrow morning!”

“I’ll call you first thing. Promise.”

“Alright, darling, I’ll speak to you in the morning.”

Perched on the end of your bed in your underwear, you assessed your reflection in the mirror just in case you had forgotten even the slightest small detail. Your hair was perfectly styled. Your make up was pristine. But you still lacked something. You just couldn’t put your finger on what.

Then the panic came back.

You had made such a big deal about separating all of this from feelings and sex and relationships, and now you found yourself worrying about what Roger might make of your appearance as if you merely existed to appeal to him. A simmering, self-directed rage got the better of you and forced you out of your bedroom in search of another unconstructive way to channel your nerves.

You found that in your drinks cupboard inside a bottle of vodka. Half measures weren’t something you did. You took the bottle and a glass back to your room, pouring yourself more than you needed as you walked. Only then did it strike you how much your hands shook. And what was missing.

At the end of your hall, a pair of stockings lay stretched across the rungs of your clothes horse with the rest of your laundry. Sinking the entire glass of vodka, a tiny lightbulb pinged to life above your head as you downed the last drop.

That’s what was missing.

The caress of nylon on your legs never failed to make you feel like nothing short of a goddess.

You scurried back into your bedroom on unsteady legs and tugged open your lingerie drawer again. Then you plucked out another pair of stockings and a garter belt. You shuffled out of your knickers and slipped on the newest additions to your outfit.

Much better.

You weren’t sure whether your newfound serenity was down to a simple pair of nylons or the triple vodka working its magic, but you felt ready to put Roger through his paces.

Until your brain interjected. Rude.

Were you going to play with him in your bedroom or the spare room?

You huffed, balling up your fists and resting them on your hips. Weighing up the pros and cons of both your options.

Play here and you wouldn’t have to waste time moving anything into the spare room.

Play there and you wouldn’t run the risk of having a sleepy Roger in your bed. After all, he was almost a stranger, and you most certainly did not have feelings for him.

You definitely didn’t like him in that way.

Or at least that’s what you told yourself, yanking open your drawer full of kinks. You knew exactly what you were looking for and quickly bundled the accessories into your arms, piling them high until you couldn’t carry any more. And then, you wandered through to the spare room.

You thanked your lucky stars that the bed was perpetually made, usually for drunk friends or when your parents came to visit. The idea of torturing one of the most sought after rockstars in the same bed that your parents occasionally slept in made you shudder. And it just wouldn’t leave your head.

Until the door buzzer pierced through your flat.

“Fuck.”

His voice was so bright when it sounded over the line: “Hi, it’s Roger!

“Come on up.”

As soon as you put the receiver down, you hurried back into the spare room to lay out everything you needed within reach. Your hands went back to trembling and your heart went back to racing. You could hear the rush of blood in your ears above the sound of yourself listing your accoutrements aloud. “Cuffs. Paddle. Lube. Oil.”

Before you knew it, Roger was at your door, giving it three sharp knocks that forced your soul from your body for a few seconds. You almost didn’t make it to the hall. Apprehension stiffened all the muscles in your legs. Even cracking the door open was a chore.

But all of that subsided when you saw Roger pacing in the landing. The first thing you noticed was how his hands clung to the collar of his coat in a white-knuckled grasp. And then the coy smile on his lips when he spoke. The way he stopped dead, but couldn’t look you in the eye. “You look nice.”

It took every ounce of restraint you had not to giggle like a giddy schoolgirl. Instead, you smiled back and stepped aside. “Come on in and make yourself at home.”

For a split second, a bolt of electricity surged through you. The fleeting graze of his coat against your arm. The heady scent of his aftershave. How he ruffled his soft blonde hair as he stood idly and awkwardly in your hall.

All you could manage was a feeble, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not going to lie, I might have had a shot of whisky before I came here.”

“I’m not going to lie, there’s a bottle of vodka sitting on my bedside table,” you laughed. “You’re still sober enough to go through with this, aren’t you?”

“It was just a shot,” Roger said, “don’t worry.”

“Ok,” you nodded. Without saying another word, you wandered over to Roger and unfastened the buttons on his coat.

His breathing hitched when you edged the heavy fabric down his arms, but he still couldn’t make eye contact with you. “Won’t be needing that,” he chuckled.

That dark-lashed gaze of yours went straight to his gut. “You won’t be needing any of it.”

“Right, yeah,” he said. “Will I… you know… take it all off?”

You arched an eyebrow, “Come through to the spare room first.” Grasping Roger’s hand, you led him through. As soon as he clapped eyes on everything laid out on the bed, his grip tightened. You turned to him to find his eyes widening. “You like the look of this?”

He gulped. Then he nodded.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you. I’m a bit out of practice myself. It’ll take us a bit of time to get into the swing of things.”

“Looks like you’re already in the swing of things,” he grinned. Before you could croak out a response, Roger was already undressed down to his underwear; red briefs with a growing tent in the middle.

“You look rather smug,” you said, feeling emboldened enough to drag your nails over his collarbones. “Lose the underwear.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re going to be quite the slavedriver?” he grinned.

You shrugged, watching him hop out of them. “Because I am?”

“Good.”

“We’re going to start off really slow, though,” you explained, leading him over to the bed and sitting down next to him on the edge. “I’ll gradually ramp it up a bit but if you need me to drop back a bit, just say: ‘yellow.’ Got it?”

“Got it.”

“And if it gets too much–”

“Red.”

“Red. Good. And please remember to use them. I want you to enjoy this.”

“I will don’t worry,” he said, looking you square in the eye. His cheeks were already flushed.

Before any second thoughts could creep back into the space between you and Roger, you rose to your feet. “And please remember not to touch me unless I ask you to.”

“I have a feeling you’re not going to give me much of a chance to,” he quipped, nodding at the cuffs beside him.

“You’re awfully lippy tonight,” you smirked.

“You make it too easy.”

“Maybe I should leave the slow start and skip to the good stuff.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Or,” you began, stepping forward, “I could make you suffer. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Roger didn’t say a word, but he did keen into your touch as your nails clawed down his neck. With one hand on his chest, you didn’t have to use much force to get him to sink backwards. “On your front,” you instructed.

He complied, folding his arms underneath his chin. His calves hung over the edge of the bed, toes wiggling in anticipation.

You bent down close to Roger’s ear. “Good boy.” The sensation of your breath on his neck made him jump, but you noticed his eyes closing and a sweet smile forming. The damage Betsy had done was still visible across his muscles; a reminder to go gentle on him. You wandered around to his other side and grabbed the bottle massage oil lying beside him. Not caring to warm it up, you drizzled some on his spine. He winced, trying to roll on to his side, but his movements weren’t quick enough. He was pinned. Under you. Straddling his hips, you found yourself in prime position to manipulate him exactly as you wished. But first, all you wanted to do was explore him – every inch of him.

The join between his neck and shoulder was a familiar spot. His own hands wandered there all the time. But, for some reason, yours felt better, kneading out knots caused by years of non-stop touring. That, along with the soothing scent of lavender on his skin, turned him to putty in your hands.

He might have fallen asleep like that, too, had it not been for you shuffling lower along his thighs, placing yourself within easy reach of the rest of his back. Using every surface of your hands in slow, agonising waves. Up and out, stretching him until he groaned, overcome with sheer bliss.

“I thought this was all about pain,” he said.

You tugged your lower lip between your teeth. “As much as I’d like to smack that glorious bottom of yours, I think you probably deserve this a little bit more. How does it feel?”

“It feels amazing,” he hummed. “I’ll be a new man after this!”

Impatience almost got the better of you the lower down on Roger’s body that you moved. So much so that you had to bypass his bottom altogether to keep yourself on an even keel. As much as you were dying to see him squirm and hear him beg, the buildup was even more critical. So you slipped off the bed and focused on Roger’s legs instead. Soft yet slender in your hands, you worked more oil up his calves and settled on the backs of his knees. Your fingers moved like feathers over those sensitive spots, coaxing a strained whine from Roger as he tried to squirm away from your touch. “If you don’t lie still, I’m going to have to restrain you,” you warned.

The curves of Roger’s back quivered with a sharp intake of breath at those words. Then he relaxed again. But not for long.

Moving up towards his thighs, you relished that unexpected softness. You weren’t massaging anymore; instead, you pressed the soft flesh, letting it pale underneath your fingertips. Roger’s thigh parted ever so slightly, granting access to the even more sensitive spots between them. His desire skyrocketed, arching his back when you clawed pink tracks up and down his skin.

“You’re getting needy, aren’t you?” you purred.

“Mmhm. Feels so good,” he said, swaying his hips.

“I bet it does.” A swift smack to Roger’s bottom had him rolling over on to his back. His cheeks were flushed and his breaths were cautious. He moved to cover his eyes with his arm but you quickly stopped him. “I want you to look at me.”

Roger’s jaw slackened but never once did his eyes leave you.

For all the effort you had put into loosening Roger up, his body tightened as you curled the fine hairs on his chest around your fingertips. Unable to even breathe, all Roger could do was lie beneath you, and watch.

And you took pleasure in observing his reaction. He adored your touch, you could see it in the way his pupils blew out every time he looked at you or the way his hips rolled up against yours. “I think I’m going to have to keep you still, Roggie,” you said, finally reaching his hips. You quietened down, lowering your voice to barely a whisper. “Would you like that?”

Roger looked like an angel – his beautiful thick eyelashes fluttered while his gaze shifted to you. The calloused pads on his fingers drummed against your stocking-clad thighs, unable to contain any patience he has left. “I think that would be a good idea,” he said with a contented smile.

“You’re smiling now, Roger. You won’t be later,” you said, removing yourself from him. Then you set about looping thick leather straps around his wrists.

His tongue poked out as he watched in awe, following every single one of your movements, binding him to the headboard. Removing all ability for him to get away from your onslaught. The delight in his smile grew when you straddled him again, just below his swollen, throbbing cock.

“Are you enjoying this?” you said, brushing your nails over his length, encouraging his hips to buck and roll into your grasp.

Roger bit his lip and nodded, allowing himself to be carried away by the much-awaited contact.

A sharp slap to his thigh jolted him back to his senses. “Use your words.”

“Yes, I love it.”

You gave Roger a sly smirk as you reached for the bottle of lube beside him. With the bottle held high, you allowed beads of the clear liquid to drip down. The freezing cold lube colliding with his skin had him straining against the cuffs, but he soon held still. One scalding hot glance from you made sure of that.

Apparently, he was the rebellious one in Queen, but here he was, docile and pliable. Doing anything to have his balls drained.

He wasn’t getting his balls drained that easily.

You used one hand, slipping his length through your grasp. “Let’s lay down some ground rules about how this is going to go, shall we?” you began, punctuating that with another pass over his cock. “You’re not getting off until I say you can. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he sighed, trying to bury the side of his face into the pillow.

You grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at you. “And you’re going to look at me the whole time.”

His voice faltered, glancing down at your hand gathering pace. “Got it.”

“If you come without my permission, you will be punished.”

Roger gulped, casting an eye over to the soft leather paddle beside him. “Will it hurt?”

“Depends on how naughty you are.”

“I promise I’ll be good,” he sighed. “Promise.”

You loomed over Roger, your noses practically touching. “And if you’re good, you’re going to get a little treat.”

“What kind of treat?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Oh god,” he whined just as your free hand joined the party, circling the swollen head of his cock. “I don’t think I’m gonna last long.”

“Well, you had better start begging.”

A laugh rose in Roger’s chest and he did his best a suppressing it enough to strangle out a feeble, “please.” As if that would convince you that he really did need release.

“I think you’ve got a little bit longer in you,” you said, finding your rhythm. The slick sounds of those smooth, purposeful motions, coupled with Roger lying underneath you, his lips slightly parted as he looked up with you made the heat between your thighs grow. You really wanted him there and then.

But this wasn’t about you.

And Roger was fast reaching the end of his rope.

You swore you had never seen his cheeks so red.

“Please, please please, I need to come!” he whined. “I’m so close! Oh, god, I’ll do anything.”

A dull ache throbbed in your wrists. But you were desperate to draw this out for as long as possible. It wasn’t what you planned, but it guaranteed your chance to push Roger almost to his limit. “Alright, Roggie, come for me.”

“R-really?” he stuttered.

“Come for me. Be a good boy for me.”

“Oh my god,” he grinned. His eyes closed. His hands grasped at the slats on the headboard. He was buckling up for wave after wave of pleasure to surge through him.

Except the waves didn’t arrive.

Roger’s eyes shot open with a whine. “What the fuck?!” he squeaked. His mind was too blurry to register that you were in the middle of tugging off your underwear.

Until your dripping wet cunt lingered just inches from his face.

“I just wasn’t convinced that you really wanted to come.”

“Well, I fucking did!” He was testing you. He had to be.

“Oh, really?” Your patience had worn thin. In one swift movement, you turned and plonked yourself down on Roger’s waiting mouth. “Well, fucking prove it. Show me how much you want it.”

Roger wasted no time allowing his tongue to explore every inch of you that his restraints allowed him to reach. He wasn’t even sure if he could get you off like this, but he’d be damned if he didn’t give it his best shot. After all, he was desperate to avoid another ruined orgasm. Ravenous, in fact; sucking and licking at your folds before turning his attention to your clit for a brief moment. And he was sure to let you know just how grateful he was to get to taste you. Every satisfied hum shot through your body, making your hips kick into motion on top of him.

“Finally a good use for that tongue of yours,” you remarked. Leaning forward, you began jacking Roger off again. “Let’s see if you deserve to come this time.”

He sighed against you. He wasn’t about to let another orgasm slip through your fingertips. He had to let you know he wanted it. Eagerly, desperately, his tongue swirled over your clit, gathering its own feverish pace.

Now you started to realise what all the fuss over Roger was about. You had never heard him be so quiet since you met him, and for good reason. He was an expert with his tongue both in an out of the bedroom.

But you were so fixated on that intoxicating feeling that you neglected your own duties. You looked down to find that your hand was no longer moving along his desperate looking shaft; just idly palming at it. He wasn’t going anywhere with that action.

So you made a conscious effort. Fighting against Roger, you got to work to bring him right to the brink of release. To the point where his moans made you squirm, and the muscles in his thighs tightened again. “Do you want to come for me, Roggie?” you moaned, grinding your cunt against his mouth.

He couldn’t speak. Of course he couldn’t. But that didn’t stop him trying to whine an almost convincing ‘please’ between circling your clit with precision.

“Come on, Roggie, come for me. Come for me,” you urged, grinding your hips with more urgency.

Just when you were about to allow it, Roger’s attempts at pleasing you stilled.

Just when he was about to get off, you let go.

You leaned back and rode Roger’s face. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” you scolded. “Keep going,” you urged.

Begrudgingly, Roger’s tongue darted over your clit again with the same steady pace in just enough time to stop you from coming down completely. But he made his impatience obvious, angling his hips to lure your attention back to his cock.

You weren’t going to bow to the pressure right away.

Why should you?

When he was this keen to please you, you were hellbent on letting him.

The sea of pleasure inside you raged. Keeping your balance fast became a chore. You gripped the headboard behind you for dear life, drawing your weight backwards. “God, you’re so good, Roger,” you gasped. “That fucking mouth!”

Roger moaned against you as you rode his face. He relished this as much as you did. He found himself absolutely addicted to your scent and the sounds you made. The way you moved.

Hunching over, you gripped Roger’s thighs as your own stiffened on either side of his face. Immobilised by the most intense, soaring bliss you had ever experienced, you were certain you were going to see stars after this. It felt like your body had shut down as it welcomed the electricity that pulsed through you.

Coming down, you were met by the sound of Roger trying to urge you off of him. You didn’t even know how long you had been out for. And here he was just dying to get off.

How selfish of you to neglect your new little plaything.

Sitting up straight, still straddling Roger’s face, you inhaled a deep breath in an attempt to gather your composure. Every muscle in your body felt like liquid as you moved, turning yourself around to get a good look at him.

He looked pleased with himself. His sickeningly pretty features were scarlet and glistened with sweat and arousal and all you wanted to do was kiss him. Just a little taste.

But you couldn’t. Feelings were out of the question.

“I think you really deserve to come, Roger, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he sighed with a soft expression.

“I think you deserve a really, really big reward for being such a good boy,” you teased, swiping your thumb along his lower lip.

“I do. Thank you.”

Your free hand crept down to Roger’s cock again. Still hard and throbbing. “And you know that I only want to make you feel really really good?” No holds barred.

“Mmmhm.”

“Good boy,” you praised.

Even hearing that made Roger’s muscles twitch. “You’re not gonna do that to me again, are you?” he asked, squeezing his eyes shut. Bracing himself for disappointment.

“No, darling,” you soothed, “you can come as much as you like now. Any time you like.”

Roger must have sensed the change in your tone when you spoke, because as soon as you gave him permission, his whole body shook and the only words he could manage was a strangled, “thank you!”

He came down quickly; most men did. But what struck him when the fog in his head cleared was that you weren’t done with him just yet – even though he had to crane his neck to see you at the foot of the bed with your tongue gliding over the shaft of his cock.

“Oh fuck,” he sighed, throwing his head back.

“You didn’t think it’d be over that soon, did you? That would’ve been disappointing.”

“No! Just… just be careful!”

You couldn’t resist. You had to make him suffer even just a tiny bit. So, with a devilish smirk, you swirled an excruciatingly slow lap around the tip of his cock, savouring the last drops of cum that glazed it.

Roger hissed, but his hips told a different story – bucking wildly in time to your efforts. Pressing his cock into your mouth. “Fuck,” he cursed again.

With one hand, along with your mouth, you settled into another determined rhythm. Your hand worked his shaft, while your tongue tackled just the tip. Roger had surpassed the initial pain and was back to gazing down at you in awe. His teeth clenched together. His wrists tugging at their binds. But the sheer girth of his cock meant that it was only a matter of minutes before a dull ache seeped into your jaw if you so much as attempted to take any more of him in your mouth.

And it would take longer this time around for him to come.

Then you spied the bottle of lube nestled against Roger’s hip. The jewel in the crown of your new master plan.

Roger’s cock left your mouth with a pop, just long enough to check in with him before you proceeded. After all, his legs were still wild and free; you didn’t want to risk being kicked in the face. Some men didn’t take well to what you were about to do. “Do you trust me?” you asked, gazing up at him with wild eyes.

“Not gonna lie,” he puffed, “after all of this, I’m starting to have trust issues.” The broad smile he shot you told you he was joking.

You reached for the lube with your free hand and kept your sights trained on him. “I need to hear you say it though. I can’t make you feel really really good if I don’t think your heart’s in it.” He couldn’t see what you were doing, but he did strain to see what the suspicious click was when you opened the bottle and squeezed some lube on to your fingertips.

“I trust you.”

“Good,” you said, bringing your lips down on to the head of his cock again. Concealing what your free hand was preparing to do.

When Roger was safely duped into believing that your intentions were genuinely pure, you pressed a finger to his backdoor, massaging his tight, sensitive ring. At the same time, your tongue continued to flutter over the head of his cock. The new sensation had him mewling in delight. You never expected that reaction from him. Even the way he rolled his hips for leverage against your finger. Slowly you eased it inside him, right up to the knuckle. Then you curled it in on itself, seeking out his sweet spot.

“Fuck,” he purred.

“Feel good?” you asked.

“Better than I thought, god.”

You slipped a second finger inside him, applying just the right amount of pressure for his breathing to labour. Now was the time to take things up a notch. To put on a show for him. Taking as much of Roger’s cock as you could in your mouth, you made a point of making as much noise and as much mess as you could. Your spit made his cock glisten and pass through your lips just that little bit easier. Sometimes it overshot and caught the back of your throat. He seemed to love it when your mascara started to run.

“I-I think I’m gonna come again,” he groaned. He was beginning to tense up again; everywhere, including around your fingers.

You gave a pleased moan in response, not wanting to let up too soon.

“Oh, I’m definitely gonna–“

That orgasm had already rolled into another, not allowing Roger any letup. Your hand and your mouth were missing from his cock, but your fingers still pressed up against that one magic spot inside him. His legs continued to spasm alongside your efforts.

“Got another one in the tank for me?” you grinned.

“I think so,” he gasped.

“I’m gonna take these cuffs off you, Roggie,” you said, scrambling to your knees, fingers still working towards one final explosion of pleasure. “You ready?”

He nodded profusely. “Please.”

With one hand still preoccupied inside Roger, you stretched over him. You swore you felt the tip of his nose caress your chest. Your other hand unbuckled each cuff around his wrists, and, with him being the obedient little submissive he was showing himself to be, his hands didn’t go straight to your waist or your thighs. Instead, they draped delicately above his head with his elegant hands clenching into bony fists.

You stroked his matted, sweat-soaked hair. “One more, darling,” you soothed.

Roger nodded. “One more.”

“Touch yourself for me,” you said, moving backwards to get a better view.

Roger groaned as his fingers tentatively wrapped around his semi-hard cock.

“That’s it. You look so pretty like this.”

“Fuck,” he whined. The fingers on his other hand raked through his hair, tugging at the roots to get a handle on the stinging sensitivity between his thighs.

“You can go a little bit faster for me, can’t you?”

“Yes.” He could, but he had to force it. He gritted his teeth and moved his hand quicker, with more purpose. In the back of his mind, he was sure his cock would never work again after this. Certain he never wanted to come again. And he definitely didn’t have enough energy left inside him to coax out another orgasm. But he still wanted to hear you praise him, to tell him how good he looked, jacking himself off right there in front of you. His whole body trembled, and his skin was saturated with sweat.

“You’re so beautiful Roggie.”

His hand moved a little bit faster. “Thank you.”

Your free hand trailed up his chest towards his neck. “You love coming for me, don’t you?”

Faster still. “Yes.”

You gave it a slight squeeze. Enough to quieten his moans for a moment. “And you love having that gorgeous arse of yours fucked while you do it?”

Even faster, ’til he could barely get the words out. “Mmm, I love it.”

You leaned in close to Roger’s ear. “Next time we do this,” you began, “it won’t be my fingers. I’m not going to go easy on you, Roggie. I’m going to put that tight little arse of yours through its paces and really make you squeal.”

NEXT >>

#roger taylor x reader #roger taylor #roger taylor x you #queen

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imeanshitithappens · 4 years

Text

Happy Birthday

Bucky Barnes x Reader

check tags for story themes if you want

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This was it.

This was going to be your night.

You could feel it.

It was your birthday.

You had your favorite club outfit on.

You had drank just enough to feel good but nowhere near intoxicated.

You were hot, you were feeling good, you were confident, and you weren’t going to chicken out this time.

You were going to tell Bucky you had a gigantic crush and it was going to go great and you would live happily ever after while birds sang to you ever morning.

...or you would get smashed and avoid him all night and Sam would sing “I told you so” in a very high-pitched awful way while you were vomiting your hangover into the toilet the next morning.....

which was basically the same thing right?

No focus brain you got this!

You had been working up the courage to tell Bucky how you felt about him for over a year. He had joined the a little over team two years ago and you guys had fallen into an easy friendship right away.

You were one of the main engineers at Starks labs your job was supposed to solely be for Stark industries. However, after the fall of SHIELD the avengers had lost all the resources that came with working for an International agency and had become a little short in the equipment design and creation department. Pepper had begged you to not let Tony be the only one creating gear for the team (she didn’t get to see him enough as is).

You had met Bucky after you had unknowingly helped Sam pull a prank on him. I mean really you should have know. What else would the Falcon possibly use a device that magazined anything you shot it with then to terrorize his teammate.

After that you two had fallen into an easy friendship being Bucky’s go to for any and all gear he needed help with. He had a clear interest in science and invention and you never got tired of answering his questions on your latest project. You guys hung out often outside of work as well. Watching movies, going to coffee shops to read, and taking fun little “friend-cations” where you would take turns planning a day for the two of you to travel somewhere new and see who could wow each other the most. (Thank You Pepper for the quin jet loan)

It really wasn’t until not one, not two, not even three, but eleven different people had come and ask about your “relationship” with Bucky (The first of which was a very flustered Steve) that you had began to realize that there was no one on Earth you would rather send time with than Bucky Barnes. If that wasn’t love you really didn’t know what was anymore.

So tonight was the night.

You were out celebrating your Birthday and you had been trying to convince Bucky to come dance with you for the last twenty minutes Your thinking was if you brought him where it was really loud and asked him out if he wanted to let you down easy you would both just pretend he hadn’t heard you over the music Which subconsciously you knew was BS because it really wasn’t that loud and he had no problem hearing you in louder clubs (you knew that because you had tested it and tried to subtly ask him questions about his super hearing last week)

“C’mon Bucky it’ll be fun just a dance or two..” you whined

“I’m really just not feeling it tonight doll” he said lowly

“But it’s my Birthday please..” you continued knowing you had definitely drifted into pathetic territory at this point.

“I know Honey and I’m really sorry I just am not feeling too comfortable with being in a crowd right now I’m so sorry” He couldn’t even meet your eyes at this point and you started to feel like absolute trash how dare you even think about making this man uncomfortable just for your own ease. You could tell him anytime it didn’t have to be tonight. Manipulating him like this for your own comfort wasn’t something a good friend would do let alone a good partner.

“I’m so sorry Bucky of course you should do what you’re comfortable with I’m sorry to make you feel bad” You immediately tried to reassure him.

He finally looked but to meet your eyes and smiled “I’ll make it up to you doll after this we can go do whatever you want ok?”

You smiled right back at him and said you were just happy to do anything at this point as long as he was with you. You stayed grinning at each other for another couple seconds when you jumped up and said you would go close your tab at the bar and then you could get out of here. Deciding that maybe you didn’t need an escape plan for your confession and it would be better for you to have an actual conversation about it either way.

Once you had gotten back to the lounge area where you had been sitting with Bucky practicing your speech the either way to the bar and back. You realized he wasn’t up there anywhere. You checked your phone no messages. You told your self he was probably in the bathroom and it would be best to wait here for him to get back.

Another ten minutes passes and you start to get nervous. You’re pacing in the lounge going over every horrible situation in your mind about one of Bucky’s many enemies finding him when you spotted a familiar head of black hair dancing in the crowd with a very attractive looking blonde. Had he changed his mind about dancing? Why didn’t he text you? either way you were running down the stairs to go talk to him and pull him out of there.

Once you had gotten him off the dance floor and outside the packed club you turned to him and started firing off things at rapid speed. “Are you ok? Did someone force you out there? Are you feeling ok? Why didn’t you text me? My friends and I have this code word we text each other when one of us this feeling unsafe in situations like that. We should make one too. Did she pull you out there? Are you ok?” You were breathing really fast at this point trying to both get details and make sure he was alright.

“Woah woah woah doll take a breathe relax,” His smile slowly spreads across his face while put his hands out trying to get you to slow down. “I’m ok. That girl back there she asked me to dance with her after you left and you know how hard it is for me to say no to a beautiful dame.”

He was still smiling at you care free now rubbing your back to ease your panic. You froze his words on loop “Beautiful Dame” the phrase in particular ringing threw your head a few times. “b-b-but..” you stuttered trying to stop your self from over analyzing why he said no to you but yes to this girl.

“I thought you had said you were uncomfortable with the crowd I thought we were gonna go do something” Your face had completely fallen at this point and your heart was quickly following its path to the pavement below.

He put his hands in his pockets and smirked “Get this she came marching up to me said she was looking for the ride of her life no strings attached...” He bounced he eye browse up and down looking to like you should be proud of him. “...and she said she was a dancer like ya know.. the exotic kind.”

You really couldn’t blame her given the opportunity you would love for Bucky to take you on the ride of your life too.

“I know we were gonna go out to get ice cream or whatever and I should have texted you but I was just so excited! You know sleeping with a stripper is on my bucket list.” He continued sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck fidgeting

You did in fact not know that and were certainly better off that way.

You felt like crying there was a sudden and very sharp pain in your chest that had sent goose bumps all over your body. You wanted to crumple to the ground. You wanted to scream and cry and time travel back to before you left him to close the tab. Maybe if you had him come with you this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe it would be you about to get your world rocked in a very pleasant and long awaited way and not the in shattering depressing way you were right now.

After an eternity of you standing there with your jaw open and your fists clenched to your sides you said “oh.” softly

“oh?” Bucky parrots back to you. “I need more of a response than that doll.” his fidget of choice this time to scuffed the toe of his shoe against the side walk. “I know it’s your birthday but I mean we were together pretty much all day and well... she’s really fucking hot and no offense but we can go out for ice cream and watch movies literally any other.” he forced a laugh. You could tell he was trying to make a joke to get you to smile, but you were beyond confused at this point. He had never acted like this as far as you could remember he had pretty much always put you first. Which is 90% of the reason you thought he liked you back to begin with.

You stood there stunned and confused and heartbroken. Where was this coming from. Had you really just imagined all the chemistry between you? Did he know your plans and get cold feet? Did it really matter why at this point? Clearly he had no interest his being with you anymore tonight, and quite frankly you were starting to feel the same. “I mean if that’s what’s important to you..” you started to say still just barley holding it together.

He darts forward gives you a quick peck on the cheek and starts towards the club even before you had finished your sentence. Not even looking back shouting somethings about making it up to you tomorrow.

You stood there outside the club for maybe 20 more minutes ignoring the pity stares from the bouncer waiting for the Punked! camera crew to make an appearance. Holding in your tears and the broken pieces of your heart in your hands.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader angst #angst #unrequited love

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golchaworld · 4 years

Text

Panacea | L.BG (Part 1)

➳ pairing: lee byunggon x fem!reader, ft. cix ensemble

➳ genre: organized crime!au, action, occasional fluff

➳ word count: ~3.3k

➳ warnings: cursing, mild violence, mentions of non-descriptive gore, mentions of sex, glorification of crime

➳ summary: Three years ago, they were sitting in the back of their chemistry class, passing notes and giggling. Now they’re fighting to take down the biggest crime lord in Seoul — their own. Who would have thought knowledge about hydrochloric acid would become so useful?

A/N: I got this idea on a whim a couple of weeks ago. I did a lot of research about CIX’s individual personalities to make this story as true to their characters as possible. I hope you guys enjoy. As always, feel free to reblog or reply with feedback, and my asks are always open.

Part Two

panacea (noun): a solution or remedy for all difficulties

The elevator lets out a soft chime before its doors open. As the man walks further into the office, his shoes click against the sturdy marble. His entrance is announced before he opens the door, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The receptionist quirks his head up, smiling widely once he lays eyes on the man. Not quite the reaction he would expect. The man doesn’t let his surprise show, just choosing to approach the receptionist with an expression set in stone.

“Welcome to Adonis, Inc.,” the receptionist greets. His name tag reads ‘Yoon Hyunsuk’ which is quite the fitting name for the boy behind the desk. His smile never once falters. “How can I assist you today?”

“I’m here for a meeting with Mr. Kim.”

Hyunsuk nods, instantly turning to his computer. “Perfect! May I have your name, please?”

“Ahn Taebin.”

“Okay, Mr. Ahn. I have you down right here. I’ll have someone right out who will take you to Mr. Kim.”

The receptionist finishes his sentence with a smile that has a shiver run up the man’s spine. Does this kid ever stop smiling? Apparently not, seeing as he picks up the phone, muttering a few words into the receiver while he still beams. When another man approaches the reception desk, this time from inside the office, Hyunsuk is still smiling.

“Mr. Ahn, this is Lee Byunggon. He will take you to see Mr. Kim, alright? Feel free to let him know if you need anything.”

The other man, Byunggon, sends Mr. Ahn a curt nod, which serves as both a greeting and a motion to follow him.

The two pass through the seemingly normal office. Cubicles are arranged in neat rows, yet only a few are inhabited by people. Mr. Ahn chuckles under his breath. He knows how hard it is to gain employees in a business like this.

The few employees that are at their desks seem to be hard at work. A few pore over files while others type aggressively. The whole office has the same aura. The perfection is a facade; there’s underlying aggression here. The neatness has a messy side. Mr. Ahn just doesn’t know what it is yet.

Eventually Byunggon stops in front of a grandiose wooden door. The words ‘Kim Jaeyong’ are engraved in a fancy gold font, perfectly matching the warm oak door. From the front, there are no windows, indicating that no one can see in or out. Mr. Ahn wonders if he should take that as a threat.

After three knocks that resonate throughout the office, the door is opened to reveal a blank face. Mr. Ahn has heard that Kim Jaeyong never makes the mistake of showing emotion.

Mr. Ahn is greeted with a short bow, which he returns before Kim Jaeyong motions for him to enter his personal office. Mr. Ahn complies, missing the way Byunggon smiles as the door closes behind the two. Byunggon’s not upset about being left out of the meeting, knowing he’ll bear witness to the best part later.

. . .

Mr. Ahn wakes up with a splitting headache. A bright light is shining in his face, making him flinch away. It’s then that he realizes he can’t move. Mr. Ahn looks down to where his arms are pinned to his sides, held down by a thick rope that has his entire body bound to the chair he sits in. He tries to let out a yell, a scream for help, something, but any sound he makes is muffled by the thick cotton that has been stuffed in his mouth.

“Look, guys. The asshole is awake.”

Mr. Ahn instantly searches the room, looking for the source of the words. It’s difficult, but eventually he makes out six figures standing behind the light that shines intensely in his face. He can’t make out specific faces due to the light, but a familiar smile glows even in the darkness of the surrounding room. The receptionist.

Hyunsuk chuckles darkly, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the boy next to him. “I think you’re going to have fun with this one, Jinyoung.”

The boy next to Hyunsuk, Jinyoung, Mr. Ahn supposes, smiles in his own twisted way. He drags his eyes up and down Mr. Ahn’s figure, eyes lit with a certain sadistic hunger that has Mr. Ahn’s stomach recoiling.

“Too bad I’m not going to get to the best part of it all, seeing as this asshole is going to tell us everything we need to know. Right, asshole?”

Mr. Ahn does his best to shake his head no, squirming within his confines. All six figures break out into laughter, even the ones he can’t see.

The boy that approaches him first has a soft smile, one that looks too sweet to participate in something like this. Mr. Ahn knows it’s all a facade. One look at the boy’s muscular arms lets Mr. Ahn know that he’s the real brawn of this group. Mr. Ahn feels bile rise in his throat.

The boy with the sweet smile just reaches forward, removing the fabric from Mr. Ahn’s mouth. He squats in front of his bound prisoner, cocking his head to the side cutely.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” Mr. Ahn spits out.

Sweet smile boy chuckles. “We are simple people, Ahn Taebin. So let’s start this simply. Where’s our shipment?”

Mr. Ahn racks his brain for information, but he turns up empty handed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Another boy steps out from the shadows, a tablet in hand. With a quick press of a button, staticky audio streams from the device. The boy is stoic, factual, and looks all too much like Kim Jaeyong. He must be a relative. But Mr. Ahn’s train of thought is interrupted when he hears his own voice flutter out of the tablet.

“I don’t give a fuck. I’ll be damned if I deliver Adonis all of that phencyclidine. We could be profiting off that shit. What good is angel dust if we’re not the ones selling it?”

Mr. Ahn wants to vomit. Where the hell did they get that recording?

Sweet smiling boy chuckles again as his other friend returns back to the shadows. “How about I ask you one more time, Ahn Taebin. Where. The fuck. Is our shipment?”

“I don’t fucking know.” Mr. Ahn delivers a sweet smile of his own. He’ll be damned if he lets some kids in on the inner workings of his shipments, even if they already know that they’re hidden.

“You see, I find that pretty hard to believe. When I asked Miyeon, she seemed to think that you knew exactly where our shipment was.”

If Mr. Ahn thought he was going to vomit before, he definitely is now. He spent his entire life trying to keep Miyeon away from this lifestyle, and yet here she is, still wrapped up in Adonis’ tendrils.

“What did you do to my daughter, you son of a bitch?! If you hurt her, I swear my entire gang will have your head.”

At this, the room erupts in sadistic laughter once again. Mr. Ahn hates how much they’re enjoying this.

Sweet smile boy places a patronizing hand on Mr. Ahn’s knee, eyes filling with mirth. “Don’t worry, Ahn Taebin. I didn’t hurt your precious Miyeon. But her pussy might be sore for a few days.”

Mr. Ahn uses all of his strength to fight against his restraints, attempting to lunge towards the boy squatting in front of him. His efforts are futile, though, leaving him to yell frustratedly.

“You twisted fucks,” he bites out.

Sweet smiling boy just stands, retreating into the darkness as another boy takes his place. Mr. Ahn recognizes this as the one from earlier, the one with the sadistic eyes. He holds a pair of pliers in his left hand, in his right, a bone saw. Mr. Ahn gulps.

“Mr. Ahn,” the boy begins. “I think you’ve brought me to my favorite part. So this is your last chance before we really get started. Tell us where our shipment is, and you just might leave with all 10 fingers and 10 toes.”

The light in Mr. Ahn’s face has begun to make him sweat. Despite his discomfort, Mr. Ahn stays strong.

“Go to hell.”

The corner of the boy’s mouth quirks up. “If you say so.”

. . .

“Cheers!”

You clink your glass against the five in front of you before knocking back the shot. The soju burns your throat as it slides down, warming your core to the highest degree. In all honesty, you preferred wine, but Seunghun always insisted on hard liquor after a long week.

You watch as the boys’ faces contort in various ways as they each take the shot. Hyunsuk’s nose scrunches cutely, reminding you much of a baby bunny. Yonghee’s face is twisted into a tight grimace. Jinyoung is the only one who’s stoic, face not budging even as the alcohol travels down his throat. Oh Jinyoung, always the show off.

The plush carpet that you sit on tickles your thighs, reminding you to be mindful of the way your skirt shifts. You remember just how frustrated you were that you had gotten blood on your only comfortable clothes, and thus had to wear this stuffy office getup for the remainder of the day.

“Honestly,” Hyunsuk begins. “I still don’t know how Seunghun managed to fuck every single one of these guys’ daughters. Like every single time!”

Seunghun smirks, leaning back to rest against the couch. “It’s easy when you look like me, kid.”

The group instantly erupts in fake gags and booing. As much as you all praise Seunghun for the inside work he does, it doesn’t mean you enjoy the cockiness. Seunghun’s beauty has definitely gone to his head since he started this work, inflating his ego maximally.

“Shut up,” Jinyoung retorts. “You’re not even the hottest. That’s obviously me!”

Byunggon snorts before knocking back another shot. “You’re both so full of shit.”

You watch as the boys devolve into an argument of who’s most handsome. The only one who is quiet is Yonghee, who just watches the interaction with amusement painted on his face. You wonder if he knows that he could easily win the competition for most attractive.

Yonghee, despite being the handsome guy he is, has always been extremely humble. Part of it stems from being the crime boss’ computer nerd son; he never feels like he’s good enough.

When you meet his eyes from across the small coffee table, you shoot him a small smile. He returns it cutely, making a scene of rolling his eyes at your shared friend group’s banter. Honestly, this is nothing out of the ordinary.

“Y/N,” Hyunsuk calls your attention. “Help us out here. Who do you think is the best looking?”

Jinyoung groans, throwing his head back exaggeratedly. “That’s not fair. She’s just going to choose Byunggon!”

The heat that rises to your cheeks is imminent. Even if Jinyoung is right, that doesn’t mean he has to actually say it.

You’ve always found Byunggon attractive, even when you were younger. His strong jaw and rounded cheeks provide the perfect balance between cute and manly. Paired with his wide shoulders, deep voice, and dimples to die for, it’s obvious that Byunggon is the epitome of perfection.

And just maybe you’re a little in love with him.

What’s worse is that it’s not a secret. Everyone in the office seems to notice. Even Kim Jaeyong himself once made a joke about when you two would finally make it official. And maybe it’s a good thing that everyone knows. Well, everyone except Byunggon himself.

“She is not going to choose me!” Byunggon ducks his head to hide his blush. “You’re her favorite, Hyunsuk. She’s definitely going to choose you.”

Seunghun cocks an eyebrow, looking at you expectantly. “Well…?”

There’s only one way to diffuse the tension, this you’re sure of. You slowly scan over each of the five boys, pretending to think objectively. Eventually your gaze lands on an empty bottle of soju on the middle of the coffee table.

“I think it’s Yonghee.” You shrug.

The room is silent for a second, all five boys seemingly pondering the answer that you gave. Yonghee’s cheeks bloom a brilliant pink, spurred on further by the amount of alcohol in his system.

Seunghun just nods, taking another shot of soju. “You’re kind of right. Yonghee has always been the pretty one.”

The mentioned boy’s cheeks flush an even deeper pink, if possible. “That’s not true,” he mutters.

“It kind of is,” Hyunsuk chimes. “You always get random numbers from girls, even when we go to like the grocery store.”

“Like I said,” you cock an eyebrow teasingly. “No one can compare to the Kim Yonghee.”

By now, Yonghee is shaking his head, making every attempt to calm his pink cheeks. Jinyoung must find it endearing, because he reaches over and pinches the flesh, letting out small coos.

“Okay, but like, Y/N,” Hyunsuk starts again. “Who is second place?”

Although you can tell this is going to be a long night, you wouldn’t have it any other way. When you do the work that the six of you guys do, decompressing on a Friday night is much needed.

It started within the first month of you all working under Adonis, high school besties turned organized crime dream team. When Jinyoung disassembled his first human body, he called for a meeting on a random Friday for emotional support. It’s been a tradition ever since.

By now, it’s gotten a lot easier, the torture and murder. Well, it’s as easy as torture and murder can get. Those of you with the stronger stomachs do the more physical work, and those who are more squeamish work behind the scenes.

Seunghun and Jinyoung work hand in hand when it comes to torturing information out of the prey. Seunghun’s specialty is psychological torture, getting close to the prey’s loved ones and using it against them in moments of weakness. Jinyoung, on the other hand, works purely physically. You’ve seen him break bones like glow sticks without batting an eye.

You prefer the physical work once the prey is actually dead. That means most of the time you’re on body disposal. As a chemistry whiz in high school, you’ve known how to completely dissolve a body in hydrochloric acid since you were 15. If only you knew how much it would come in handy in the future.

Before all of the torture begins, though, someone has to lure the prey into the trap. That’s where Byunggon and Hyunsuk come in. They work as yin and yang, playing good cop and bad cop to both intimidate and provide a sense of security to the prey. Once the prey trusts a little too much, and is a little too comfortable with Hyunsuk’s smile, Byunggon swoops in, letting the chloroform do the work.

The only one who works completely behind the scenes is Yonghee. Sweet, innocent Yonghee pales at the sight of blood, but beams in front of a computer screen. More often than not, he keeps Adonis, Inc. running. He legitimizes all of the documents, wipes the security cameras, and leads any wandering eyes through a confusing hole of technological bullshit.

It’s the least he could do as the heir to the Kim throne.

. . .

Two hours later, the six of you are each in various states of drunkenness, strewn about Seunghun and Byunggon’s shared apartment floor. Their apartment was where you all had always decided to throw your end of week celebrations, but something about tonight has the place looking a little messier than usual.

Maybe it’s the fact that Jinyoung spilled soju on the carpet, twice. Or the fact that Hyunsuk has finished his third bag of chips, and hasn’t picked up any of the wrappers. Even Byunggon has crumbs on the side of his face.

But the messiness seems to match the aura of the night, fueling everyone’s mood. Seunghun keeps looking around anxiously, as if there’s something that’s threatening to burst out from inside him. You hope it’s not vomit.

“Guys, are we really going to do this for the rest of our lives?” The boy questions with a drunken lilt to his words, making them slur together. “Are we going to be cutting up bodies at 50? 60?”

Yonghee snorts. “Some of us don’t have a choice.” Even though he’s tipsy, you can still detect the grief in his voice.

“None of us have a choice,” Jinyoung reminds. “This isn’t a life we can just quit. We knew that before we even started.”

Seunghun’s signature pout takes hold on his face, making him look like a kicked puppy. You always wonder how Seunghun, someone who looks as sweet as he does, can live a life like this. What kind of internal darkness is housed under that mask of sincerity?

“I know, but being around the boss is so draining. He can be so fucking demeaning!” Seunghun’s eyes are red and glossy from the alcohol. “Spending so much time with him drives me crazy.”

You nod understandingly. Being around Kim Jaeyong is nothing short of a nightmare. He’s entitled, cocky, and all too harsh, even when dealing with those who have his back. Even the way he treats his own son is appalling, but you guess that’s the consequence of having so much power.

Kim Jaeyong can end lives with a snap of his fingers, and everyone around him knows that. So no one steps forward, no one takes a stand against him, and no one ever dares to cross him, leaving his power unchecked and absolute.

Seunghun continues, fueled by anger and hard liquor. “It gets so hard to have to deal with his sadistic mind all of the time. One time he said that he likes killing people because it makes him feel like a god. He told me that’s why the business is called Adonis. Who the fuck likes killing people?”

Yonghee doesn’t look up from his lap, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make any move to defend his father. He knows he can’t. His father’s actions have been heinous long before Yonghee was born, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“I hate that he thinks of himself as a god. I hate that he thinks he’s so untouchable. Why can’t he show us a little respect? We do so fucking much for him.” Jinyoung’s voice is laced with venom.

“Imagine how I feel,” you say bitterly. “Getting catcalled all day at work isn’t exactly a dream job.”

The dichotomy of working in crime and working for a friend’s dad is a weird one. On the one hand, you expect the lewd, inappropriate manners in which business is conducted. On the other hand, you still have your expectations of being treated like a friend, like family, even. But Kim Jaeyong treats you like a piece of meat.

“Still?” Seunghun throws his hands up frustratedly. “I told him to stop that shit ages ago. I can’t believe he’s still harassing you.”

Hyunsuk rolls his eyes, crumbs staining the left corner of his mouth. “Well it’s not like there’s anything we could do about it. He’s never listened to us. Plus, the man’s not dying anytime soon, so it’s not like we’re changing leadership.”

There’s silence for a moment, weaving in between the bodies in the room in a swirling haze. The glow from Seunghun’s overhead lamp is reflected in Jinyoung’s eyes. Sinister. That’s what his gaze is.

“What if we could?” The boy asks. “What if we could change leadership?”

Byunggon groans in annoyance. “What are you on about now? Hyunsuk just said it, we’re not changing leadership anytime soon.”

“Yeah, but what if we could,” Jinyoung stands up, swaying slightly from the alcohol. “What if we could change Adonis’ leadership?”

Seunghun’s brows furrow, and he shares a confused look with Hyunsuk. “How would we do that?”

Jinyoung lets out a short chuckle. A smirk has taken a hold on his lips, turning them upwards slightly.

“We can take Kim Jaeyong down...all by ourselves.”

[Part Two]

#cix imagines #cix #complete in x #lee byounggon #lee byounggon imagines #escritos #panacea

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cetologies · 3 years

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i once again... need to vent. so i apologize. i don’t have another outlet but it is under a read more. this is my personal experience, on the off-chance someone reads this and decides to pick a fight with me. i feel like i don’t have to say that but alas, the internet.

posting this late at night so hopefully too many won’t be subjected to it. i go into detail a little bit on this stuff.

tw: ED, body dysmorphia, OCD, depression, SH, anxiety, s//cide ment

i’m sorry i tried to tag it as well as possible to cater to anything blacklisted, i will most likely delete this but otherwise if something needs to be tagged differently please tell me

this is definitely the worst i’ve felt in a long time. years probably. and some of it is my fault, so i feel like i’m not allowed to complain. but i will anyway. all i’m asking is to get down to 115 again. i was that small when i was 16 and i want to be there again. i haven’t weighed myself with intention to see what weight i am in maybe 4-5 years.

i make it a point when i go to doctors offices to not tell me my weight. i cover my eyes and *usually* explicitly state that. but i didn’t three years ago, though i said “i don’t want to know my weight” and put my hands over my eyes and she still told me my weight. i remember crying and being loud, the doctor (who had known me for years) had immediately asked the nurse if she told me my weight.

i’ve always had body image issues but holy shit not like this. i’ve suffered with depression and anxiety most of my life. i’ve ticked off almost every single box in terms of diagnosed mental illnesses (except schizophrenia... which even that i’m starting to check off a few). but like i said, holy shit never like this. i would like to say this is harder to deal with than the anxiety/depression i previously have dealt with, but i dont know anymore.

this definitely hurts so bad though. i am getting depressed again, and cannot see this getting better anytime soon. partially my fault once again. i’d just like to lose a little more weight before seeing a doctor. i think i weighed (at the time of that incident above) around 129?? which is... healthy for my height but so is 115.

my problem is i can’t eat. i can’t think about eating. my default state is now just nausea. i get nauseous from not eating, i get nauseous thinking about eating, and i get nauseous from eating. since october i cant stomach anything. i started adderall in december and it made it 10x worse. i’ve since switched to adderall xr (adzenys?) and i can at least drink water now and only a get half as nauseous. but that was really scary!! i had a little swig of water, no more than a sip, and had to lay down for 4 hours because i was so nauseous.

my main issue is now i feel guilty for eating. which is normal for eating disorders. but i can’t eat more than 100 calories without wanting to self harm. it’s ridiculous, and i know it’s ridiculous but unfortunately that’s the number i can’t let go. i cried for an hour today bc i ate those lil brownie little bites and it was the second thing i ate today (aside from celery, which i also got sick and felt bad about eating bc i googled the calories: 60) and accidently saw how many calories they were. 240.

so i ate 300 calories today and that was enough to make me want to vomit (i can’t, i’m emetophobic) and crawl into a hole and disappear. i have never ever dealt with stuff like this before and it’s so scary. i’m afraid my health is failing because of it but i can’t stop. it’s so unrealistic to eat less than 100 calories a day. the standard recommended is 2000, yet for some reason i can’t eat more than 100 without wanting to die

i check my body measurements 3-4 times a day. i spend at LEAST two hours in front of a mirror body checking and looking at my figure from all angles. these issues have definitely stemmed from my figure along with my insecurities. my entire life the only thing i’ve been complimented on is my measurements. it’s all i have. i’m not very pretty, but people are in love with my figure. and i am too! so many people tell me my body is great the way it is but i don’t care what they think, i care what i think. and i think i need to go back down to 115.

i’ve chalked up my self worth to my body measurements. it’s not something that’s generally achievable without surgery, so it feels almost like a trophy to me because of how fucked up my brain is. i can’t lose it because that’s the only thing that i like about myself. or at least the only thing i like about myself that i don’t want to impulsively destroy like my eyelashes

and it’s not like i’m trying to achieve a completely flat stomach or anything. i just look a little disproportionate to me, since i carry fat only in the stomach. a little pudge is natural and i understand that. like i said, 115 is still healthy for 5′3′’. it’s not like im trying to drop down below 100. i had told myself once i lost the weight, then i’ll go get help for the fact i am violently nauseous no matter what.

which leads me to my next problem: this is my only solution. i can’t lose weight through exercise (esp exercise that involves numbers) bc of my OCD. i have such bad obsessive nature with any numbers (as stated w/ my weight, my body measurements, etc) and like i did when i started looking at calories, i’ll become so obsessive with exercise that if he doesn’t reach my fantastical expectations, i’ll want to self harm.

something that’s really making me upset is i specifically never looked at calories, checked my weight, etc. because i knew this would happen. i went out of my way to avoid stuff like this bc i knew i was susceptible to this kind of thinking and it still happened anyway. my body is going to start shutting down soon if it hasn’t started already.

it’s fucking ridiculous though! i’ve tried to kill myself (and still, suffering as i am, i still thank god i made it out alive) and it’s just crazy that that was over anxiety, depression, agoraphobia, bullying, etc. and now i want to kill myself bc i ate CELERY!!! bc it’s 60 calories!!! like its so illogical!! i’m a very naturally logical person so this is just like each side of my brain hitting the other with a bat.

it doesn’t look like i’ve lost any weight, despite purposely not eating for 4 months. my grades are bad, my gpa dropped .5 points bc of covid and i’m fucking stupid anyway. i try my best not to self harm bc of my fear of blood but i usually end up scratching myself til i bleed anyway.

i’m suffering and trying my best to make it through this but i’m trying my best. i just want to wait to get help until i lose a little more. but i am fucking suffering. all i want is to eat again. or at least to eat and not feel guilty afterwards. my portions are so much smaller, i can only eat a few bites of any meal and it’s so fucking scary but i can’t stop myself from wanting to lose more.

like i said, i’ve always had body image issues but nothing like this. i’m so so so scared but. there’s nothing my brain will allow me to do until i lose a little more weight. im afraid im causing/on the road to causing irreversible damage but i just!! can’t stop!! not being able to eat more than 100 calories is so fucking ridiculous i’m ashamed of myself. i shouldn’t be having anxiety attacks over eating celery.

#sorry i've been crying all day over the last thing #daelin speaks #body dysmorphia //#tw body dysmorphia #tw body image #body image //#eating disorder //#tw eating disorder #ocd //#tw ocd #tw depression #depression //#tw self harm mention #self harm mention //#tw anxiety #anxiety //#tw suicide #suicide //

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