#road to risk and rebellion au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

velidewrites · 1 month

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Breaking Point

Six months after Catrin Berdara is presumed dead, Gwyneth abandons the Erudites in search for answers. Knowing there is only one faction with the ability to take her over the spiked fence that shields their world from the truth, she does not hesitate to spill her blood over the burning coals at the Choosing Ceremony. But to be taken over the Fence, Gwyneth must first pass Initiation—and, unfortunately for her, one of the Dauntless squad leaders seems hell-bent on making her life all the more difficult.

Pairing: Azriel x Gwyneth Berdara

Tags: Divergent AU

Notes: I was going to post this yesterday when I realised Divergent was released exactly 10 years ago today! If you were as obsessed with this series as me, welcome to the chaos. This fic was inspired by me seeing a tiktok of the knife throwing scene and thought oh yeah this is Gwynriel at its peak.

This is baby's very first Gwynriel and my humble contribution for @gwynrielweeksofficial! Thank you to @azrielshadowssing @ablogofsapphicpanic @octobers-veryown for being such patient betas and to @damedechance for being so brilliant and coming up with this title for me.

Before you proceed, please be advised of the TW for past SA.

Read on AO3 or continue to Chapter 1 below!

Gwyneth Berdara was risking her life, and it was the most exhilarating thing in the world.

Her sister’s ice-cold hand on her mouth had snapped her awake, and it had only been thanks to her quick “Shush!” that Gwyneth managed to stifle the scream in her throat. It had not been the first time Catrin woke her up in the dead of the night—still, their routine had never quite made either of them loose the reins on her instincts.

Catrin’s eyes had glinted like onyx as she’d quickly prompted Gwyneth to get up and get dressed. The nights were shorter during the summer, which made the next few hours all the more precious. The truck had already been waiting, parked two blocks west—only two minutes on foot if they kept a fast pace.

Gwyneth could see the urgency painted on her sister’s features, yet it had nothing on the excitement that had her leg bouncing near the doorway to their dorm. It had lit up her entire face like moonlight, all the dark heaviness of the risk they were taking skittering away at the sight. It was contagious enough that Gwyneth, too, had found herself smiling—a smile that lingered even as they’d made their way down the pristine white hallways of the Academy.

Frankly, she had never quite figured out who in Campus Security Catrin had managed to bribe. The only thing either of them had was each other, a fact that Catrin often joked would make them the perfect fit for Abnegation once they turned twenty-one. Gwyneth could see her sister there—could see her spilling her blood on the smooth, grey stones and devoting her life in the service of others. Not Gwyneth, though. She had always thought herself too selfish—too selfish to abandon the Academy and all the knowledge it contained. At heart, after all, Gwyneth was—and always had been—an Erudite.

It was only one of their differences. From the day Gwyneth and Catrin were born, people had a hard time believing the two of them were twins. Catrin’s eyes were darker than the depths of the ocean the city bordered, her hair a similar black and her skin pale as milk. Gwyneth’s eyes were the sort of teal their ocean never saw, not even now, when the sun blazed right above it every day. She enjoyed the way it reflected in coppery brown waves, though, and the way it brought out the freckles on her face.

But as Gwyneth moved carefully behind Catrin, her every step falling right into her sister’s quiet shadow, she forgot about everything that divided them. In this—the excitement of the rebellion, the danger of the risk—in this, they were the same.

The drive to Amity had been almost entirely silent save for the crunchy gravel of the road as they exited the city. Even so, she could make out Catrin’s grin in the shadows of the cargo bed, could hear the gentle tapping of her still-bouncing leg.

If anyone in the Erudites found out about their nightly escapades, Gwyneth and Catrin would be dead—or worse, subjected to whatever classified research the Erudite leadership was undergoing at the headquarters. Only the most brilliant of the Academy students were allowed to apply for their stewardship—to watch and observe. To learn, the way the customs of their factions demanded.

Gwyneth had no interest in aiming for the top floors of the HQ. There, she would have likely been guarded—supervised—every hour of every day. Catrin, if she would be allowed to see her beyond Visiting Days at all, would no longer be a constant in her life, their monthly drives to the farmlands beyond the Fence only a distant memory. It was why Gwyneth sometimes doubted herself. An Erudite without ambition, after all, was like a Dauntless without courage, an Abnegation without people to serve. Useless.

Studying alongside the most illustrious of her faction was perhaps the greatest ambition of all, but Gwyneth was happy to remain at the Academy, to learn and contribute in whatever ways she could, all while retaining the little pieces of herself she still owned. To think such thoughts was to betray the Erudite virtues, constantly in pursuit of wisdom and intelligence. It was a fear that lingered somewhere deep in her chest every night she and Catrin ventured out to the unknown.

She tried to dwindle it, though, as she now danced around the bonfire near Sector Five’s stables. One of the Amity girls, dressed in yellows and oranges as dictated by the Amity fashion, had grabbed her by the hand and dragged her into her circle of friends, her laughter rising over the crackling flames. Sometimes, Gwyneth wondered what it would be like to be a part of that—part of the Peaceful, the Kind.

She couldn’t imagine a life free of worry, a life dedicated to preserving what remained of their destroyed world’s nature without questioning its past. And while the joy on the Amity girl’s face felt true, Gwyneth couldn’t help but feel like right now, she was living a lie.

“Have you seen my sister?” she shouted over the fire, the music a small guitar band had begun playing a few minutes ago. She had not seen Catrin since the Solstice celebrations started—since all of Sector Five had gathered to honour the end of the longest day of the year.

The girl shook her head, the fire dancing in her brown eyes. “I’m sure she’s with Clare,” she replied with a smile. Then, she winked, “I’d avoid the stables, if I were you.”

Gwyneth blinked. “Clare?”

The smile quickly faded from the girl’s pretty face. “Oh,” she said, her shoulders deflating slightly as she halted mid-dance. “You didn’t know?”

She must’ve had the surprise written all over her face, and Gwyneth schooled her features back into that light, free-of-any-worry-in-the-world expression she knew would help her avoid suspicion. “Oh, Clare! Of course,” she lied. “Sorry. It’s been a long night.”

The girl waved a hand. “I get it. The way they keep you under watch back in the city is ridiculous to me.” She angled her head, that brown gaze studying her with mild curiosity. “How old are you, again?” she asked.

“I’ll be twenty-one in a few months.”

She clasped her hands together, her whole face lighting up at Gwyneth’s answer. “Ah, you haven't Chosen yet!” she exclaimed. “You always have a place here—we’d welcome you with open arms.”

“I doubt my results will sort me into Amity,” Gwyneth said truthfully.

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Well,” the girl said, leaning conspiratorially over her shoulder, “I know we’re all supposed to follow the Aptitude Test’s recommendations, of course.” She tilted her chin towards the dancing group before them—to the truck still parked in the distance. “Something tells me, though, that you’ve never been one to follow the rules, anyway.”

Gwyneth followed her gaze—but words died on her tongue before she managed to answer.

There she was—Catrin, sitting with her back resting against one of the truck’s large wheels, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Alone.

“Excuse me,” she said to the girl, and moved towards her sister without so much as a goodbye. It wasn’t as she, or any of her Amity friends, would ever take offense—they simply returned to their dancing, the band’s song slowly fading into the distance as Gwyneth kept on walking.

Catrin’s eyes were fixed on the fire even as Gwyneth took her seat on the cold ground beside her.

“Where’s Clare?” she asked, unable to keep the hurt from her voice. There had never been any secrets between them—whatever there was to face in this world, they had always faced it together.

But Catrin simply smiled, her gaze sad, somehow, as she said quietly, “Look at them, Gwyneth. Look at all the dancing—the singing. They’re all smiling.” Finally, Catrin peeled her gaze off the scene to meet her own. “Do you think it’s real?”

There was something in her sister’s tone that made Gwyneth pause—something so unbearably raw it made Gwyneth shelve all her questions in the back of her mind and consider.

She looked towards the celebrating crowds. “I think they believe it is.”

Catrin rasped a laugh. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

Gwyneth placed a hand over her sister’s. As gently as she could, she asked, “Why do you ask, Catrin?”

Her gaze dropped to her feet. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Clare,” she said, and it wasn’t lost on Gwyneth how she’d avoided her question in favour of another. “Dating outside our own factions is forbidden, and I suppose…” Her throat bobbed. “I supposed I didn’t want to burden you with the secret.”

She was so unlike the Catrin from a few hours ago that Gwyneth felt her own throat burning, all the excitement they’d shared earlier fading into the night along with the bonfire smoke.

The question nearly forced itself onto Gwyneth’s lips—what changed?—but instead, she managed, “You could never burden me, Catrin.” Then, “I didn’t mean to pry. If she makes you happy, then that is all I need to know.”

Slowly, Catrin turned to face her again. “She makes me happy,” she whispered. “Very much.”

Gwyneth smiled. “Good.” She squeezed Catrin’s hand. “No secrets, remember?”

Perhaps it was the smoke carried by the summer breeze, or the late hour catching up with Catrin at last, but Gwyneth could’ve sworn she saw silver gleam in her sister’s eyes as she said, “Yeah. No secrets.”

***

Catrin’s funeral took place midday, and it rained the entire time.

Erudites had never been too spiritual in nature, and saw death simply as the time for the mind to finally rest. As such, there were no celebrations of the life she had lived like the ones held in Amity—no formal burials with lengthy speeches from Candor’s government officials, either. It was, perhaps, the one thing where Erudites and Abnegations found common ground—in the lack of spectacle surrounding their funerals. In Abnegation, death was only a tragedy because it meant an end to one’s servitude.

Gwyneth watched as her sister’s casket was covered by a deep-blue sheet, the colour slowly darkening as it soaked up the pouring rain. The entire Academy had gathered to watch it being lowered into the city’s foundations—to symbolise the collective knowledge upon which it was built, if nothing else. One of the Erudite representatives then murmured a few words about the tragedy Catrin’s death was, and the new, stricter regulations the labs would be implementing to prevent anything like this from happening ever again.

Gwyneth had not been invited to say a few words. The Erudite virtues did not speak of emotional attachment, of the importance of sentiment. Catrin’s pursuit of knowledge may have ended, but Gwyneth’s…Gwyneth’s had only just begun.

She was not permitted to look upon her twin’s face for the final time, either. The stone casket seemed impenetrable from where she stood, one lone student in the sea of blue umbrellas and Academy uniforms. It was not like Gwyneth would have asked to see her, either. Whatever spirit of rebellion had lived inside her before, it died today—watching its counterpart disappear beneath the ground.

As the plates of the burial site began closing in on each other, though, ready to swallow Catrin for the rest of time, something shifted—like a spark in the air, charging the weather with lightning. Gwyneth’s shoulders tensed as she braced herself for impact.

And then, someone screamed.

All one hundred—perhaps more—Erudite heads snapped towards the sound, some of the faces immediately twisting in a grimace, some in curiosity. Gwyneth’s eyes, though, only widened in shock, her mouth parting slightly as she realised who the voice belonged to—who had just lunged onto the stage, her orange dress muddy and torn.

Clare Beddor’s tears blended into the rain as she reached for the Erudite representative, her expression so wild and pained that Gwyneth felt it in her own already shredded heart. Even through the hauling rain, through the thunder booming somewhere in the distance, she could hear Clare’s words as clear as the day she had last seen her lover. Could hear the accusation that would get her reunited with Catrin at last.

“MURDERERS!” Clare yelled, the crowd gasping in unison. “You’re all murderers!”

Everything happened so quickly after that.

Someone had grabbed Clare from behind—one of the junior HQ researchers, a Dauntless transfer if his large, muscular frame was any indication—and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back with the kind of force that should’ve hauled her off the stage. But Clare kept on fighting, kept on kicking and screaming and digging her nails into the man’s forearms, leaving long, bloodied streaks splitting his tattoos. Still, the man did not let go.

Only when the rain began to leave the taste of salt in Gwyneth’s mouth did she realise she was crying, too. She watched as Clare was dragged off the stage and shoved into a sleek, black car—Candor, Gwyneth noted immediately—which appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She watched as it drove off, too, as the Erudite representative apologised for the intrusion and once again reiterated the tragedy of the incident before ordering all of Catrin’s fellow students to return to their daily obligations.

But Clare’s words lingered even as the crowd dissipated, echoing between the glass Erudite buildings before settling right in Gwyneth’s chest.

Murderers. Murderers. Murderers.

When the rhythm of her heart started to beat alongside the syllables, alongside the truth Gwyneth had thought no one else believed in, that rebellion inside her reignited—blazed, like the fire she had danced to in Amity two weeks ago.

She wasn’t insane. She was not paranoid, and Clare all but confirmed it.

Catrin Berdara had been murdered. When and how—it did not matter.

The only question that mattered was why.

And Gwyneth was going to find the answer.

***

SIX MONTHS LATER

Compared to her old Academy dorm, Gwyneth’s apartment at the Erudite Headquarters felt ridiculously empty.

Truthfully, she had not exactly put any effort into decorating it in the past two months. The walls remained white and untainted by the vibrant prints and watercolour paintings she and Catrin used to sneak into the Academy from Amity. The entire space was simply occupied by her bed, wardrobe, and desk. The latter, at least, was filled with enough books to let the average visitor know someone was, in fact, living in this place.

Gwyneth had shoved one of those books into her bag before leaving, along with some crumpled papers containing notes she could hardly remember writing last night. It must have been well past three in the morning when she’d finally finished, but when it came to her supervisor, Gwyneth always prioritised being sleep deprived over unprepared.

Not that anyone had ever acknowledged her efforts, though. Her supervisor just so happened to be the Erudite representative, the faction’s very leader and the main voice advising their Candor-comprised government. It was a great privilege, Gwyn had always told the other graduates, making sure to dip her head an inch and blush slightly as she lied: I was certain it was a mistake, but Merrill was really impressed with my dissertation, it seems.

Gwyneth’s Academy dissertation just so happened to align perfectly with the Erudite’s research—a coincidence, and, of course, a great privilege. Gwyn had been planning to teach at the Academy post-graduation—that much, at least, was the truth—but when the HQ had made her an offer, she simply could not refuse.

She was the envy of other HQ graduate researchers, which was definitely one downside in the grand scheme of things. Gwyneth had been prepared for the attention, but the amount of eyes turned towards her in every lab, every hallway, was certainly making things…difficult.

After all, no one at HQ could ever suspect why Gwyneth Berdara, a previous history major, had suddenly taken up interest in genetics—why her dissertation, initially on the history of the Erudite faction, had suddenly shifted focus onto Aptitude Tests in the final two months of her studies at the Academy. No one could quite figure how, exactly, she had managed to produce a report worthy of the attention of the Head Erudite herself.

That part, Gwyneth did not have to lie about, either. She was an Erudite. She studied—she sought the knowledge and acquired it.

Getting to the HQ was the easiest part of her plan. Getting out of it, however, was going to prove a lot more…difficult.

There was one other thing cluttering her desk, its silver gleam drawing her eye before she finally made her way to leave. Gwyneth picked up the lighter, the metal cold against her skin, and pushed the small lever down with her thumb.

The flame came to life in Gwyneth’s hand, and she watched as it danced playfully in the air. All of her belongings, all the Amity posters and photos she had taken over the years—they were memories too painful to bring along for her final act of rebellion. The lighter, though, was the one thing of her own she’d allowed herself—she had purchased it on her first day at the HQ despite the voice of reason protesting in her mind.

“I’m almost there, Catrin,” she whispered to the little bonfire in her palm. “I’m almost there.”

With that, the lighter disappeared in the folds of her lab coat, and Gwyneth did not spare another look at the empty apartment as she made her way out.

Lost in her thoughts, Gwyneth hadn’t even realised she’d already made it to her supervisor’s office.

“You’re late,” Merril said in her usual manner of greeting.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been preparing for tomorrow,” she replied, closing the door carefully behind her.

The Head Erudite looked up from her computer, its blue holo reflecting in her stare. “There is no preparing for the Aptitude Test. You know this, Gwyneth.”

“Emotionally preparing, I suppose,” she corrected herself, her response met with a deep sigh.

“I assume you have the notes I assigned you,” Merril said, not entirely a question. Everything was an order with her—an order that would never be satisfied no matter what Gwyneth did.

Still, she nodded, taking the papers out of her bag to place them on Merrill’s desk, the professor’s eyes already scanning over the writing. She couldn’t help but hold her breath as she waited, silently watching as Merrill took in the results of last week’s experiments, then finally, finally, nodded.

“Take these to Lab Six,” she instructed, Gwyneth’s shoulders sagging with relief. As far as Merrill’s compliments went, this one was the best she could have asked for. “Make the necessary preparations for next month.”

Already on her way out—Merrill did not appreciate anyone wasting her time—Gwyneth stopped.

“Next month?” she asked, turning over her shoulder. With the Choosing Ceremony scheduled for the last day of January, who knew what the next month would bring.

Clearly, Merrill thought Gwyneth was here to stay.

She raised a white eyebrow in scrutiny. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

In exactly a week from now, Gwyneth would finally do what she’d spent the last six months meticulously planning. Merrill said there was no preparing for the Aptitude Tests, but Gwyneth had not spent all those sleepless nights studying, all those days smiling and pretending Catrin’s death hadn’t affected her at all, only to let someone else decide her fate.

No. Gwyneth Berdara had figured out how to cheat.

Tomorrow, the Aptitude Test would sort her into the one faction with the ability to bring her one step closer to the truth behind her sister’s murder.

Next week, she would no longer be Gwyneth Berdara, Erudite.

She would be Dauntless.

“No,” she said to Merrill with a sweet smile. “No problem at all.”

***

It had been over twenty-four hours since Gwyneth had last slept, and she was seriously starting to worry she might just pass out in the chair if her name was not called out next.

As dazed as the lack of sleep was making her, Gwyneth knew that once she exited that room, she would thank herself for persevering. No one under the age of twenty-one was supposed to know this, but being Merrill’s protegé came with its benefits—all carefully researched and planned for six months ago.

The test would begin by having a simulation serum being injected into her neck, setting off a range of scenarios eventually leading to Gwyneth being matched to one of the five factions: Erudites, Abnegation, Dauntless, Candor, or Amity, all based on the choices she’d be making throughout. Fifteen weeks—Gwyneth had spent fifteen weeks studying the simulation patterns and the reaction of the brain every scenario it presented. The Aptitude Test’s results were meant to serve as a guide for the Choosing Ceremony, and if one did not wish to end up factionless–-end up an exile to society—following the Test’s recommendations was the only true choice.

Gwyneth knew—had always known—she was an Erudite, if the last few months were any indication for her to ground her confidence in. Her Test results today, though, would recommend a different faction entirely.

Her research suggested there were side effects to the serum. Sustained deprivation of sleep, Gwyneth found, would catalyse a heightened neural state—high enough for her to remain in full cognitive control of the simulation. She would recognise the patterns effortlessly—would know where to go and what to say for the test administrator to proclaim her as a Dauntless the moment she woke up. In theory.

A few hours into the tests, there weren’t many people left. From the colour of their clothes, Gwyneth noted two from Abnegation and one from Candor, his black tie and formal attire making her shift in her own seat. She could hardly register the light tapping of her foot against the linoleum floor, consumed entirely by the silence of the hallway. Waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

The Tests were being held at the Academy, and it made her all the more uneasy. These halls, the cafeteria they now sat in, this entire building—the Academy was so familiar Gwyneth had nearly forgotten what had driven her out of there. She half-expected Catrin to come out of the East Elevator leading right up to her old lab, to give her a small wave as she called out her name.

“Gwyneth Berdara?”

Gwyneth jumped in her seat.

The Candor boy snorted.

The test administrator—a woman that could not have been more than a few years older than Gwyneth—gave him a look. The Candor cleared his throat immediately, his eyes falling back into that blank, emotionless stare. It was then that Gwyneth realised the woman was from Candor, too.

She arched an eyebrow as she looked at Gwyneth again, her ice-blue eyes settling on her own. “Gwyneth Berdara, yes?”

Gwyneth nodded.

“Good. Come on in.”

The hallway, as Gwyneth already knew, hosted a row of ten rooms, and the woman led her to the one at the far left. The teaching classroom had been transformed into an empty space with nothing but a reclined chair that made her feel as though she was about to walk into her dentist’s appointment, the walls now covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

Even though Gwyneth knew what to expect, she couldn’t help but swallow the tightness in her throat. She had volunteered to set those rooms up herself before—the administrator herself was a volunteer, too. Most of the Candor worked for the government—their inclination towards truth and justice made them the only objective candidates. According to their manifesto, at least.

This woman, though—she seemed nothing like the Candor Gwyneth had met before, perhaps save for the stern look in her gaze and the way she carried herself. As if nothing could bend her will.

There was something about her face that seemed familiar, and Gwyneth could not shake the feeling that she had seen her before. Her features seemed sharper than those faded images in her memory, her hair a lighter shade of golden brown, straighter and tied into a sleek, braided bun. No matter how hard she focused, though, Gwyneth couldn’t quite place her.

“Take a seat,” she instructed before Gwyneth could try searching her mind again. “My name is Nesta Archeron. I’ll be your test administrator today.”

The name did not seem familiar, and, frustrated, Gwyneth slipped into the chair, the leather cracked at the armrests. As though whoever had come in before her did not take the simulations well.

Great.

After an uncomfortably long pause, Gwyneth looked up to meet the administrator’s stare. Was the test not supposed to start already?

“Well?” Nesta asked, her arms crossed over the sleek, black jacket padded lightly at the shoulders. She might have been the only Candor Gwyneth had ever seen that did not seem stiff in their clothes.

She blinked in confusion. “Well…what?” she asked.

“Most people want to know if it hurts,” Nesta pointed out.

Oh. “I already know it doesn’t hurt,” Gwyneth told her. “My research focuses on Aptitude Tests,” she explained, her cheeks flushing slightly as she realised she might have fallen into the Erudite trap of sounding too pretentious.

“Your research,” Nesta repeated, a shadow of a smile playing in the corner of her mouth. “That is, perhaps, the most Erudite thing I’ve ever heard.”

Gwyneth huffed. “I thought the simulation was meant to decide my faction, not you.”

To her surprise, Nesta snorted. “I think I might like you, Gwyneth Berdara,” she said. Then, “Why do I know your name?” she asked, her golden brows knitting.

Gwyneth could see the exact second realisation dawned on Nesta’s face.

“You were Catrin Berdara’s sister.” She shook her head, her hair catching some of the white, artificial light at the ceiling. “I am so sorry. Horrible tragedy.”

“Yes,” Gwyneth said, unable to keep the tinge of bitterness from her tone. “Tragedy.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “You know, in Candor, our most prized virtue is the truth. During Initiation, we spend weeks training how to detect lies.” She tilted her head to the side. “Why do I feel like you’re lying to me, Gwyn?”

“It’s Gwyneth.”

“Gwyneth,” Nesta corrected, that strange amusement returning into her face. “I have two sisters, you know. The youngest had her test earlier today.”

“How did she do?”

“You research our tests, don’t you? You know the results are not to be discussed—not even amongst family.” Nesta smiled. “I know, though—from the moment she was born, out and screaming her rage right into the world.” She snorted. “Feyre is going to choose Dauntless, because that’s who she always has been.”

“You sound excited for her,” Gwyneth started carefully.

“I am.”

“Won’t you miss her in Candor?”

“My sisters and I were born in Abnegation,” Nesta explained. “Four years ago, I chose Candor. Two years ago, Elain had left for Amity. Grey had never quite suited her, anyway,” she added. Gwyneth was not entirely sure she’d ever heard a Candor joke before. Then, Nesta said, “In a week from now, Feyre is going to leave, too. I’m sure of it.”

Gwyneth hummed. “Your parents must miss you very much.”

“Our parents are dead, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” she faltered, her cheeks heating yet again. “So are mine.”

Nesta shrugged matter-of-factly, the gesture enough to keep Gwyneth from asking. “Then you know,” she said, her gaze dropping to whatever notes Gwyneth’s profile contained on the datapad. “I see you study under Merrill Dorset,” Nesta observed. “The Aptitude Test research makes a lot more sense now.” She shook her head, as though in disbelief. “Thanks to her, we no longer have sixteen year olds do these tests. Ridiculous—to make someone with such a young mind decide on the rest of their life.” She looked at Gwyneth again. “You must be very excited to work under her.”

Gwyneth shrugged. “It has its benefits.”

“I’m sure it does,” Nesta said—and if she weren’t Candor, Gwyneth might have thought it a lie. “Is that how you know not to be afraid?” she asked, pressing one of the electrodes to Gwyneth’s head.

Gwyneth scoffed. “Merrill has nothing to do with it,” she told Nesta, flinching slightly at the cold touch as Nesta attached yet another electrode to her head. “I’ve figured it out all on my own.”

The words escaped her without warning—and if Nesta were an Erudite, she would have been fully within her rights to drag her straight to Merrill’s office and filed for Gwyneth’s expulsion.

Instead, a smile—a true smile bloomed on Nesta’s face as she pressed the syringe to Gwyneth’s neck, the clear serum swirling lazily inside. “Perhaps not an Erudite, then.”

The word blurred into nothingness as Gwyneth slipped into the simulation at last.

***

Gwyneth woke up to the sound of screaming, muffled only by a thick wall of concrete and windows sealed shut by dark, bloodied wood.

She did not recognise her surroundings, and from the blurriness of the corners of her vision, she knew she was not supposed to. Even the words of the crying crowds outside had no meaning at all. The emotion they carried was clear, though—fear.

Gwyneth grounded herself in the sounds—became one with the simulation, aware of every pattern presented before her, every entrance or exit she could find her way to. There was a door behind her that had not been barricaded—only an iron handle stood between her and the screams. Turning towards it, she wondered why those people did not simply open the door.

“You’re late,” a childlike voice now spoke behind her. “He’s getting away,” it said.

Gwyneth whirled back to the sound—and found no one at all.

The setting before her had changed, though. There was a staircase now, tall and made entirely of concrete, too. A table blocked the way up, though, small and built from some light type of wood Gwyneth had never cared to study at the Academy.

“Who?” she asked carefully.

“Have you changed your mind already?” the voice spoke again from somewhere behind her back. “You’re our last hope, you know.”

Gwyneth turned again—once again facing nothing but the iron door and the screams behind. She was not supposed to see this child, whoever it was. So instead, she asked, “What’s happening outside?”

“You have a choice here,” the voice continued as though she hadn’t spoken at all. “Go up, and finish what you came here to do. You cannot proceed without this,” it then said, and when Gwyneth turned towards the staircase again, the table was no longer empty.

Atop a clean, ivory cloth laid a gun—a pistol, its silver glinting subtly beneath the streaks of sunlight pouring in through the cracks between the bloodied wood. Gwyneth sucked in a breath.

“You may decide to go back. Rejoin the others, if you wish. The choice is entirely up to you.”

The choice seemed entirely clear to Gwyneth. Turn back to the people—Abnegation. Amity, perhaps. The gun, however…

“I thought you hired me,” she told the voice.

It giggled—a shrill, eerie sound that seemed to carry all the way upstairs. “I cannot decide your fate for you,” it said, as if scolding her.

Gwyneth looked back towards the door again—then to the gun. What if this was a test, and the true display of courage would have been to save the people outside from whatever horrors had befallen them?

No—there were no underlying motives in these tests. Her choices, Gwyneth had learned, were plain and simple, the way the faction members’ lives had been designed to be. If she wanted to be classified as a Dauntless, the gun was her only viable option.

So Gwyneth picked it up—wrapped her hand around the cool metal, letting it slip down to the polished hilt.

“Go now,” the voice urged. “Go!”

Gwyneth did not waste any more time.

She started running, every step light as she made her way upstairs, the echo of the people’s cries following her all the way up to the sixth floor. She felt no weariness, no strain in her muscles or stiffness in her joints, the blend of the serum and twenty-four hours without sleep clearly taking effect.

The stairs seemed to end here, though. There was only one door at the very top of the building, made of the same dark, blood-stained wood the windows had been. Gwyneth reached for the doorknob—iron, too, she realised—and the door clicked open as she turned it to her left.

“Are you the one?” someone asked her—a new voice, male and hoarse coming somewhere from the back of the room.

“What?” Gwyneth asked, and the room lit up with the question.

She had to stifle a scream of her own as she saw him. The man stood at the very end of the narrow hallway, his back pressed toward the wall and a gun steady in his hands.

“Are you the one they sent after me?” he repeated, his voice rougher now, like gravel against her skin.

“No,” Gwyneth lied, fighting to keep her voice from trembling as her own pistol slipped down an inch in her clammy grip. “I’m on your side,” she told him.

“Liar,” he seethed, “I’ll give you one more chance. Tell the truth, and I will go—you and your people will never see me, never hear of me again. Peace,” he said. “So, what will it be?”

Gwyn opened her mouth—and the man smiled, revealing a perfect set of bloody, iron teeth.

Her mind raced, chasing every possibility that seemed to escape her the wider the man grinned. He must have been the reason for the carnage outside, all the pain and death that would have awaited her had she chosen to open the door. Perhaps the simulation would have made her tend for the wounded, or forced her to become one of them. Either way, there was no turning back.

She understood now—she had to kill that man. His promise of peace, while appealing to an Amity or maybe even an Erudite, was a lie. That left her with two choices.

Tell the truth—Candor.

Keep on lying—Dauntless.

So Gwyneth tightened her grip on her gun and told him, “I’m not here to kill you.”

The man’s smile became a long, vicious snarl. “Wrong answer,” he said, and pointed his own pistol at her.

“Leave her alone!” someone screamed then, a voice—a familiar voice, one she had met in this simulation before. The child materialised before her, a small girl that could not have been older than five—and lunged for the murderer aiming at Gwyneth.

All Gwyneth could see, though, was Clare Beddor’s face as she ran for the Erudites that killed her sister. The same Erudites that prized knowledge above all else, only to put an end to it whenever someone reached too far.

What had Catrin found out that day? How bad must it have been to merit an order for her execution.

Whatever truth the answers held, though, Gwyneth had already failed. But, perhaps, she could do this—could save this child, so ready and eager to sacrifice its life for those who could not have done the same.

For Catrin.

As if reading her thoughts, the man pointed his gun at the little girl.

“NO!” Gwyneth screamed, and jumped in front of the child the moment the gun fired.

***

The word still lingered on her tongue as Gwyneth shot upright with a scream.

“Sit up,” Nesta ordered, her hand steady on Gwyneth’s back. “Drink,” she added, a cold glass suddenly pressed to her trembling lips.

She obeyed, the water dripping down her chin as she gulped, the glass shaking alongside her sweaty palms.

“The whole thing,” Nesta nodded, and only when Gwyneth emptied the glass did she finally seem satisfied enough to let her speak.

“Well?” Gwyneth asked, wiping the salt on her forehead with the back of her hand. “ Not an Erudite, I’m assuming?”

Nesta’s lips pressed into a thin line, her skin somewhat pale as she quickly entered something into her datapad. “Not exactly.”

“What—what is that supposed to mean?”

Nesta met her gaze, her blue eyes wary. “Gwyn—Gwyneth, your results were inconclusive.” She sighed. “Is that something you have seen in your research, or do you need me to explain it to you?”

Gwyneth ignored the jab. “Inconclusive?” She frowned. “That is not possible.” She tried so hard—so hard to be matched to the Dauntless. She was prepared to shoot—to prove she wasn’t afraid, to prove she didn’t hesitate. If she only hadn’t let her emotions get the better of her—

“Of course not,” Nesta said, something like mockery creeping into her tone. “In theory. How many times have your theories been proven wrong, Gwyneth?”

She had to give her that one. “Many.”

“You have chosen the gun, effectively closing both paths that would have taken the simulation towards Amity—or Abnegation, for that matter.” Nesta looked at her datapad again. “That gave us Dauntless. Then, you lied to the man—then lied again, even when given a second chance and promised peace—that rules out Candor. You’re definitely not Amity, that’s for sure.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You were smart enough not to believe him, displaying equal aptitude for both Erudite and Dauntless. But then you saved the girl,” she said. “Threw your body over her own. Abnegation again.”

Nesta set her notes on the chair’s armrest, leaning in closer—close enough for the distance between them to close almost entirely as she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “Gwyneth, people like you are called Divergent. And they are very, very dangerous.” Those icy eyes searched her own. “Tell me, Gwyneth, what does our society do with dangerous people?”

Gwyneth stopped breathing entirely.

Nesta nodded. “You, of all people, should know this.”

“You know,” Gwyneth breathed. “You know what my sister researched.”

It had been Gwyneth’s theory from the day she had found a stash of notes in Catrin’s bed—shoved deep into the mattress, nearly lost to the world after death. Notes containing Catrin’s own research, all of them detailing the hypotheses of her Genetics thesis. Catrin had been studying the factionless—had been seeking to understand why, no matter how hard they tried, they did not belong to any of the factions. She had nearly found the answer.

But Catrin’s notes ended abruptly, the final entry dated two weeks before her death. The night the two of them had last ventured out to the Amity farmlands. The night Catrin had promised her no more secrets.

“And look where that research got her,” Nesta said quietly. “Gwyneth, you cannot share this information with anyone. Under no circumstances can you reveal your test results. Do you understand me?” she asked, her tone inviting no protest.

Gwyneth swallowed. Hard. “I do.”

Nesta straightened. “I’m going to put your aptitude down for Erudite, and we’ll forget about this whole thing.”

She picked the datapad up again.

“No,” Gwyneth said then.

Half-turning over her shoulder, Nesta’s brows rose. “No?”

“Dauntless,” Gwyneth blurted out, her final attempt at salvaging six-months of pain and preparation. “Please. They will look—Merrill will look at my test results. She cannot know why I didn’t come back.”

“Gwyneth,” Nesta started slowly. “Whatever you think you’ll find at the Dauntless—”

“It’s not what I’ll find there,” she interrupted. “It’s where the Dauntless can take me.”

Understanding settled into Nesta’s beautiful features. “Going beyond the Fence is strictly forbidden,” she told her.

Gwyneth offered a tense shrug. “It seems to me like I’m already on the forbidden list.”

Nesta shook her head. “To live the life of a Dauntless is to die,” she warned her. “Not many Transfers survive their Initiation. Consider what you’re about to do, Gwyneth Berdara.”

Gwyneth was done considering. It was finally time to act.

“If it was your sister,” she started, looking Nesta right in the eye, “either of your sisters. What would you have done?”

Something like surprise sparked in Nesta’s gaze, and for a moment—for a short, beautiful moment, Gwyneth had hope.

But then, Nesta told her, “You are asking a Candor to lie.”

Gwyneth knew she had lost.

She’d forgotten—she’d forgotten that, in this world, factions came above all else. No matter what Nesta thought of her, no matter what she would have done for her own sisters in Gwyneth’s position—the primary Candor virtue was to never tell a lie.

Dishonesty is rampant. Dishonesty is temporary. Dishonesty makes evil possible.

The doctrine was practically written on Nesta’s face, her features practically writhing in conflict.

So Gwyneth braced herself—braced herself for the administrator’s next words, no doubt announcing her imminent arrest and exile following the betrayal of her faction, of conspiring against her own. Perhaps they would tackle her the way they had Clare Beddor—perhaps they would drag her down to her casket beneath the city’s foundations themselves.

But then Nesta’s datapad flashed red—and Gwyneth watched as her results disappeared, wiped from the digital memory forever.

“When you get to the Dauntless,” Nesta began, her voice tight, “Find a man named Cassian. I need you to pass on a message.” Her throat bobbed. “Tell him,” she asked, “Tell him I was right.”

Gwyneth could only stare.

“Go now,” Nesta ordered, jerking her chin towards the exit. “And try to survive.”

For Catrin—for her sister, Gwyneth always would.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you, Nesta.”

She did not remember the walk back to her empty room at HQ. The last thing Gwyneth truly recalled was the cold bowl of her toilet as she leaned over it and retched her guts out.

The Choosing Ceremony was held exactly a week later at the Hub, the very centerpiece of the city. Gwyneth had queued in her dedicated blue line of twenty-one year old Erudites all morning, unable to occupy herself with anything else but waiting.

She could trust Nesta. Couldn’t she? When had she ever met a Candor with the ability to tell a lie, or worse, keep the truth from reaching the rest of the world? One word to the wrong person, and Gwyneth would be dead before even entering the building.

She had entered it, though, the Hub so much larger than she had remembered it. She and Catrin had once visited it during a school trip, when they were so young they could hardly understand the power it would one day hold over them. The power it held over everyone else.

The Ceremony had started about thirty minutes ago, and after a few brief speeches from the Candor government about the grandiose of this very moment, people’s names had begun being called out one by one. Gwyneth watched as those with an A last name made their choices, her gaze slipping occasionally to the sector at the far right, where the Dauntless would shout out their excitement each time a new Initiate’s blood was spilled over the hot, burning coals.

It was a sick display of devotion—Gwyneth had always considered it as such. Still, she was in no position to argue, not when her only other choice was to embark on a self-imposed exile. Or, apparently, submitting herself to the authorities for being an illegal outlier she had no idea even existed.

Slowly, she slid her gaze over the five white bowls, each the size of the large, sizzling cauldron she’d remembered from her childhood’s fantasy stories, their contents symbolising the five factions. Grey stones for Abnegation, plain and unassuming the way their lives were supposed to be; the hot coals for Dauntless; glass for Candor, clear as the truth; soil for Amity, like the farms they cared for; and, finally, water for Erudites, its flow representative of the ever-changing nature of knowledge.

Somewhere behind those bowls sat Merrill, no doubt expecting to see Gwyneth stain the water red. Perhaps, in another life, Gwyneth would have done just that—would have returned to the Academy, studying history the way she had always wanted, sneaking out to Amity every Summer Solstice to celebrate Catrin the way Amity celebrated the sun.

That life, though…it would not have been enough for Gwyneth. Not when she had seen the rage in Catrin’s lover’s eyes, not when she felt it in her own heart every time she felt the weight of her lighter tucked into her lab coat. Honouring Catrin would have never been enough.

Gwyneth wanted answers. Gwyneth wanted revenge.

“Gwyneth Berdara,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the hall, some of the Erudites’ quiet gasps disrupting the space. Some of them, no doubt, had already forgotten the tragedy from six months ago, Gwyneth’s family name serving as an uncomfortable reminder.

Gwyneth did not look back at them as she walked down towards the five bowls at the hall’s centre. Her eyes were only on the knife laid out before her the way the gun in her simulation had been—waiting patiently to find its way into her hand.

Gwyneth took one, steadying breath before picking it up at last. Then, she flipped it over to the sharp edge and sliced through her palm.

The quiet hiss snuck its way past her teeth as her skin split open, and she realised with a tinge of embarrassment that she may have cut too deep. Within seconds, her blood would begin spilling nowhere but the floor. Perhaps it was exactly the place where the Divergent belonged—unable to be defined despite so many choices laid ahead of them.

Gwyneth allowed herself one look at the water before looking up to meet Merrill’s gaze.

She held it even as she outstretched her hand over the burning coals and opened her palm, her blood sizzling over the fire.

There was only a second of silence when the entire hall held its breath.

And then, the Dauntless erupted with a roaring cheer.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @azrielshadowssing @damedechance @talons-and-teeth @octobers-veryown @foreverinelysian @sunshinebingo @aldbooks @climbthemountain2020 @trashforazriel @bibliophiliaxvignette

#divergent au #first hunger games!feysand now divergent!gwynriel gosh i wonder what's next 👀#gwynrielweeks2024 #gwynriel #pro gwynriel #gwyn x azriel #gwynriel fic #gwynriel fanfic #gwynriel fanficiton #gwyneth berdara #pro gwyneth berdara #gwyn acotar #gwyn acosf #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel acosf #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #my writing

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theartistknownaslymond · 2 years

Text

Whumptober 2022 days 12 + 13

“Mayday, mayday!” | Cave In | Rusty Nail

Fracture | Dislocation | “Are you here to break me out?”

Technically, we’re getting down to the duel at Zuara. But that manifests differently in the AU. With more...torture, basically.

CW for ummm where to start. Imprisonment, solitary confinement, darkness, torture, beatings, SA, psychological fuckery, drugging, restraint, psychiatric malpractice, personal data and privacy breaches, oh yes, limb dislocation, childbirth mention, allusions to rape and SA...😬 oh and cave ins! Flooding. Violent use of stationery. Blood. Homophobic slurs. Threats of the care system and the use of lobotomy. Can I just say CW Graham Reid Malett? It would save time.

It’s also about 7,500 words, I know tumblr isn’t the ideal platform for reading, it will go on ao3 at the end of the month with everything else.

So anyway, repeat after me: Whump Room! Whump Room! Whump Room!

I’m going to go and do penance for this now k bye. So much love to all my gremlins who want to read this! <3

---

Notes: Vadan is Jerott’s old sannyasin name, as Geetesh is GRM’s name. Baron Morgan is the Aga Morat. Khaireddin is Kailam/Cai. Kiaya Çalışkan is Kiaya Khatún. If anything else needs explaining do ask!

---

Francis wasn't certain how long he'd been in the tunnels below the ashram. His days began whenever he woke - or, more often, was woken - in darkness, and ended the same way. He had become Graham Reid Malett's latest living experiment, and as far as he knew, his life only mattered because it protected the lives of others.

Oonagh was alive, he had been told, though he hadn't seen her; her son - Francis' son - was alive. There was the boy Joleta had given birth to at an age it appalled Francis to even imagine; there was Philippa, supposing that her cover was safe as she worked with both children in the nursery; Archie and Salah, who would be looking for Francis, risking themselves the closer they came to discovering to the truth; Marthe, brought into all this against her will, seething at finding she couldn't just leave; and Onophrion, Gaultier, the boy Mikál who Philippa had formed a bond with...a whole community for Swami Geetesh to fuck with in the cause of keeping Francis compliant.

It had been made exquisitely clear to him that help was not coming. It would not be permitted to reach him, even if it were to be offered.

Since the first time he'd been brought rudely to consciousness, Swami Geetesh had let him believe that Jerott was already lost - an accident on the road as he had tried to escape and get help.

Francis couldn't say how many days ago it had been, but he recalled the sight of Geetesh's fascinated expression, lit in patterns of jagged contrast by the lone, caged bulb affixed to the wall. "He won't be bringing anyone back for you, my dear, do you understand that?"

It was impossible to process in the unreality of the world Francis had found himself in. It simply wasn't comprehensible that Jerott might not exist any longer - it seemed far more likely that Francis himself had ceased to be, and had found himself in some auto-purgatory, smothered by his own worst nightmares.

Before this, he had been helping Onophrion and another of the sannyasins clear brush in the woods; someone had offered him a sip of water from a flask and he'd grimaced at the bitter, metallic taste, supposing that the bottle was new and hadn't been cleaned well. He didn't remember losing consciousness, had merely woken to find himself pinned to a narrow bed with Geetesh sitting next to him. His hands had been cuffed to the steel frame and nausea had scoured his body from the tips of his toes to his scalp.

Geetesh had scowled at the sound of Francis retching. "Pull yourself together. The facilities in here are limited - if you ruin these clothes and this mattress I shan't be able to bring you replacements."

He'd had to force down another spasm of acidic rebellion as he contemplated spewing directly into that smug face, but logic clamped down on the temptation swiftly. He needed to know where he was, what was happening, what on earth Graham Reid Malett intended for him now.

That, of course, had all been information that Geetesh had delighted in spooling out over various indefinable moments of consciousness. When he visited, Francis always woke to find himself chained to the bed; when he left it was usually when Francis was on the brink of passing out for one reason or another, and in no fit state to fight Geetesh for the door key.

The room had a door at each end - they were sold, metal constructions. The floor was poured concrete and the walls and ceiling were bare rock. As well as the bed there was a stool and a heavy desk affixed to the floor, and a bare metal toilet bowl, like one would find in a prison, plumbed securely into the concrete. The light only came on when Geetesh arrived.

It emerged that Francis was being kept in this empty, soulless space in order to contribute to Geetesh's musical ambitions. Once Geetesh had explained his vision, he brought sound equipment down with him and set it up on the desk. The power source was outside the room, and a red extension cable trailed across the the desk from one of the doors, taking mixing decks, recording devices and other gadgets in its sockets. Sometimes it took Geetesh some time to set up the paraphernalia; sometimes all he did was press play on a battery powered cassette player and watch Francis' response. Once or twice he did not press play, but rather record, and those were the visits Francis resented most.

It turned out that Geetesh had been keeping archives of every one-to-one therapy or meditation session run out of the ashram, as well as recordings of the ambient trauma of collective samarpan sessions. He had some theories about human empathy, about the need some people felt to respond to the suffering shown by another.

"Listen to that," he might breathe, pausing the cassette after a pupil made a sound that weighed more than words - a sigh, a whimper, a groan of revelation. "What is it that makes us respond to music, Francis?

"The way the professional singer can channel feelings it isn't possible or desirable for us to express in our day to day lives. The kinds of feelings we may express instead in a closed therapy session. But it's always an act for the singer, isn't it, my lyrebird?

"You withold yourself, even when you are on stage. You perform. But what if your music was real? What if you let the audience have your real, authentic self? How much more cathartic might it be for all?"

When Geetesh depressed the button marked record, Francis knew it was time to be as silent as possible. Geetesh's approach varied - but never his goal of stripping Francis back to his 'authentic self'.

Sometimes he spoke to Francis like a psychiatrist might, leading him to the worst occasions in his life that Geetesh could summon: the year of slavery spent working for the New York mob, the disappearance of his young sister, the disaster in East Berlin, the night of misguided, narcotic-fuelled sex he'd shared with Geetesh's own sister. But, by and large, all these occasions that Geetesh knew about were a matter of public record already - and Francis had heard everything the world could throw at him regarding these moments. He didn't need Geetesh to tell him to regret his actions.

"And wouldn't you say that you enjoyed feeling important? Knowing that your music was worth killing over? You liked the idea of being a figurehead for freedom fighters...But a figurehead was all you were. Absolved of responsibility, merely a trinket for the serious men to display - free to deny it all...

"Of course, you let Eloise down. She trusted you, didn't she? She thought you could save her, offer her the life of luxury that would take her away from Gavin Crawford. But you're selfish, Francis. You didn't want to share. What if the world had loved her even more than you? You couldn't bear to let her in, so you drove her away. It's your fault she's never coming back.

"Those poor young things in Berlin - what a merry dance you led them on. Hope is the most dangerous weapon in a musician's arsenal, wouldn't you agree? To bring them the hope of acceptance - offering them the chance to be themselves even as you appeared in disguise - knowing that it would likely just get them killed...Was it worth it, for your career? How many times will you try the same trick - dying in order to boost your record sales?

"What you did to that girl is unconscionable. Unimaginable. She was nothing to you, was she? Just another little groupie you could teach a lesson to. Just a way of hurting me. But I bet you enjoyed it, didn't you, Francis? Having power over one so young. Testing the feeling of a nubile body beneath yours, showing her all the ways of the world she couldn't yet have experienced. You wanted to ruin her, and you got a thrill out of doing it."

These sessions left Francis calmly impassive. Geetesh was opening no new wounds, and when such accusations were thrown out only with the intention of getting a response from him, Francis was well-practised in acting indifferent. He already knew that the insinuations behind all Geetesh said could hurt him - but the pain was worst when Francis was the one carving blame into himself. And he had already hurt himself more deeply with those thoughts than Geetesh could possibly hope to do, lacking, as he was, the precise reasons why Francis already held himself fully accountable for the lives ruined and lost in the wake of their association with him.

So just as Francis declined to show any great emotion regarding his sordid past, Geetesh resolved to hide his own frustration at Francis' self-control.

This he managed some days better than others. Sometimes, the record button was pressed to catch the sounds of a clinical, thoughtfully-plotted beating - nothing serious enough to impede Francis' creative abilities, merely, as Geetesh called it, "A purgative. To help me to centre myself again. To remind me of the greater things that will be possible when you submit."

He would leave Francis with hidden bruises, scrupulous about wrapping his preferred implement in soft padding before the act. Afterwards, he might mix the new recording into a session taken from a group meditation and invite Francis to pick out his own grunts and cries among the screams of devotees letting loose.

Francis didn't know how many sessions of this he had endured when Geetesh decided to forcibly remind him of his obligations to those he loved.

He had already played dozens of tapes to Francis, narrating over other people's private confessions as though, by his intervention, he had collected the essence of each individual and contained it in a tidy arc: beginning, middle, end - and Geetesh's concluding moral. But on one occasion he woke Francis without preamble, leaving him in the darkness with only one track playing.

On it: a woman's voice - she had a Donegal accent - and the murmurs of a solicitous helper, someone with the disingenuous, soothing tones of a medical professional. Geetesh's own instructions, spoken too quietly to be heard precisely, and a bustle of activity and beeping monitors.

"You couldn't be there for the birth," Geetesh murmured from the darkness at the foot of Francis' bed. "So I thought I would preserve it for posterity."

Of course, this most precious of moments was accompanied by the pointed reminder that Geetesh expected some return for his generosity in sharing Kailam's first breaths - and that if Francis did not oblige him, he would make sure the relevant parties suffered.

It got him writing, at last. It forced him to compose, and it was, undeniably, inspirational.

Geetesh let Francis sit at the desk, uncuffed, and he lay on the bed, smiling, waiting for Francis to share what he had created.

Bitter, hopeless, and exasperated by the task, Francis finally exclaimed: "Don't you think the work might be more natural if I wrote about fatherhood from the perspective of one who is allowed to be a parent to their child?"

Geetesh stared at him dumbly for a moment, his brows raised and eyes wide. Then he rolled his head on the pillow and laughed uproariously at the ceiling. "You? Parent? I don't think so, little lyrebird. Besides, it's your pain that I want. That's what will sell best. The market for those sappy peans to parenthood is...limited."

Stupidly, after all the disdain and abuse that had fallen from his lips already, Francis found this got under his skin more than anything else had done His grip tightened on his pen, and he imagined driving it into Geetesh's eyeball.

No. Early on, Geetesh had told him that there was a pager hidden on site, rigged to sent an automatic message out if Geetesh did not override it within a number of hours. The message would ensure that Francis' family was scattered to the four winds: that Cai would vanish into the adoption system and Oonagh would be sectioned, and who knew what else would happen to the others. Any harm to Geetesh risked triggering this if Francis could not search thousands of acres of land and find the pager in time - or if he couldn't guarantee an escape for them all before then.

Francis had only one very dim hope regarding this. It hinged on circumstances that were, regrettably, beyond his control, but he had to believe that nature hated Graham Reid Malett as much as he did.

He had managed to escape the confines of his dingy cell just the once, when, having administered a beating, Geetesh had removed Francis' cuffs and wandered over to the desk to jot some things down in a soft-bound notepad. Francis' limbs had taken the brunt of it that day - his upper arms felt puffy and weak, his legs shook, and the soles of his feet were in agony. He lay curled on the concrete floor, his breath ragged and pained, and he noticed that one of the heavy metal doors hadn't been fully closed. There was a light seeping in that wasn't the same colour as the dim yellow of the bulb in the room - this light was cooler, perhaps more natural. Francis' hopes rose - maybe freedom was closer than he had thought.

He rolled over with a groan so that he was close to the door, and Geetesh turned to look at him.

"Good, lyrebird. That's material we can work with," he said smoothly.

Francis waited, prone against the cold, hard floor, until Geetesh had turned away again. Then, summoning the strength to stand - simply because he had to - Francis got up with the aid of the wall and the door jamb, grasped the edge of the heavy metal door with his fingertips and wrenched it open, and stumbled into fresher air.

He had found himself at the foot of a vertical shaft lined with metal rungs. It seemed to rise endlessly, to the source of the cool, white light he had detected. He grimaced at the distance, though he moved towards the rungs with the intention of climbing.

But the nerves in his fingers tingled from the blows that had been struck to his upper arms, and the pressure of one rung under the sole of his bare, whipped, foot was unbearable.

He had leaned his head against one of the cold metal bars and gasped back a sob of anguish, and then, even as Geetesh's steps casually approached from behind, he had noticed the water and minerals beading on the surface of the rock and he had recalled the maps he'd seen of the area.

Miles of unmapped tunnels and aquifers; cave systems that people disappeared into never to be seen again; unpredictable, changeable arroyos; old wells and sinkholes; a land that was as restless and vindictive under modern human occupation as an unbroken animal. When Francis had been removed to this cell, they had been approaching autumn and the rains. Was it too much to hope for, that this recently dug tunnel might not be able to withstand the forces of the seasons when they were unleashed?

Geetesh had wrapped his arms around Francis' biceps and torso and plucked him from the ladder like he was plucking a bug from a tree trunk. He had deposited Francis heavily on the bed, face first among sheets that already now smelled of Geetesh, and he had left immediately, taking his recording equipment and mixing deck with him, switching the light off and slamming the door.

But since then, Francis had thought often of the damp wall and what might be behind it. He didn't consider himself a man of faith, but he prayed to that wall and to the aquifer that lay behind it, and he willed it to break through and sweep both him and Geetesh away.

He tried not to let it work its way into the songs he wrote - this flood imagery and the potential of primordial power that lurked, always, in his subconscious. In this way, he found that he could write the miserable memoir Geetesh craved, while even so retaining his true feelings - his authentic self - from his tormentor.

It still wasn't easy to pluck what Geetesh desired from the knotted tangle of horrors that passed for emotions in that cell, and writing was a constantly draining task. Francis offered up his own self-loathing regarding the events Geetesh had questioned him about - he wrote confessions daily - or hourly - or at the very least every time consciousness arrived, wearing pink linens and a cruel smile on its face. But he did not preface them with forgive me, Father. He wrote for the impatient, seething morass that was the public court of opinion, knowing that no amount of sugar-coating with circumstance could absolve him.

The titles came and came, the confessions poured forth until there was almost an album's worth:

Galley Boy

The Sympathiser

Blood and Treason

The Tragic Moves

Strange Refuge

An Accident Happens

Distress is Not Released

The Lusty May

Flaming June

Pawn in Frankincense

Francis was at his lowest ebb. The tunnel he was in was deep enough below ground that he still had no inkling of the season. Wherever Geetesh arrived from, he never came direct from the outdoors, wet or bundled up against the cold. For all Francis knew they might have passed through winter and emerged again into spring.

But no - when Geetesh got close to him under the dim yellow bulb, Francis could see that his summer colour was absent. His skin was pale and his hair was a more muted gold. He smelled of wood smoke as much as patchouli, and the food he brought Francis was heartier, warming stuff.

He also seemed to sense that Francis' inspiration was beginning to wither, that his resources were running low, and that he could no longer push himself along only on the empty fumes of fear and stubbornness. He brought the tape player back in.

"I decided to share something special with you today, lyrebird," Geetesh told him. Settling at the foot of Francis' bed, cross-legged, his feet bare, he laid the tape player down between them like he was a teenager about to present a mixtape to their crush. "I'm sure you miss our foolhardy young friend almost as much as I do - and I thought you might like to hear his voice again."

Francis sat with his back to the headboard, frowning as he sought after Geetesh's meaning.

But then Geetesh pressed play, looked at Francis with mischief in his eyes and - to Francis' horror - pulled his linen top off. "It's one of my favourite sessions," he said by way of explanation. "I like to be comfortable when I listen to it. We made such a breakthrough! Ah, what might have been..."

He placed his large hands on his knees and drew an extravagantly deep breath that was designed to show off every muscle in his abdomen and chest - and the mastery which he had over them all. His wooden mala hung over his skin, and on it, the bearded face of Shree Rajneesh smirked at Francis on Geetesh's behalf.

Soon, two voices began to speak, and Francis closed his eyes when he recognised who Geetesh's patient - or pupil, or disciple, or whatever he called them - was in this session.

The accent was unmistakeable: Kelvingrove via Paris. Abrupt phrasing, heated and passionate one minute, stunned and defensive the next. A little younger, a little higher than it had been the last time Francis had spoken to him - cigarettes and booze had brought it down to something with rougher edges. But it was Jerott Blyth, and he was talking to Geetesh about a cassette he'd bought at a gas station.

The album he mentioned was Lymond's third, recorded with Will Scott, Christian Stewart and Turkey Mat. He seemed to have spent some time listening to it, to the point where Geetesh termed it an obsession and began to probe into how Jerott came to know the singer whose skill he praised so highly.

Francis, his eyes closed, remembered sleepless nights of innocent mischief in Carlisle. He remembered jamming at the youth hostel, swapping cassettes, raiding charity shop record bins, singing together, drinking together, singing together again and going back to the hostel to play guitar together again, and never wanting the month to end.

He still couldn't really fathom the thought that Jerott was truly gone - he had seemed indestructible, not least after surviving the fire and the cyanide and the delerium tremens. Not least in the wake of the betrayal he had felt when he'd discovered what Francis had done to keep them safe at Baron Morgan's Oasis, and the way he had pushed past that hurt in order to give the glorious, rousing, ecstatic performance he'd shared with Francis on their last night at the Oasis.

Francis had always supposed that Jerott, despite a propensity for finding trouble, would outlast him by a lifetime, would be the one to keep playing Francis' songs long after others forgot him. And now Francis found that the lack of him was an open wound that Geetesh had finally learned he could access.

On cue, Geetesh leaned forward and prodded Francis' leg. "Do you hear, my sweet? Did you know he thought that of you?"

The tape played, and Francis could not open his eyes as he heard the old conversation flow over him.

...

"Yet you say he's beautiful."

"Well, yes, but...so are...sunsets! I wouldn't have sex with a sunset."

"No. But a beautiful woman?"

"Yes. Obviously."

"Then why not a beautiful man?"

"Well it's. It's not right. It's perverted. Bhagwan says we need to be balanced. He says... that's unnatural, unbalanced. The people doing it have just got into bad habits."

Geetesh chuckles; indulgent.

"Is that what it was, when you came to me in Pune?"

"I... that was different." His throat sounds dry.

"Oh? You don't find me beautiful, Vadan?" Geetesh is smiling; it can be heard in his rich voice.

Jerott's laughter is nervous.

"No, I...that is...not...beautiful. Um. I just. I suppose I found myself thinking about it."

"It?"

"...Sex. I guess. With..."

"A man?"

"You."

Silence crackles on the tape before Jerott speaks again: "And I couldn't move beyond it, like Bhagwan instructs us to. So. I thought...um. Trying it would help me move beyond."

"Even though it's a perversion?"

"Well...I didn't think you would...judge me."

"I'm not judging you, Vadan. I would never, ever judge you - not least for such an...innocent curiosity."

"Yes - curiosity! That was all." He sounds so relieved.

"Yes. Now tell me, if this boy you knew came here, to the ashram. If you lived with him as you live with the others, and you felt that - curiosity - would you not act on it?"

"Um. I don't. I don't know..."

"Think about it, Vadan. How did he make you feel? What was it like being around him?"

"I don't...I only knew him for a few weeks, it's silly, really."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"You're minimising it. You're belittling your own feelings instead of acknowledging them, instead of seeing them clearly. They may make you uncomfortable, Vadan, but they are true, and real, and you. Did you love him?"

"Um. Maybe? I don't know. I never knew anyone like that before. Never...never felt like that before."

"You didn't have girlfriends?"

"Yeah, yeah of course. But I didn't love them. It was just...that was just fun, you know?"

"I understand, yes."

"But I wouldn't want to spoil it. We were friends. Maybe it couldn't have lasted if...if anything else had happened."

"At least, I think, you understand why I rejected you in Pune, then?"

Jerott sighs.

"It's the same?"

"Only you can say, naujavaa."

"I mean...maybe, when I left, maybe he could have persuaded me to stay."

"He didn't try?"

"No. Yes. But...not hard enough."

"You wanted to stay, then? Deep down, you wanted to be with him, to be in his band, to give up your fiancée and your father and follow this musician?"

"I don't know. I don't remember. It was different, when my dad was alive. When I thought I had a plan."

"I think, Vadan..." Geetesh's voice turns ever so soft, like a hand extended to a frightened animal. "I think you have been waiting for instructions ever since that time. You have been following the orders of those around you. The first decision you truly made for yourself was to come with me. Before then, you were shackled to this moment, to the hope that this boy would persuade you, would tell you what to do. You put that decision in his hands, and he didn't help you make the choice you wanted. So you absolved yourself of all choosing. Is that not so?"

Jerott draws a breath: sharp and sudden."Yes?"

"You were letting him rule you, letting the time he didn't try hard enough to persuade you to stay be the root from which all your problems stemmed."

"Yeah..."

"Good, Vadan, good! We have really made some progress today. Now your journey will involve moving past this boy, this love. He has hampered you for too long. We will go beyond him, you and I, and you will find that new loves appear."

...

Francis felt water on his cheeks. He'd cried at the sounds of Oonagh giving birth to Cai, but at nothing else that Geetesh had played. He hadn't expected to be confronted with anything that might make him feel in a way to rival that moment.

This, though, was a fist inside his chest all over again, a hand squeezing on his heart every time it tried to pump. It wasn't that he longed to be with the person he heard - not like he had needed, physically felt the compulsion to be at Oonagh's side when he had heard her animal roar and heard Cai cry out - but he found that a regret had been articulated by this recording that he hadn't been allowing himself to feel. He hadn't formed a callus over this injury, because he hadn't had the chance to build one up with preparatory, introspective self-flagellation.

He hadn't even thought that Jerott had wanted to be persuaded by him that night in Carlisle after the Solway Battle of the Bands. He had thought that arguing with Jerott about that would have been to show disrespect to his family and their priorities and customs. And he had never been at all certain of Jerott's feelings in those days - maybe Jerott hadn't been sure himself until he had gone to the ashram in Pune and discovered new depths to his being.

But really, Francis thought he was crying for what he knew Geetesh had done to the boy in the recording. For the knowledge that the replacement love offered by Geetesh had been poison from the start, and all his psychiatric language and half-truths only concealed the fact that he had been Jerott's new master and manipulator, the real chooser of his destiny. Francis was only swallowing down bile and tasting salt on his lips because of the knowledge of what Jerott had offered to Geetesh in Pune before Geetesh took it forcibly in the basement studio at St Mary's. Right under the bones of Francis' home, and he hadn't done a thing to stop it.

Jerott's words at the Oasis rang in Francis' memory: You fucking faggot!

Francis let out a sigh.

"Exquisite," Geetesh gloated. "I knew you would appreciate it."

"Fuck you..." Francis said wearily.

Geetesh's lips curled in a sneer. "How coarse. I expect more eloquence from you, pet. But I suppose, as you evidently care so much about our mutual second, you would like to hear about how I helped him to go beyond the base desires that were limiting him?"

Francis let his expression suffice as an answer. His body ached in ways that he could no longer enumerate or define; he couldn't say whether the sleep he was getting was too much or too little, but it wasn't at all restorative. Meal times were sporadic, and he couldn't remember the intervals between them because he was sure it changed each time. Sometimes he would wake to find Geetesh above him, his body pinning Francis to the mattress, his grip tight on Francis' jaw, and a razor in his free hand. Time couldn't even be measured by beard growth, although Francis found that he was getting confused about that process anyway - didn't it need light to grow? In short, he was in no position to stop Geetesh from monologuing about his achievements, but he doubted that this approach could wring much more material from him. He could only write with his 'authentic self' if he remembered what that was, after all.

Geetesh wasn't to be put off, though. He fingered the beads of his mala and gave a self-satisfied chuckle. "He thought I just needed to see your genius, little lyrebird."

Francis said nothing.

Geetesh took the cassette from the deck and put a blank in. He depressed the record button.

"That's why he invited me back. He thought he needed to save me, that if I could just see what he saw - how wonderful you are - we could all be one happy family."

Francis leaned his head against the stone above his headboard and closed his eyes again, envisaging a cleansing wave sweeping them both away, slamming their bodies against the uneven, jagged walls.

"As if I couldn't already see your genius. As if I wasn't already better equipped to understand you than he could ever be. As if we were his to share. He grew arrogant around you. You let him think he had more to offer than he did, and it was up to me to remind him of his place."

His breathing grew louder - Francis heard the excitement build in his voice as he recounted, blow by blow, what he had done.

He was recording himself - Francis didn't make a sound, just sat there with his eyes closed and his fists clenched in his lap, trying not to flinch at the picturesque account Geetesh delivered.

All too well, Francis remembered the state Jerott had been in afterwards. He had never needed to hear any of this to know enough about what had happened.

"So you see," Geetesh said lovingly. "It was what he had asked me for. How could he overcome his obsession if he never experienced what he desired? Unfortunately, our dear Vadan was never as receptive as he ought to have been. I don't think he understood the gift I gave him."

Despite the outward appearance of calm, Francis' pulse had spiked. He was trying not to think of anything at all, trying to empty his mind like he'd done whenever Baron Morgan had taken him back to his cabin and demanded payment for their stay. He'd endured that, he reminded himself. He could endure this. And Jerott wasn't alive anymore - Geetesh couldn't hurt him anymore. These were just words, aimed at lighting the fuse on Francis' imagination, and so Francis could fight them by keeping his mind blank.

"He showed me that he had never understood Bhagwan's teachings. He was supposed to take that experience, learn something about himself, and move on - but he only grew more obsessed with you, didn't he?"

Francis' thoughts of collapsing cave walls were coming into conflict with the maintenance of his own defenses. Too much was clamouring at the edges of his mind, too many recent traumas that he hadn't been able to deal with - displaced onto the hurt that had been done to another instead of the hurt done to him, these memories grew more powerful. He saw again and again that he should have tried harder, done more, stopped things from reaching this point.

He thought of Baron Morgan leering: "I seen how he looks at you."

Marthe, with a cynical curl of her lip, implying that Morgan's attentions might, in fact, have been just what Jerott needed. And later, thinking she was alone with Jerott in the pool: "It's because you can't have Francis Crawford that you want me."

Again, Jerott swinging a blow at Francis' face - one that had real, savage intent behind it: "You fucking faggot!"

Jerott later that night, after the triumph of the gig, after the escape, after the wild motorbike ride through the desert, his arms clasped round Francis' body as they rode into Salina, his cheek resting against Francis' back, his thighs behind Francis' thighs. Murmuring Arabic from a poem he'd recited to Francis back in Carlisle - lines he didn't realise Francis had looked up and memorised, as he memorised all poems he encountered.

«My drink and my ride are sweet

and my beloved takes care of me.»

Geetesh shifted his weight and Francis' eyes snapped open - a response born purely of self-preservation.

He had moved the tape recorder aside and leaned forwards to peer at Francis' expression. One of his hands was down the front of his trousers, moving slowly, thoughtfully over the erection that showed beneath the fine fabric.

Francis drew a sharp breath and wedged his body back against the headboard, his fingers knotting with disgust in the sheets to either side of his hips.

"Were you never tempted by him yourself, Francis? Or was he supposed to follow you forever, receiving nothing in return?"

Francis just shook his head and tried to keep his eyes on Geetesh's face. There was a furious trembling inside his chest, fighting to radiate out through his body - but he wouldn't give Geetesh the satisfaction of seeing him shudder. He wouldn't.

Geetesh smiled. "I did at least spoil him for you, then, didn't I? I am pleased. At least the experiment wasn't a total failure."

He moved forwards again, one hand on himself, the other dropping to Francis' knee. His expression was terrible, unblinking, full of a wondering fascination with Francis' own repulsion. "But I think you're subtle enough to understand me better, Francis. And I understand you."

Francis went to remove Geetesh's touch from his knee, but Geetesh was quick as a snake striking. He pinned Francis' wrist down, and the hand that had been busy inside his own trousers emerged and gripped Francis' jaw with bruising, searing strength. Francis smelled the hidden parts of Geetesh's body on his fingers, savoury and musky. He gagged even as Geetesh tilted his head back against the top of the headboard and shifted to straddle him.

"Don't fight it, sweeting. I will have you. Not like that farmer in the desert had you - oh yes, I know all about Mr Morgan and how you debased yourself for him - not like that Cypriot courtesan who thinks her influence extends further than it does. Not like Margaret Douglas and her...plain, old-fashioned wants. I will have the real Francis Crawford, however I find him."

Francis' mind scrabbled for purchase on the information concealed in Geetesh's words. Some of this...some of this he shouldn't have known about. Who could have told him about Baron Morgan and about Kiaya Çalışkan? It was hard to think, though, when he felt the hardness of Geetesh's groin jammed up against his stomach, when the skin on his wrist felt raw and burnt from Geetesh's twisting, tight hold.

"It's ok if you're afraid, gentle bird," Geetesh murmured above his lips. "Let yourself be afraid. I want to see it all."

Francis' body juddered involuntarily. His eyes were screwed up and his jaw was clenched as he felt his cheeks squeezed against his teeth by Geetesh's thumb and forefinger. It took him a moment to realise that the tremor hadn't just occurred within his own limbs. The wall had rumbled, hadn't it?

Geetesh looked around the room with a scowl and then leaned over Francis' face again. "You and I will make the earth move another time, lyrebird. For now, I hope you find that you have enough material to finish your magnum opus."

He got off, picked up the tape player and stopped the recording, gathered the other cassette, his notebook and his shirt, and left.

The light went out and Francis remained in darkness, gasping, gulping, begging for air to reach his lungs as the panic he hadn't shown earlier flooded into his nervous system. If the tunnels and the room had caved in then and there he wasn't sure he'd have known the difference. Only when it ended, and the fear was gone at last, would he know he was free. He wished it would happen, and then pulled himself up short - he needed Geetesh to die with him. He needed to stop that man from doing any more to anyone else.

His hands were shaking, and Francis splayed them against the sheets, steadying himself, trying to find stillness.

Beneath one finger, he felt something unexpected: hard and plastic. A pen? A pen.

His heart thundered hard enough that it seemed to bruise itself with the effort. Geetesh had left him a weapon. And next time, pager or not, Francis was going to use it. He didn't care what he had to do to rescue Oonagh and Cai and the others. He'd run himself straight to jail if he had to, but he realised now that no amount of waiting would present him with an opportunity to defeat Geetesh without ending him.

Francis grasped the weapon in his fist, breathing hard. In the darkness of the cell he prepared himself to become a killer.

---

It was impossible, as ever, to know how long the interval between Geetesh's visits was. During this stretch of darkness Francis felt the ground shiver on a number of occasions, and the air emerging from the vent in the door seemed cooler and fresher.

He supposed this was connected to Geetesh's manner: when he next appeared his mood was sour. He switched the light on and slammed the door. His hands were already shaking with fury as he struggled to insert the key in the lock.

Francis had formed his plan, but he wasn't certain how it would go over with Geetesh in this temper. He waited, standing between the bed and the desk, the pen concealed in one hand.

Geetesh visibly imposed calm on himself before turning to the room, arranging a grim smile onto his features. He looked Francis up and down and raised a brow.

"You may sit," he said impatiently.

Francis glanced between the stool and the bed, and Geetesh snorted.

"What? Would you like me to just get it over with, my sorry, hungering slut?" He crossed the room with his long stride and grabbed Francis' wrists.

He didn't seem to have noticed what Francis held in one hand, but Francis couldn't do anything with the pen anyway, not when he was held in this furious, agonising grip.

Geetesh gazed down at him, and Francis realised he hadn't come with a schedule, as he usually did. He was deciding what to do only now, and Francis' anticipation that he would pick up where he'd left off had been what prompted his current inclination.

"You think you can make yourself into whatever anyone wants, don't you? A Protean whore, always aiming to please. You've remodelled yourself so often you don't even know who you are or what you want anymore. Would you like me to remind you, Francis?"

Francis bit the inside of his lip to distract from the pain in his wrists. He stared up into the mad periwinkle blue of Graham Reid Malett's eyes and begged his terrified animal body to have patience with him.

"You don't need to pretend for me," Geetesh hissed. He flung Francis down onto the mattress, and Francis landed messily, his head colliding with the back wall. He felt the pen lying concealed beneath his palm still, but his ears rang from the blow and he felt a cool spot on his scalp, as though blood was beginning to seep from a wound. Geetesh pulled his top off once more and reached a hand into his trousers, jerking quick and rough to get himself hard. He stepped forwards, leaned one knee on the mattress, and reached for Francis' waistband.

He was within striking distance, and Francis raised the pen and brought it down as hard as he could on that sturdy, muscled thigh. Geetesh's flesh was hard, the pen was blunt, but fear gave Francis strength beyond hope, and the nib pierced skin and burrowed into Geetesh's leg.

He roared, his breath hot on Francis' face, and he plunged a fist into Francis' solar plexus.

Francis just gripped the pen tighter, tried to force it deeper into the thigh, tried to tear the wound wider, seeking the deep artery however he could.

Geetesh didn't seem concerned with removing the weapon from his body though: just with getting his revenge, just with having Francis how he'd resolved to have him. He grappled with Francis, their bloodied hands tussling until Geetesh held both of Francis' wrists again. He hauled Francis towards him, slipping back off the bed's edge to bring them both to their feet - another bellow of rage was the only sign he gave that the item of stationary embedded in his thigh was causing him any discomfort.

He spun Francis round like a ballerina pirouetting with her hands above her head and then jerked and twisted one of Francis' arms as he pulled it down.

There was a wet, snapping pop. White hot agony exploded in Francis' shoulder and he yelled as loud as Geetesh had done. He thought he might have blacked out for a moment, because suddenly he found himself face first on the bed, his arm still held behind him at an improbable angle - dislocated, for sure - and Geetesh's hand was fumbling inexactly at the fastenings of Francis' trousers. His breathing was ragged and he seemed to be struggling with his coordination.

The room juddered and rumbled, and Francis knew that finally he had done enough, and they were both going to be buried there by the flood that had to come.

"Do you...do you think you've won, lyrebird?" Geetesh's voice rasped in his ear. "Your recordings are safe. They'll be released, one day. Your brood mare won't last long once she's separated from the child for good. Maybe they'll lobotomise her, maybe it will be the only way to pacify her. That boy won't last a month with any foster family. He'll be driven from pillar to post, cast out wherever he goes, never able to understand why no one loved him enough to want him, to keep him."

Francis screwed his eyes shut and a gasping sob escaped his clenched teeth. He'd had no choice. In the end, he'd had no choice. Graham Reid Malett had to be stopped.

It sounded like there was a thunderstorm behind the door and the room went dark - the bulb had put up no resistance. The bed rattled and its legs thrummed against the floor, and the door creaked and juddered. Pressure built, and then a vast body of water slammed into the room, throwing the door off its hinges and blasting it into the desk.

Their bodies were gathered up in the maelstrom, and Francis was lost in the black swirling current, battered against ceiling and wall.

He wasn't conscious and couldn't know that the water had had enough force to drive through the door at the other end of the room as well. After a few seconds in which a raging torrent scoured the cell, the water levels dropped, releasing two bodies as they did: Geetesh landed face-first on the soaked bed again, his bodyweight pressing the pen deeper into his thigh as he bled out; and Francis' sprawled messily on the floor, filthied by mud and soil and stones that had been dragged along by the water.

When he came to, he was in a tunnel, lit by the light of an electric torch. There was a brown-skinned, bearded man leaning over him, a wild look in his eyes. Fucking hell, thought Francis. That can't be right.

He remembered Geetesh's final words, the threat to his family, and he screwed his eyes shut against the realisation that, dead or alive, he had given them up in order to stop Graham Reid Malett.

"O mill, o mill...what hast thou ground..." he murmured lyrics from the compositions Geetesh had wrung from him, and the man leaning over him touched his face tentatively.

"Francis?"

Francis blinked his eyes open. That definitely couldn't be right. He must have been dead after all. It seemed unfair to be dead and still hurt so much, though.

"Francis...I think...I think he's...gone," Jerott Blyth was staring at something beyond Francis' head and his voice was quiet and fearful, but it was his voice behind the scruffy black beard, and it was the voice of someone who seemed, despite all previous information, to be very much alive.

#whumptober2022 #whumptober #every day i write the book #band au: pawn in frankincense #character: graham reid malett #character: francis crawford #character: jerott blyth

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jimlingss · 4 years

Text

Dynasty

➜ Words: 17.4k

➜ Genres: 50% Angst, 35% Smut, 15% Fluff, Historical!AU

➜ Summary: It’s no secret that the Emperor is infertile. But even so, a girl is selected every three months and brought to become his concubine in hopes of conceiving the next heir. This time, it’s you. And in order to prevent execution, Jeon Jungkook might just aid you in conception.

➜ Notes: Inspired by the movie the Treacherous (2015)

➜ Warnings: Brief depictions of reluctant sexual intercourse, dubious consent, emphasis on impregnation, sloppy seconds, creampies, pregnancy. Reader discretion is advised.

“Absolutely not!”

You stand at once, chair knocked back to the ground in a clatter, unable to believe what you were hearing. Perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps your ears hear wrongly. But by the way your older brother’s brows are drawn together, marring his usually good-natured features, you know you’re not mistaken. He had worn the same expression as the day of your parents' massacre. Your voice is shrill as you protest and cry, “I won’t! I can’t! T-This— this is ridiculous! How could you even….how could you even….” You are Seokjin’s younger sister — his blood, flesh, bones. Family. And you were about to be traded in like you were no one to him. A chess piece. A part of his bigger plan that you wanted nothing to do with. Jungkook looks at you with an impassive expression, one you cannot read, but you pay him no mind. Seokjin, however, looks to him and nods his head. They are silent in their communication, and then Jungkook takes his leave until there it is only your shadow and Seokjin’s that flickers against the wall with every movement of the dim candlelight. He begins with a soft voice. A soothing one as if you were a child. “There’s no choice, Y/N.” “There is always choice,” you emphasize as tears start to stream down your cheeks. “Do you really want to send me off to that...that disgusting monster? Do you really want me to be used? If you care about me as a younger sister, if you care about me at all, you wouldn’t be doing this.” His dark eyes meet yours. “The decision has been made, Y/N. You have been chosen. But this is the way we can make our parents happy. This is the only way for them to reach peace.” You sob, collapsing onto the ground. Seokjin does little to comfort you. He knows there’s nothing he can do after this betrayal. You hold your face in your hands, catching the tears that rack through your frame. It is silent except for the noises of your wails muffled through your sleeves. After minutes of devastation and grief that stutters out of you, your hands drop to look at him. And your voice swoops into a murmur, one that is private, kept between the two of you. You beg for his honesty from sibling to sibling, without duties or titles. “Is...is t-there no other way?” Your brother deflates, refusing to look at you. You notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, how he swallows hard to answer. “There must always be sacrifices made in times of a revolution and this is ours.” “No.” You shake your head. “This is mine.”

There is a knock at your door. “Go away, Seokjin,” you shout at him without regard for sibling hierarchy. In your anger, he has long lost the respect that goes along with the status of being your older brother. “I said I wasn’t hungry!” But in spite of your bitterness, the door opens anyhow. It’s Jungkook who has appeared in place of Seokjin, doe eyes and dark hair tied into a high ponytail by a black ribbon that matches his robbed attire and the scabbard by his side. “I saw the light in your room,” he says simply. You lift your eyes away from the book you were copying, the last task that you wanted to finish, and your gaze remains cold on the man. You detest Jungkook. He is Seokjin’s friend, not yours and not a childhood one. Your brother had met him shortly after arriving in this town years ago. But you do not know him well. You resent him merely because he represents every manner that Seokjin has changed in the ways you hate most. Before they met, Seokjin was still the brother you knew. Kind-hearted. Mischievous. Protective. There was no rebellion group, talk of treason, risk of harm. The Seokjin you knew would’ve never thrown you away like this. “Are you ready for tomorrow’s journey,” he asks. “There’s no reason not to be.” Jungkook is quiet and conniving. You know the only reason he has come out of his way to check on your well-being in the middle of the night is for his assumption that you are a flight risk. You suppose it might be natural to have those suspicions. Any girl in your position would run. But you quickly dissipate his worries if it means he’ll leave. “You don’t need to worry that I’m going to run. I wouldn’t do that to Jin.” He makes no changes in his expression. Always blank. Always emotionless. “The journey will be long. You should get some rest.” “I can take care of myself.” He remains silent for a moment. But you return to your work and when you look up again, he’s gone, having finally left you in your own misery. // When the first blush of dawn arrives, you get dressed in your best attire and gather the little belongings you have. They’re already waiting for you in front of the house, not allowing you a moment to yourself to relish in freedom any longer. There is a horse, a carriage, and four members of the group you don’t recognize along with Jungkook to journey with you. Seokjin waits there too, but you can’t look him in the eye. He knows you're upset, you can tell. Neither of you say much to each other, but you mutter a half-hearted farewell. You can hear the way the corner of his mouth gently quirks by the sound of his voice. “I’ll see you soon enough, Y/N.” You turn away, walking to your carriage where the horse is already neighing and becoming fussy. But then your steps slow. You hesitate getting in and Jungkook stares at you, waiting patiently, never once pushing you on. At once, you turn around. “Jin!” You call out to your brother and he turns around before stumbling. A giggle streams out of his chest after you’ve thrown yourself at him in an embrace as if you were still children. He hugs you back, arms around your body, frame overtaking yours, and he squeezes you tight. You shut your eyes to savour the fleeting moment. He leans down, murmuring, “I’m sorry.” But you shake your head, unable to utter a word for fear of crying again. “We should get a move on before it gets any later,” one of the members calls out and it’s your reminder of where you’re headed. You pull apart from Seokjin. He smiles tenderly and brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face. The carriage ride is shaky. Every bump and crack of the dirt road is felt by you ten folds, the wheels wobbling and the horse’s disregard makes it difficult for you to rest easy. But you don’t dare utter a complaint, not when you’re in the company of unfamiliar people. You do, however, pull back the curtain of the square window to look at the land and let in fresh air. Eventually, there’s a break called. The tiny carriage comes to a halt and Jungkook is the one who brushes open the large curtain. He catches you off guard, peering in with his large eyes that seemingly sparkle naturally. “We’re going to take a small rest.” “Okay.” He helps guide you out and you notice the other people are either on the ground resting their feet or by the stream, taking a drink of water. “Are you alright?” You nod. There’s a moment of serene quietness, the birds chirping around the trees, the rustling of leaves. Jungkook drinks from his leather pouch and then hands it to you to quench your thirst. You sip it, soothing your throat and gather the courage to utter his name— “Jungkook.” He turns to you. “Do you know what’s going to happen to me?” “You’ll be introduced as one of the minister’s nieces. He’s been aligned with us for years. You’ll be inspected and bathed, and then there will be a ceremony and then….” “I’ll be bedded,” you complete his sentence for him. Jungkook remains silent. The Emperor is infertile. It’s a truth no one dares to utter, but it’s been fifteen years since he began his reign and he has yet to produce a child no matter how many consorts and concubines has entered the palace. The Empress has not bore a child either. And nine years ago, there was an official decree. Every three months since, a girl is selected and brought in. If she doesn’t get pregnant within the time frame, she is executed for failing to fulfill her duty, for treason. You are the next one. The one who has to preoccupy the Emperor to the best of your abilities. “You don’t need to worry,” Jungkook says, perhaps reading the expression on your face, but you slap his hand away when he reaches out. “Of course I’ll worry,” you spit at him in animosity. “I’m going to die.” The man’s brows draw tightly together, his lips lopsided. “It’ll be over before they can get to you.” You say nothing more, returning to the small carriage before you can start to sob like a child and further be humiliated. // Night falls and camp is set up with little hardships. By the afternoon of tomorrow, you would have already arrived at the palace, perhaps straight to the Emperor’s bed. The thought makes you nauseated, wanting to crawl out of your own skin and hide from your body. You know you’re being selfish. In the bigger picture, your desires don’t matter. If anything, you should be happy to give yourself up for the rebellion. For the common good. But you can’t. “Are you not going to eat?” one of the female guards asks you with a smile and you lift your eyes away from the blazing fire whose heat has pressed against your cheeks. You look around to the four members of the group that has been commissioned to protect you, their faces illuminated by the glow of the flames. You wonder what sacrifices they had made to be here, what led them here in the first place. “I-I can’t.” You stand up and all of their heads, including Jungkook’s, turn to you. “I’m sorry. I….I need a moment to myself.” You quicken your pace towards the forest, trying to escape their prying gazes, the burden that has been placed upon your shoulders. It’s hard to breathe. It’s as if the smog of the fire has bloomed inside of your lungs, constricting your chest, forming a thick lump in your throat. The darkness of the forest envelopes you and it’s almost comforting. That is until there’s a branch snapping behind you, and you quickly spin around. “I knew you weren’t okay.” “Go away, Jungkook.” He remains silent, but you can see the outline of him coming closer towards you. He is not dissuaded no matter how much you have pushed him away from you, no matter how rude you’ve been to him from the start. You’re not sure if he pities you or he— “Can I comfort you in place of Seokjin?” Jungkook requests in an earnest murmur, humble and cautious. “You wish he was here instead of me, don’t you?” You’re taken aback, brought to speechlessness. The two of you end up seated by the creek on a wooden log. The horizon is full of stars, allowing you to see enough to watch the water that rushes past in a calm hum, soothing your turmoil. “I’m afraid.” “Of what?” “I don’t know what to do. How to capture the Emperor’s attention. How to be...bedded.” “You need to be strong.” You rise to your feet at once, biting back angrily, “I’ve never even been touched by a man! How am I supposed to be strong?!” It’s easy for him to say. It always is to the outsider. He doesn’t know what this means to you. You’ll never be able to find a husband after this. The peaceful life you dreamt of will be gone. You will forever be stained as the Emperor’s previous consort, his whore or you will end up dead. You’re not sure which is worse. “How am I supposed to know what to do?” Your voice is shrill, desperate and full of pain as if you are asking Jungkook for an actual answer to your predicament. Jungkook stands and places his firm hand on your shoulder. “There,” he says after a moment when you’ve calmed down, “you’ve been touched by a man.” Irritation surges through you again at how lightly he’s taken your strife. “You know that’s not what I meant—” Then you’re suddenly spun to face him, a strong grip at your waist. Your words become muted through the soft press of Jungkook’s lips. Your whimper is muffled by his mouth. It’s chaste. Careful. He allows you room to breathe, to feel the velvet texture of his lips or to pull away if you so choose to. But you don’t move. Your eyes become half-lidded, gazing into his doe eyes that seem to be full of stars. Your hands come to grip his broad shoulder, his placed on the dips of your body so gently as if he were afraid to break you. And your heart swells dangerously inside your chest. After a moment of his mouth moving against yours in a sweet kiss, Jungkook pulls apart. Almost immediately, you tug him back to you again, not wanting the moment to end. You kiss him fervently and he lowly hums inside his chest, tongue peeking at the seam of your mouth, urging you to grant him access. It’s unsightly, the two of you unmarried and holding one another so intimately in the dark during this time of night. If anyone knew, it would be shameful. But it’s only you and Jungkook in this small space. Your lips part, allowing his hot tongue to lick into your mouth. And he angles his head, happily deepening the kiss. It makes you gasp for air, becoming breathless, but he doesn’t relent. Jungkook presses forward eagerly like he can’t help himself anymore. His hands come to feel up your body, the softness of your flesh through your clothing, the curves of your hips, the swell of your breasts. Your arms loop around his neck, back arching into his firm body. You relish in the sound of soft smacking filling the forest, feeling your face heat as his scent surrounds you. And when you moan his name again in a desperate whine — “J-Jungkook.” — his lips start to trail down your jaw to your neck. He holds you as you lean into him. You pant, chest rising and falling, and you have half a mind to realize that your clothes have loosened. The man begins to suck a spot at the juncture of your neck by your exposed collarbone, claiming you possessively. Your entire body heats for him, your stomach fluttering. His name befalls your lips again in a whine and this time, it seems to snap him from his trance. Jungkook pulls away from you. Enough distance that if your arms stretched, it would barely be able to reach him. He wipes his sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “We...we should go back,” he says, winded. You merely nod, not uttering a single word. The two of you don’t need to speak to know that this can’t be continued further. It wouldn’t be good for either of you. But you’re still stunned as you follow him back to where the others are. Your eyes trace Jungkook’s backside and you nibble into your swollen lips. The taste of cinnamon lingers. // The capital is close — you can tell by the way travelers aren’t as sparse and the rich attire that adorns their body. Their expressions are bright and friendly, innocent from the fear of theft or strangers stealing their food. There are no hollowed eyes and cheeks peering at you blankly, no hands clasped together to silently beg for some grains to satisfy the shriveling stomachs. By afternoon, the carriage is brought to a halt again. “I’ll be going ahead first,” Jungkook announces as he sits on top of his horse. “It’ll seem less suspicious.” The other seem to take little issue, but before Jungkook rides off into the distance, his gaze lingers on you. The two of you stare at one another for a moment, one where you’re not sure if you should bid farewell to him or not, one where you wonder when the next time is going to be. But before you can utter a single syllable, he turns and whips the reins. The horse gallops off, hooves marked in the dirt. You stare at his backside diminishing before you’re called back into the carriage to carry on. You arrive no later. The palace is grander than anything you’ve ever witnessed, stretching across the horizon. The red roof and golden trim are vivid against the town even from the distance. Once the guards at the stone wall are briefly spoken to, the magnificent gates creak open and you’re brought into a different world, one protected from outside life. There are hundreds of servants with downcast heads and folded hands scattering across the vast courtyard, winding pavilion paths bordering each structure. Even from peering out the tiny window, your neck aches with how much you have to crane your neck to see it all. But you quickly snap out of your awe. This isn't paradise. It’s your prison. The gates close behind you, trapping you in its walls and after a minute, the carriage halts the final time. “Consort Y/N, from the Park family.” Your title is declared and the curtain is roughly pulled back. You brace yourself as you’re guided out and you come face to face with two men, both middle-aged, and two women, the younger one keeping her head down and her hands folded. Instantly, you lower your eyes with a polite smile and dip down. “It is a pleasure to be here. I am grateful to serve my duty.” You maintain a soft-spoken voice, barely above a timid whisper. It feels foreign to act this way, but not completely unfamiliar. Even if your title has been stripped away and your family name has been wiped, you still are of aristocratic blood. “Oh my! I haven’t seen you in so long!” One of the middle-aged men approaches you with half-moon eyes and a plump face. You’ve been spoken to enough that you know the minister’s name is Park Jimin and he’s supposed to be your uncle. “You’ve grown so much!” “You look as healthy as I remember, uncle.” You offer a brighter smile and he chuckles heartily. “Do I? I’m glad then. I think I’ve packed on a few pounds since your mother last saw me, but don’t tell her that or she may send me some more medication.” In the midst of the lighthearted conversation, you realize that you’re being scrutinized by the other man. His hair is as dark as his eyes, gruff around his mouth and chin but his features are sharp. He stands with his chin high, his spine straightened, his arms behind his back. His robes are a deep violet, silks luxurious and commanding attention. You’ve seen him before. Jung Hoseok. The man who has stood in your family’s courtyard with the same posture as each member was brought out and executed. You had witnessed it from the gaps of the weaved basket that you were hidden in until Seokjin covered your eyes with his small hands. It was fifteen years ago, when you were merely five. But you still remember the iron stench of blood well. The memory and his boring gaze makes you break into a sweat. It’s as if he’s tearing you apart limb by limb, trying to read your intentions and consider if you’re a threat. Fear drains blood from your face. And perhaps he notices because a moment later, he hums and smirks. “Let’s not waste all day here.” Hoseok turns away. “Minister Park, there are many matters to attend to. Your greetings can continue later.” “O-Of course.” Hoseok glances at the older woman standing beside him and she nods, addressing you, “Come with me.” “From now on, you are to serve the Emperor. I am going to assume that the Park family has taught you proper etiquette.” The head servant lady continues walking and you struggle to keep up with her and the servant. You don’t glance at the members who took you here as they retreat appropriately. From now on, you’re on your own. “If you step out of line, there is little anyone will be able to do for you. The Empress is difficult to please, but as long as you do what you’re told and say nothing more, then your time will be more pleasant.” You’re brought into a room with two more female servants and the door is quickly slid shut. “Strip.” “P-Pardon me?” The lady huffs in annoyance and steps forward. Her hands reach out and she begins to tug the ribbons of your clothes. You’re startled, immediately stumbling back out of her grasp. “I-I can do it.” “You should get used to it,” she says as you shed your outer and inner coat. “There’s no point in being embarrassed anymore.” Still, your fingers are slow to remove your clothing. After a moment, you’ve rid of your clothes, only keeping your modesty by the last thin white layer that hides your breasts and naked torso from plain view. It seems to be enough and the woman begins to inspect your skin. She rounds you, examining you from head to toe. Then she holds your arm, lifting them at every angle, making sure there are no wounds or rashes that could infect the Emperor. Her eyes, however, eventually fall to your neck. Right at the spot where you remember Jungkook kissed you hard enough to bruise and your face heats at the memory. “I was accidentally bitten by a bug yesterday on my way here,” you murmur to explain the subtle lilac stain. “I apologize for being so careless.” “Nothing that won’t fade then,” she states and you breathe a silent sigh of relief. But then the woman suddenly grabs a hold of your cheeks in one hand. She tilts your head to look up into her eyes and she studies your face carefully. She hums after a moment and lets you go. You blink at her. “Is there something wrong?” “You’re one of the prettier ones, that’s all.” The woman speaks softly as if it’s a shame — a shame that you’ve been brought here as the Emperor’s consort and that you couldn’t be wedded properly. You’re unable to dwell on her pity when the other girls take you by the arms and guide you to follow the woman when she walks off. The door slides open into an adjacent bedroom. “You’re going to be washed, cleaned, thoroughly. There’s not much time. You must be prepared for tonight.” Your feet stop, blood running cold. “Tonight?” The lady turns around, her gaze more sympathetic than before. “There’s no time to be wasted.” You’re taken roughly, bathed in milky water with flowers plucked from the royal garden and rigorously scrubbed by two other servant girls until your own skin feels raw. Your nails are trimmed, hair combed before being looped and braided into a half-updo, holding golden hairpins that you would’ve never dreamed of ever having. The robes that are slid on you are soft silks, a light blush pink that matches the peony flowers your mother once had in her own garden. And your lips are pressed with red pigment, eyes lined, cheeks dusted with a rosy shade. When they’re finished, you don’t recognize the person you see in the mirror. “The Emperor isn’t difficult to please, but one must know not to step out of line.” “I understand.” “All hail Empress Soojin!” There’s a clamour outside and the doors abruptly open. Instantly, the servants, including the head servant woman, sweep back and fold their hands together, bowing their heads. You also look to the ground, dipping down in the presence of the Empress. “You must be the new girl. Lift your head,” she says and you come to meet cat-eyes narrowed in on you. The Empress is dressed in crimson robes with golden swirls, her dark hair in an updo with pins and luxurious decorations. But she is not worthy of her title from her clothing alone. Her aura is intimidating, her expression unyielding to anyone in the room. She carries herself like she knows she was born of importance, that the mandate of Heaven resides on her shoulders. Empress Soojin looks at you with a scrutinizing eye that makes you fearful. But then she smiles. “What’s your name?” “Park Y/N, Your Majesty.” “What do your parents do?” “They are nobles. They have some land in the East. We grow wheat for Your Majesty.” The lies are easy, all part of a narrative that isn’t yours. Her smiles eases even more. “Do a good job.” “Yes.” Empress Soojin is kind — more than what you expected someone in her position to be. You would not know how to feel if you were meeting yet another girl your husband was trying to conceive with. But you’re not foolish enough to be put off guard. You know far better than to fall for her facade. At the end of the day, she is your enemy. She might poison you or kill you if she so chooses. And you know that your child will also be her child. If you do fall pregnant by some miracle, the baby would be taken away from you and given to her. To grow with her. To call her mother. But you don’t dwell on these thoughts or let it be known. Empress Soojin leaves once she’s satisfied with your appearance and a veil is put over you as the sun starts to dip over the horizon. The ceremony is about to begin, the jovial music already playing in the distance and muffled through the walls. “It’s time.” You’re led out of the room, lugging your heavy robes with you. But as you look up, your breath hitches in your throat. Doe eyes stare into yours past the translucent veil. Jungkook is dressed in navy robes with the royal emblem on it, his hair brought into a ponytail with a sheathed sword by his side. Something lodges into your throat. But you try not to let your eyes linger too long on him. After all, here he isn’t your brother’s friend or the companion on your journey. Jungkook is the Emperor’s guard. You are merely the Emperor’s new consort. “I’m here to escort you by the Emperor’s orders.” You don’t speak a word as you walk alongside him. Neither does he. But when no one’s watching, you steal a glance at Jungkook from the corner of your eye and find that he’s peeking at you too. The moment is too short. The throne room is grandiose, golden pillars spiraling upwards to hold the high ceilings. The room is full of ministers sitting by and eating, young girls dancing to the deafening beat of the drums and the melody of the flutes. But even from the distance, you can see the Emperor seated at the throne beside the Empress and Jung Hoseok who stands to his right. Your hand tightens into a fist until your nails have sunk into your palm. “All hail Consort Y/N!” You come to the bottom of the steps where Jungkook leaves you, resuming to the side of the stairs, and you lower yourself on your knees. “It is my honour to serve you, Your Majesty.” Your expression remains impassive, demure perhaps. But inside you, the rage ignites. Emperor Minseok who stood by and did nothing as the Kim Family, your family, was massacred. Left behind two children on accident to fend for themselves. Left the nation to soil as he was kept inside ravishing young girls and indulging in pleasures. He isn’t an Emperor. He does not have the Mandate of Heaven. He is a puppet. Emperor Minseok’s eyes light. He scrambles upwards and pushes Empress Soojin aside, making her wince. But he still moves past her to sprint down the stairs and comes to you like a child getting a new toy. Instantaneously, your veil is thrown off. The child-like man gasps in excitement. “You’re pretty!” Hoseok, the person you know well as the mastermind orchestrating the entire court and country, the king’s personal advisor, approaches with a smile. “I am glad you are satisfied with the new girl, Your Majesty. But you must show restraint.” The Emperor enthusiastically nods, but still takes your hand. He pulls you up the stairs and leads you to sit on the other side of him, something the Empress is visibly mortified at in spite of staying quiet. “Continue the celebration,” he announces and the music commences once more with the pleasant laughter of the ministers. Minister Park has a twinkle in his smile and slightly raises his cup towards you before taking a sip. Jungkook, on the other hand, faces forward with a blank expression as if he were a statue. “What’s your name?” Your eyes tear away from the doe-eyed man. “My name is Y/N. I am Park Minister’s niece, sire.” There’s no reason to hide your first given name. It’s not like they would know who you and Seokjin are. The ceremony and dancing continues, held as an excuse to welcome you and give fortune to tonight’s conception. In reality, it’s for those in the court to indulge themselves. The Emperor fawns over you the entire time, asking many questions and trying to get you to eat to which you force yourself to swallow down the food. You’re nauseated, especially with the times he touches you, when he wraps his arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his chest, but you retain a shy disposition to not arouse suspicion of your true feelings. It ends much too soon. “His Majesty will be here shortly,” the servant informs you as you’re brought into the bedroom and before you can get in another word, the doors shut. They’re listening — you know they are. Maybe other girls have run before you, tried to flee while they still had the chance. But no matter how strong the urge is, your feet stay rooted into the ground. The bed is revolting to look at. The golden sheets that seem to reek of a luxury that you have never known and now imprison you. You feel sick, like you might throw up, but you hold it in. Your eyes shut tight, trying to regain control of your breath, trying to dispel away your worries. It will be quick. It will be over. It won’t change anything about who you are. You will survive. This is something you must do. The doors open with Emperor Minseok drunkenly stumbling inside after grabbing a hold of the door frame. He haphazardly slides it shuts and giggles once his gaze has set upon you. You swallow hard, moving back on instinct. He grins and bumbles forward. “You’re so pretty, huh?” He strips off his overcoat and you fall to the bed, silently seated and gripping the edge. “C’mon, you can say something. Won’t scare you away, kitty cat.” Emperor Minseok pushes you back and climbs over you with the carelessness of an eager but intoxicated man. He stinks of alcohol and you hold your breath, looking away. He snickers and then frantically pushes the many layers of your dress up as if he doesn’t want to waste any more time. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, but you comply, like a dead fish against the sheets. Your eyes shut tight and you think about what it means to make sacrifices... The Emperor tugs his drawers down in one swoop and aligns his cock against your folds. His hips at once jut forward without warning and your teeth grit, holding in your pained whimper as he enters into you. It burns, aching to the point where your eyes are stinging. He groans above you, withdraws, thrusts into you once and then he’s coming. As quick as five seconds. The Emperor groans, eyes shut tight, and then he collapses on top of you. It takes a moment, for you to gasp for air, to come back to your senses and then you’re shoving the sweaty man off of your body, freeing yourself of his heavy weight. Emperor Minseok snores, already worn himself out, and you curse at him silently while you pull the layers of your dress down. It’s tempting. You want to kill him — and it would be easy to do so. But it would mean your death, Seokjin’s everlasting grief over it and the likelihood that someone else will become Jung Hoseok’s puppet. So you gather your wits and slide off the bed until you’re seated on the floor. // In the middle of the night, there’s a shadow at the doorway and a soft murmur of your name. You grab a loose silk cover to wrap your body and open the door. The candle has long been blown out but you haven’t slept, stayed on the ground while the Emperor snorts in his slumber. You hadn’t expected to see anyone, not until morning at least, but it’s surprising to see Jungkook. Although you’re not sure if that surprise is pleasant or not. “What are you doing here?” you ask in a hushed tone, shutting the door behind you and wrapping your arms around your torso, away from the cold wind that brushes through. If anyone saw him here, it could ruin everything. You don’t know why someone like Jungkook would take that risk. “I know. I just…” The more you allow your eyes to adjust to the darkness, the better you are at being able to discern the furrow of his brows and the way it mars his expression. “How...how was it?” “How was it?” you spit at him. “What do you think?” There’s a held silence. Neither of you speak. But the moment anger surges through you, the upheaval follows. Against your will, sobs begin to break through your frame. As intense as the day Seokjin delivered the news that you would have to do this. And the memories burst through, catching up to you. It would have been fine if you were alone. If you could pretend that it wasn’t bad, that it meant nothing. But the earnestly spoken question from Jungkook has brought forth the truth that you had so desperately tried to push away. You cry, tears shedding down your face as you hold your face in your hands. You are oblivious to the way Jungkook’s fingers twitch, how his hands reach out, how he hesitates. But then he embraces you, pressing your face against his shoulder, his arms around your waist. You grab onto him, latching on as if he is the only thing that grounds you to this insanity. You muffle your sobs, trying to keep them quiet before you’re found. You wish this was Seokjin. But it’s Jungkook. “I had a younger sister,” he tells you suddenly, calming your hiccups as he cradles you against him. “Her name was Jieun. She was brought in, just like you. Five years ago. She was taken in by force. All because she caught the eye of the Emperor.” You pull away from him and he wipes a tear off your cheek, holding your face within his hands. You didn’t know. Frankly, you don’t know anything about Jungkook, but to hear him tell you, for him to openly share is something you don’t take lightly. “W-What happened to her?” “She was always weak and they mistook her sickness for pregnancy. When they found out she wasn’t, they hung her for supposedly losing the baby.” His whispers are quiet, but they carry a grief that you can barely understand. Jungkook’s eyes connect within yours. Finally, you begin to understand. Why he started this, why he’s come here. “I don’t want something like that to happen again. I’ll do everything in my power to keep it from happening to you.” You nod. He didn’t need to come see you tonight. But you’re thankful he did. // “All hail Empress Soojin!” The doors open with a parade of servants following the female who holds up her dress, entering through the doorway. You meet her halfway, head dipped and hands folded with a demure smile. Her eyes are narrowed in on you and you pay no mind when her servants begin to inspect the place, examining the bed sheets and any other evidence of last night’s affair. “Good morning, Your Majesty.” “How are you?” Her gaze sweeps across your body, lingering on your stomach. “It was fine.” The Empress lifts her hand and two more servants enter with a tray of food. They start to arrange the breakfast on the table. “You might be carrying a child, so it will be important to nourish yourself.” You look at the dishes with a sense of queasiness. The last thing you want is food — you don’t think you could contain it in your stomach if you tried. And there’s a fear in your mind that she’s going to take this opportunity to poison you. You wouldn’t be surprised if she did. So you dip your head. “If you may pardon me, Your Majesty, I am not feeling hungry.” “Don’t be foolish.” “I—” Your words are choked the moment your head is whipped to the side. Your cheek burns. The Empress’ hand print is embedded into your skin, her arm still raised in the air. Your eyes sting. Even in your worst moments, you’ve never been slapped. Not by Seokjin. Not even by your parents. “Her Majesty was kind enough to come here and offer you food but you dare deny her and talk back?” The servant beside her shakes her head in disapproval. “The Park Family has no manners.” Immediately, you fall to your knees. Your head meets the carpet, right by her feet but she doesn’t see the way your teeth grit. “I apologize for my disrespect.” Empress Soojin huffs in frustration and there’s a clamour as feet stomp out, making the room silent once more. It’s then that you lift yourself back onto your feet and pour the tonic she gave you into the plant. You spend the rest of your day in your room after taking a bath, staying out of anyone’s way as you were told to do. But after nightfall, there’s news of Emperor Minseok planning to come see you. So you suppose you must’ve done something right for him to willingly reach out to you. His body weight is heavy against you, your back molded against the bed. “You’re very pretty,” he says for the millionth time. You try to muster a smile, but keep your head tilted to stare at the wall, acting like you are much too shy. “Thank you.” The Emperor is easily worked up, the very antithesis of control. He enters you and you bare through it, getting used to the action. But Emperor Minseok finishes in a mere three pumps, gripping at your thighs with a groan. He rolls over to sleep and you shove down your skirt. If you could count the little fortune you have, you’re relieved he’s been too impatient to undress you properly. He’s neither kissed you nor laid a hand to the softest parts of your body. Not like Jungkook. // The palace is unfamiliar. It’s a vast space that stretches across the plane and numerous structures gives room for ministers and servants you will never know the name of. The only person you truly know in these walls is Jungkook. He’s the only person to confide in, but there is little opportunity to see him, even if you long to. But he comes to you, enough times to make you reassured that he is always there, following in your shadow. Though it’s never enough to fulfill your desires or relieve your yearning. “What is this?” You open the envelope he’s passed to you, pulling out the folded parchment. The two of you are hidden in an empty warehouse where supplies and weapons are kept in wooden crates. Grime lays in thick layers, cobwebs collected at the corners, but some specks of dust float in the air, seen by the sunbeams that pierce through the gaps of the planks covering the windows. Your eyes widen at the familiar writing of the letter and your eyes skim the page to see Seokjin’s signature at the bottom. The corner of Jungkook’s mouth quirks to see your wide grin. “H-How did you get it here?” “We have servants working for us and a communication line coming in and out of the palace. It’s the way we exchange news.” You nod, reading the letter and the kind words that are so much like Seokjin, encapsulating his personality with every ‘dear sister’. But the sentences are short and the content makes the blood drain from your face. There’s been delays of Seokjin getting into the palace. They need more time. More than three months. “There won’t be enough time.” Your hands drop, the letter put at your side. Your eyes lock with Jungkook’s, but he doesn’t seem surprised, as if he already knew. “I’m going to die.” He doesn’t flinch, expression solemn, unyielding to this devastating news. “I will help you.” “How?!” “We’ll give them what they want. You won’t be executed if you’re carrying a child.” “The Emperor is infertile—!” But Jungkook isn’t. And once the implications of his words sinks into you, you turn away to hide from his gaze, your voice shrill. “How could you….how could you even think of that? You’re as cruel as Jin. No one...no one has any regard for me whatsoever. It’s all about the country, the revolution.” In the midst of your hysteria, he calls you. “Y/N.” “You want to use me. You want to use my body,” you sob. “I don’t want you to die,” Jungkook emphasizes and grabs you, spinning you around to look at him again. His hand wraps around your wrist, doe eyes staring into yours. Your breath hitches and it goes silent. “If there’s anything I can do within my control to help you, I will. I don’t want to feel powerless.” Jungkook’s grasp on you tightens, as if he is afraid to let go. “Not anymore.” You recognize the pain in his eyes. It’s tangible. Earnest. On instinct, you lean in, pressing your lips against his to console his worries. It’s a soft kiss, one where Jungkook’s nose brushes against yours and his hands lift to cradle your face. You succumb to the itch of having him close to you, giving into your carnal desires and the lust that has lingered in you after the kisses you two shared in the darkness of the forest that one night. And Jungkook doesn’t hesitate either. He touches you, fingers gently tugging the ribbons of your attire to slip off the inner coat and many layers they’ve cloaked you in. It’s freeing to be out of the silks. You can finally breathe again, but not for long when Jungkook kisses you until you’re gasping for air and your breath is stained with his. You grasp at his own clothes, ridding them and his sword clanks to the ground. His mouth moves from your jaw to the juncture of your neck, traveling down your collarbone and the valley of your breasts. He sucks at your flesh, greedy to mark every inch of it. Even if he doesn’t say it aloud, you can tell through his touches. He doesn’t want to use your body. He wants you. “Jungkook.” The whine only spurs him on and you hold his head against you, fingers tangling to his hair. It’s silent, except for the sounds of him kissing against your skin. Heat rises on your face, warming your cheeks. You don’t know how Jungkook can stay so careful and controlled. He never once rushes, giving plenty of opportunities for you to push him away if you so choose to. But you don’t and he lays you on the soft hay collected in the corner of the warehouse. You shy away from his attention, your naked body laid in front of him. But then he strips from the rest of his clothes, not letting you be the only one bare. Immediately, Jungkook reaches down to kiss you again, mouth pressed against yours like he has become dependent on your taste. Jungkook readjusts you, getting you to sit on his lap facing him. “Is this okay?” You nod, gripping at his shoulders for leverage. His doe eyes lock into yours. “Tell me if it hurts.” “Okay.” Tears fog your vision. You’ve never been treated so gently before, not from a man or woman. While the circumstances are undesirable, bliss still blooms in your chest. Jungkook licks his thumb and lowers his hand to continue to warm your center. You keen against him with a moan as he plays with your bud, rubbing your clit in circles and watching your expression carefully. Your slick begins to leak to his thighs, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “J-Jungkook…” Your eyes are teary, nose reddened from the cold. Jungkook presses his forehead to yours, your breaths laboured together. His cock lays thick in his hand, slit weeping with precum and the two of you look down, watching him align it to your folds. His hips push up at the same time as you guide yourself down. Jungkook groans. The pair of you are finally connected. Strangely enough, it doesn’t hurt. Far from it and the realization makes your cheeks hot to the touch. You’re snug around him, able to feel his head nudging against your cervix. “A-Are you okay?” he asks and you nod several times fervently. Instead of answering in words, you close the distance with another searing kiss. Soft smacking fills the room with his tongue licking into your mouth. Jungkook’s arms wrap around your waist, guiding you up and down your length while he meets you halfway. Your moans are muffled, his chest pressed against yours and you begin to sweat at your hairline. You break apart. “Jung—ko...ok.” “Hmm?” He brushes a strand of hair away from your face. “Harder,” you whisper so quietly that you can't hear yourself. He blinks at you, not understanding and you throw away your pride, knowing that there’s no reason to be ashamed when you’re with him. “H-Harder, please. I’m not fragile.” The corner of his mouth quirks into a small smile, “Okay.” Soon, indecent noises of pounding fills the room. You hug one another, keeping each other grounded with your bodies. Your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, your whines stifled against his warm skin. Jungkook tries to catch his breath, a cold cloud emitting from his parted lips. It feels good. To have your warm and wet heat filled by Jungkook. To be stretched by him and feel him all the way to your throat. To have him so close to you. The pleasure is overwhelming. Your slick coats his length, dripping down and making it messy where his thighs hits against your behind. It feels like you’re scratching an itch as you ride him, your cunt being bruised against his force. Pleasure thrums through you, thoughts turned to slush, surrounded in his scent. Your eyes are hazy and you feel feverish. All that befalls from your lips are broken and pitched whines of Jungkook’s name. It gets sloppy and his strokes start to become short and frenzied in a staccato rhythm. “J-Jungkook!” He licks his thumb and rubs against your clit, making you sob out. Then, you come undone. You seize, squeezing around him. Light pierces through your eyelids and your toes curl. Pleasure overwhelms you until you’re spineless. At the same time, Jungkook pants heavily and his hips thrust upwards. A moment later, he’s cumming deep into your sopping cunt. His head is lodged right against the opening of your womb. Thick ropes painting your velvet walls. Hopefully to conceive. “—Soojin visited the consort the morning after the ceremony.” “Is that so?” There are voices from outside and your eyes widen, lips stealing a gasp. Immediately, Jungkook’s palm raises and cups your mouth. His brows furrow, eyes staying locked into yours and the both of you sit still, staying silent. You turn your heads and through the gaps of the wooden planks covering the window, you can see Hoseok and a minister brushing past. “She’s never shown favour to any of the consorts.” They stop, right where you and Jungkook are naked, merely separated by a brick wall. “Perhaps she sees something different from this girl than the others,” Hoseok hums. “Keep an eye on Empress Soojin and tell me if she does anything else out of the ordinary.” Jungkook’s cum leaks from your center, dripping down his length. “Yes.” They finally pass and Jungkook’s hand falls from your mouth, finally taking a sigh of relief. Jungkook removes himself from you but only after he pushes his milky fluid back into you with his brows furrowed in concentration. He tucks his cum past your used fold into your heat. Once satisfied, he gets up and puts back on his clothes. You’re still reeling, not sure what to say or if you can even look him in the eye anymore. Part of you feels used. You’ve been passed from one man to the next, always with a purpose, a greater reason that your own desires. But then— “Are you alright?” Jungkook is tender, helping you up and brushing a strand of hair away from your face. He helps you get dressed again while you feel his cum drip down your thigh. It’s a reminder of the sins you have just committed together, something worthy of treason. But it’s something you find yourself not minding doing again. “I’m fine,” you murmur after you’re dressed again. Jungkook stares at you silently, his eyes unable to be torn away from you. Then he leans forward as if driven on by sheer instinct. Jungkook’s mouth presses against yours in a sweet kiss. It catches you off guard. And then he parts with downcast eyes. “I’m sorry for doing something unnecessary.” “It’s okay.” You meet his gaze. “I don’t...mind.” He nods and you turn before he can see your smile. Your hand press gently against your stomach as hope blossoms through you.

Time passes and maybe the Empress notices that you’ve been smiling more because she asks— “Are you feeling any differences?” — with a careful eye and something akin to anticipation. “Not yet,” you answer with your head dipped. “But I’m sure it may happen soon.” The Emperor has been seeing you two times a week. But you’ve been seeing Jungkook every other day. If the two of you are lucky, one of these days a baby will stick to your womb and neither of you will have to be worried about how doom is impending. You have a feeling though; it’s going to work. “Empress Soojin has personally ordered a tonic for you,” the head servant says as she enters with a tray and porcelain bowl filled with an amber liquid. “It will increase your fertility.” Your eyes flicker from her face to the bowl and the servant softens. “Don’t worry. She won’t harm you if there’s a chance you could be carrying her child.” You trust the woman and you ease your instincts, taking the tonic. And no later are you and Jungkook’s limbs tangled in the old warehouse again, away from prying eyes and ears. But it’s taking too long. There isn’t any news of Seokjin’s arrival, no movement from the rebellion group whatsoever and you can tell that Emperor Minseok is losing interest in you. As you’re passing by the pavilion, you take a brief pause. The servant behind you also stops, aware that you are watching the way Empress Minseok is drinking and laughing with other women, being served wine as he lies on giggling girls trying to catch his attention. You aren’t jealous, far from it. But you know nothing good will come out of his boredom with you, that it will only speed up your execution date if you are still without child. His favour would prove not only advantageous to you, but to Seokjin and Jungkook. You’re supposed to preoccupy him after all, keep him distracted. “All hail Consort Y/N.” The doors to the Emperor’s chambers open right as the evening sun begins to dip below the horizon. Emperor Minseok is having drinks and some dishes while there are two concubines looped around his arms. “My beautiful consort!” He calls out to you with a grin, surprise evident on his features. You muster a smile and dip down. “May I speak to you privately, Your Majesty?” “Sure, sure.” He bats at the concubines, motioning at them to leave. They bow their heads and scatter out. Once alone, you lift your eyes to lock it into his. “Is there something wrong?” “I just…” Your smile becomes shy. “...wanted to see you.” Emperor Minseok bursts out laughing, hearty in his chest and grating to your ears. “You were lonely? Come sit.” He pats at tiny chicken thighs and you hold your breath, complying. You nearly slip off his leg, but his sticky hands are placed on your waist. His nose digs into your neck and you accidentally flinch. He notices, brows raising and you swiftly cover up your mistake with a smile. “It’s still...hard for me to have so much attention from you.” You fiddle with your fingers. “I’m not used to it.” The man grins. “But you still came here.” “Because I was lonely,” you confirm in a quiet whisper. “The palace is so grand, I don’t really know what to do…” “It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth, clearly not caring about the topic of conversation anymore with the way he stares at you. It’s almost as if he’s entranced by your features and his hand reaches down to slink up your leg. You abruptly stand and grab his collar, making him rise to his feet too. “The palace is beautiful, especially the gardens. But it’s lonely to go flower viewing by yourself.” Emperor Minseok cups your cheek. “Then I’ll come with you next time.” You turn away, out of his grasp. “I could never ask that of Your Majesty. I can’t be selfish and you are always so busy. Actually...I…” “What is it?” You duck your head, playing a bashful act. “I try to look at your painting to satisfy my loneliness.” Emperor Minseok chortles again and you spin around with a tiny pout. You step forward until he’s fallen onto his bed, amused at your boldness. “But it’s hard,” you say as you begin to climb on top of him. “There’s not many paintings of you.” You position yourself so he’s underneath you. You straddle his hips, a coy smile at your features. “For a grand palace like this, one would think there would be more.” “You’re right.” The Emperor is breathless, already excited after barely ten seconds. His greedy hands come up to grab your bottom, but you push him off so he doesn’t touch you. “My father once commissioned a painter,” you murmur as you slowly tug his trousers down. “He was quite immature and eccentric, but his skills are unrivaled with.” “W-What is his name?” His eyes watch you, pathetically salivating. You wonder if he’s going to cum in his pants already. “I...think his name was Kang Seokjin,” you lie, quirking your head to the side. You grab his tiny, red cock that looks like it’s about to burst and he groans. “Have you never heard of him? He’s quite infamous in the East.” “I-I’ve never.” You hum, tugging your many skirts up and his eyes pin to your exposed skin. “Well, he’s a free-spirit and rarely does paintings, even for people who pay for it. Gold doesn’t buy him. My father had to beg him for weeks and even then he was reluctant.” He scoffs. “He would never deny the Emperor.” “Of course.” You align him up to your pink folds. Yet, you linger, putting the crumbling man under you in great suspense. “But…” Emperor Minseok blinks at you, becoming impatient. “But?” “You never know till you try, right?” You drop down like the way Jungkook taught you to. You know better now how to satisfy a man, how to satisfy yourself, what kind of rhythm works best. But it only takes two swivels of your hips and one groan from him until he’s done and finishes. Emperor Minseok has tired himself out and succumbs to the seduction of sleep almost immediately with a smile on his face. You roll off of him as he starts to snore. You feel disgusted — skin grimy and crawling, the pit in your stomach growing with queasiness, revolted at what you had to do. But you know bathing and scrubbing your skin until it’s raw won’t be enough to satisfy you. It won’t be enough to cleanse yourself from him. So you leave the Emperor’s chambers as quickly as you came, abandoning the greasy man on the bed and shutting the doors behind you. In the dark, you hurry as fast as your feet can take you. You’re out of breath by the time you’ve twisted through the structures and pavilions. But relief comes in the form of a doe-eyed, dark-haired individual. The person you’ve been wanting to run to. The person you’ve been yearning for. “What are you doing here?” he scolds sharply, standing as you slide the doors behind you. The candlelight flickers, providing a dim glow on the profile of his face. “What if someone saw you?” “They didn’t and they won’t.” The bedroom Jungkook’s stationed in is tiny, a round table and two stools with a large opening for where his bed fits into the wall as if it were built in. But none of it matters to you. You don’t care that he has nothing but a sword and some folded clothes. All you care about is that he’s here. “And what if you were caught?” “Every time we do this, we risk getting caught.” You quiet his worries by closing the distance. You cradle his cheeks in your palm and kiss him frantically, sealing your mouth against his. Jungkook hums to the sweet taste of your lips, licking into your hot mouth, but then he pulls away. “Wait.” His hands secure around your shoulders and he searches your expression after noticing the way your eyes have become teary. “Is there something wrong?” You shake your head. “I just want you. Is...is that so bad?” The candle is blown out, flooding the room in a comfortable, intimate darkness. But close up, you can still see Jungkook with the faded moonlight coming through the paper walls. His back falls against the bed, but Jungkook doesn’t give you a long opportunity to climb and sit above him. He whirls you around until it’s your body that molds against the soft surface of his bed, preferring to take care of you than vice versa. And when he undresses you and sees the sopping mess between your legs, he understands what this is all about. Why you’re so desperate for his touch. “Let’s get rid of this,” he murmurs tenderly, not at once hesitating and you nod. Jungkook kisses you again, deep and earnestly until you’re panting against him and he’s swallowing your exhales. Then his mouth travels downwards, careful this time not to leave a bruising mark against your skin where others could see in spite of longing to mark you. The man’s tongue ends up wrapping around your soft breast, allowing the bud to pebble underneath the warm muscle. You keen into him with a sob, arms wrapped around his neck and he continues mercilessly. His lips travel down to your stomach and once your skin has gotten warm to the touch, your body writhing against the sheets stained with his scent, he positions you upwards. On his lap. Facing him. Jungkook brushes away the strands of your hair, tucking it behind your ear and he gently holds your chin, turning your head so your eyes can lock into his. “Look at me,” he pleads in a husky timbre. You nod and he positions himself at your dripping center, allowing you to drop down when you choose to. And when you do, the two of you groan while keeping your gazes connected. It feels like he’s filled a void that you didn’t know was there. He’s a snug fit around your velvet heat, stretching just enough that pleasure thrums through you. “J-Jungkook.” He makes a noise at the back of his throat, understanding what you’re feeling and he leans in for another kiss, his tongue wrapping around yours and drawing more sounds out of you. The two of you work with each other. Your hips swivel as he pounds upwards into you, pelvises rubbed against one another to clear away Emperor Minseok’s fluids. Jungkook works hard while you squeeze and the cum drips out of you in clumps. It sticks to your thighs and his thick length, drying unpleasantly, but soon it’s only your wetness that comes out from your center. Jungkook’s hands hold your body, touching you anywhere you guide him to. And you lean onto his sturdy frame, holding onto his built shoulders. Finally, you feel clean. You feel loved. You kiss him again and his thrusts stutter. It’s intimate, the sounds of gasping breaths and skin slapping on skin filling the darkness. Jungkook can tell you’re close and rubs against your clit mercilessly and you cry, quickening your own pace to chase after your pleasure. But before you can finish, he turns your head again. “Look at me, Y/N,” he says and you nod, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. You cum while looking into Jungkook’s doe eyes, trying your best to keep them open. And as you squeeze around him, hugging against his cock, he cums. Deep into your heat, right at your cervix. Claiming you as his. Ropes of milky white spurting in then leaking down out of your folds. All while keeping his tender gaze trained on yours. You kiss Jungkook again, letting him soften within you, keeping him here just a moment longer. You love Jungkook. It’s a fact that you don’t want to face in light of the situation — one that you had tried to deny for the sake of your own sanity, but it’s all too true. You love him. And every time he holds you, it feels like you’re making love together. If only things were different, maybe you could’ve had a future together. Maybe you could’ve gotten Seokjin’s blessing and married Jungkook, started a family together and lived a humble life for the rest of your days. But that desperate and simple wish seems so far out of reach. Overwhelmed with emotion, you try to keep your tears at bay. Yet, they shed down your cheeks and in the intimate darkness, Jungkook holds you close to him.

It’s one afternoon while you’re walking in the gardens with the poor servant assigned to you following closely behind that you recognize a dark-haired, mischievous individual that you had missed. But you don’t call out to your brother, no matter how much you want to. You keep yourself poised, distant. “Oh, Consort Y/N. Glad to see you wandering,” the head eunuch, a man you’ve spoken to little, says with a smile. You keep your head lowered, a tiny smile that is all too genuine on your features. “Empress Soojin said it would be good for my health, so I have followed her instructions.” “Well yes. Indeed it is.” He grins and then seems to remember the taller, younger man beside him. The head eunuch steps aside and motions towards your older brother. “This is Kang Seokjin. He is a painter from the East that Emperor Minseok has commissioned. Seokjin, this is the Emperor’s most recent consort, Consort Y/N. But I believe you have met before.” “Only briefly.” You lift your eyes towards your sibling who smiles. “It is nice to see you again.” “Yes, nice to see you again.” Seokjin’s eyes speak more than his words do and the two of you look at one another for a long moment, exchanging meaningful expressions and taking in the differences that two months have done. “Well, I must head off now.” You break away the stare, keeping yourself unsuspicious. “It was pleasant to meet your acquaintance again.” You pass Seokjin, but the two of you look at one another from the corner of your eyes. He’s finally in the court and a sense of relief fills you. If a few more ministers agree to turn against the Emperor, everything will be complete. It’s Seokjin’s turn to act and now only time will tell.

In the middle of the night when the palace has gone asleep, you sneak from your quarters. The dirty warehouse has become your sanctuary with Jungkook, a place you’ve grown fond of because it holds your most precious memories. It was this place that you looked forward to the most. That kept you sane. That always promised that your favourite person was waiting inside. It’s tonight with the full moon out that you get to savour the moment. After the deed has been done, you’re slumped in Jungkook’s arms, naked with just his outer coat around your shoulders. You take his right hand, uncurling his fingers. Carefully, you trace letters against his warm palm. “Kim?” Jungkook questions after a moment of concentration. “Kim means gold,” you murmur and trace more letters against his skin. With your head leaning against his chest, you can hear his soothing heartbeat in your ear. “Seok means great. Jin means precious. Together, it means great gift or big treasure.” If things were different, you would’ve liked to be a scholar. Transcribing books all day long or writing your own, perhaps creating poetry about nature. As a child, you hated studying and preferred to play like Seokjin did. But it was now that you yearned for those simple times again. You know Jungkook’s name too and you trace each letter against his palm with your index finger carefully. “Jeon means rice. Jung spindle tree. Kook is country. Together, it means to have a beautiful country.” “Pillars of the nation,” he clarifies quietly. “Or at least that’s what I think my grandfather intended when he named me.” “They’re such great names. I hope….the name of our child will be meaningful too,” you hum drowsily while dreaming of the possibilities. “If it’s a boy, Minkook, the country of the people. If it’s a girl, Yujin, meaning full of stars…” The both of you know you won’t be able to name your child. Not if it’s born within these stone walls. Not when everyone believes it is the Emperor’s. The baby will be taken away from you the moment it’s out, raised while calling the Empress their mother and you would be a nobody. But then Jungkook dispels away your anguish, even if it’s just for a second. “They’re beautiful names.” The corner of your lips quirk and you blink sleepily. You tell him about your dream, a memory of the future you have conjured to comfort you, “They would be raised in a quiet home on top of a hill. Where we could see the sunset and sunrise every day. There would be grass where the children could play. A river nearby to wash the clothes too…” Jungkook’s arms tighten around you and you feel the press of his lips against your temple. “That would be perfect.” You hum again silently with a smile, falling asleep with Jungkook right beside you. And it’s all you know you can have. // Empress Soojin enters your chambers the moment you are doubled over in a copper bowl, the contents of last night’s dinner squeezed painfully from your stomach. The world is on an axis, your head dizzy since you had awoken. But when you realize she’s standing there and taking in your crumpled form, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and try to stand. “Your Majesty…” The Empress rushes over to steady you, her eyes wide and full of surprise. “You feel nauseous?” Your expression meets hers, your face drained of all blood. The silence speaks for itself. Empress Soojin immediately whirls around to her parade of servants, anticipation etched on her features. “Call the physician!” No sooner are you laid in the bed with the physician pressing two fingers on your wrist, quiet as he listens to your heartbeat. The Empress is crowding around, her hands gathered together but still trembling. Then the old man lifts his head with brightened eyes. “She has been with child for two months now. It’s extraordinarily healthy and strong.” Empress Soojin stumbles back. Her palm is pressed against her chest, her breath staggering out of her parted lips. And you lift yourself, your hand laid on your stomach that has yet to swell. It’s your child and Jungkook’s. “From now on, only consume cold foods and make sure it is properly cut or mashed,” he says as he wobbles to his feet. “Avoid shellfish and pineapple too. I will prescribe a herbal tonic that you can take daily.” “Thank you.” Empress Soojin is grinning and comes to your side to envelop you in a warm embrace that you aren’t used to. “Are you still feeling unwell? Are you hungry? It is important to nourish yourself for this baby.” When you shake your head, having no appetite, she nods and looks around. “This place is so rancid and dusty.” The Empress spits several servant’s names and they step forth with bowed heads. “Clean this room immediately! We will go on a walk in the meanwhile and get fresh air.” There is little you can do to deny the whims of the Empress who’s more alive than you’ve ever seen her before. So while your room is cleaned and redecorated with luxurious sheets and golden vases, you’re guided by her on a walk around the garden. The news spreads like wildfire, passing from servant to servant to official declarations. Within a few minutes, Emperor Minseok is bounding over. There’s a grin plastered on his sweaty face, the strands of his hair sticking together. He’s out of breath, still in horseback riding gear like he had gotten off a few seconds ago and you recognize Seokjin behind him in the same attire. “You’re expecting a child?!” Emperor Minseok exclaims loudly, startling you. He’s jumping and you muster a stiff smile, not sure what you should say. But he doesn’t give you an opportunity to. He immediately reaches out to your stomach with his greasy and soot filled hands. “Is it moving?” But he never lays a hand on you. Empress Soojin slaps his hand away and her brows furrow sternly. “The child is at a delicate stage. These are not trivial matters.” She pinches her nose. “And the horses’ stench that you’ve brought here is defeating the purpose of coming out here for fresh air.” “Of course, of course.” Emperor Minseok smiles, retracting his arm. Your eyes meet Seokjin’s and the corner of his mouth quirks warmly into a familiar smile. “Congratulations, Your Highness. May your child have great blessings as you do.” You bow your head, trying to not prolong your gaze and arouse suspicion. “Thank you.” “But…” Emperor Minseok’s eyes flicker between you and the Empress. “Does this mean I will get another concubine soon since I can’t play with Y/N anymore?” Immediately, Empress Soojin is distraught. Hurt comes across her features as if she’s been slapped and for once, you sympathize with her. She never answers, merely turning around. “We should get you back inside for some rest. It’s not good to be in the cold wind for too long.” You nod, glancing at your brother behind your shoulder and after a moment, you follow her. But as you’re making your way back, your path is intercepted by Jungkook on his way to the courtyard. He’s dressed in black robes that match his long hair tied back, holding a sheathed sword as always. Yet what’s different from before is the tenderness of his eyes. Jungkook doesn’t need to speak for you to understand. You’ve come to learn all the ways he communicates through silence. “I heard about the news,” he says and you slow to a complete stop. “Congratulations, Your Highness.” “Thank you.” You savour the moment, looking at him with a soft smile. To the Empress who turns around to see the delay, the exchange is simply between a guard and consort without connection. She doesn’t know that the meaningful gaze is shared between a mother and father to be, two secret lovers separated by circumstance. // There’s many good wishes and felicitations given to you. Even Minister Park, your supposed uncle, makes an extravagant gesture by personally delivering a basket of fresh fruits and vegetables that makes Empress Soojin command the servants to re-wash. But the person you least expect to receive praise and blessings from is Jung Hoseok. In spite of that, he is here in your room, having shown up suddenly. It’s a surprise and you struggle to get up from your bed. “Are you alright?” he asks, concerned. “You don’t really need to stand—” You muster a smile and manage to sit up. “It’s quite alright. I was always taught that the least I can do is greet a guest properly.” The thin, middle-aged man rubs the gray scruff on his chin and you can feel his sharp eyes that probe into you. The way he studies you carefully would cause sweat to bead along your forehead if not for how safe you feel. It’s not from Empress’ insinuated promise of protection or that you’re abstained from execution or knowing Jungkook would defend you at any cost either. Ever since you’ve found out that there was life budding within you, you’ve felt safe. You’re no longer alone. No matter where you go, you carry someone else with you. And now there’s never been a stronger reason for you to fight, to be strong and unafraid. “I heard the physician was called this morning,” Hoseok says. “It was just morning sickness.” The man hums, arms shifting to place behind his back. “Well, the Empress made quite an uproar.” “She often worries about me and the child,” you state plainly and it almost sounds like a threat, one Hoseok visibly acknowledges with a cocked brow. But you don’t dwell, clearing your throat and putting a pleasant expression on your face. “May I ask for what reason you’ve graced me with your presence?” “I just wanted to visit the future emperor.” Hoseok’s eyes linger on your stomach and his smile becomes wry. “It’s quite a miracle, isn’t it? It’s no secret that there has been….some difficulty for a child to be produced. And for it to last this long too. The physician said it was exceptionally strong.” Your smile stretches, but mirth never reaches your eyes. “The Mandate of Heaven grants miracles. It must be a divine wish and I am honoured to be the one fulfilling it.” “Yes.” He nods and then notes, “well, you’ve gotten close to the Emperor’s guard, haven’t you?” “I have no idea what you mean.” Hoseok eyes you and it goes silent. Then, you sit back down with the back of your hand pressed to your forehead. You gasp for breath and bat at yourself. “I’m beginning to feel faint. I think I need to lay down. It would be best if you were to leave, minister. God forbid...something happens to this child otherwise.” Hoseok scoffs, but turns to exit. Your fist clench, wrinkling the sheets underneath your hold. You’ll do whatever it takes to protect Jungkook’s child. // The fourth month milestone of your pregnancy is eventually reached without many qualms or complications. You’re less nauseous than you were before, but the queasiness has been replaced with hunger that often strikes in the middle of the night. You’re given teas and tonics, tested to make sure there is no poison — something Empress Soojin obsesses over and screams if there’s even a hair in the liquid which you’re still not sure if it’s worth laughing about or being scared of. Your breathing has become laboured too, even after short walks. But most importantly, you’ve begun to feel strange sensations. Flutters in your stomach that the physician says is the movement of the child and when they happen, you can’t help caressing the bump that’s not so tiny anymore. While things have been going smoothly, you’ve been put under strict monitoring for a whole month. You’re protected, out of harm’s way. The only people who visit you are the physician, the head servant, a few other servants, and Empress Soojin who constantly and excessively frets over you — her incubator to her supposed baby. Her kindness and concern is meant for the child, not for you and you’re fully aware. It’s not that it matters to you, but it’s something you keep in mind. You’ve heard the Emperor has found himself new concubines to preoccupy his time with too. Ever the same as he disregards matters of the nation to have innocent girls and conniving concubines lay underneath him. At least you’re untouchable to him now, out of reach and far away. But it comes at a price. You can’t see Seokjin. And you can’t see Jungkook either. Your only connection to him is the swelling of your stomach, a sizable bulge that you can rest your hands against. You miss Jungkook — so much that it hurts to think about. And it’s yearning for him constantly that makes you question your ears when you hear his voice whispering your name one night. But it isn’t your imagination. “J-Jungkook?” “Don’t get up,” he says, shadow laid against the paper walls of your room. Your eyes trace against the black outline, lump forming in your throat at how this is the closest you can get to him. “I just wanted to come by and tell you that in three days, it’s happening. The ministers and other government officials have agreed to turn against the Emperor and Jung Hoseok. They’re going to force him to abdicate.” He did it. Seokjin did it. The realization has tears flooding your vision. “I’ll come for you,” he promises. The tall shadow moves away, but you call out to him before he leaves— “Jungkook.” He stops at the soft enunciation of his name, a beck and call made with emotion. And your heart stutters, knowing that the day your yearning will cease is coming close. “The physician thinks it’s a boy. I do too.” He lingers. If you could see him, you’d find an affectionate smile stretching into his cheeks. Jungkook murmurs, “I hope Minkook will be as handsome as his father and as strong as his mother.” Tears stream down your face. The corner of your lip lifts as Jungkook’s shadow fades. // You count down the hours, the minutes, the seconds. They pass by tediously, but excitement swells in your chest as you consider that in three days time, you will have freedom. A life with Jungkook. Seokjin by your side. Your child in your arms, never to be taken away from you. It’s all you wished for since you stepped foot into the palace. But perhaps even before then. You might’ve never loved Jungkook the way you do now or yearned to hold your healthy baby close to you, yet it has always been clear that doing anything and being anywhere would’ve been better than here. Even with the careful treatment you receive, this isn’t what you want. So you wait. Patiently. For the promised day to arrive. But it’s the day before the expected overthrow that there’s chaos in the middle of the night. “Y/N!” You’re shaken away by Empress Soojin. Her sudden appearance shocks you out of your peaceful slumber and you’re left gasping for breath. But she’s frantic, eyes nearly falling out of their sockets. She’s still in her nightgown, hair in a disarray. The woman holds you by your shoulders, making you rise. “There’s something going on. I—I n-need to bring you to safety.” The Empress guides you upwards, shouldering your weight. Once you’re on your feet again, she grabs a silk overcoat and secures it around your shoulders. “Quickly. There’s no time to waste.” “Your Majesty.” You try to shake the sleepiness away, wondering if it was all a dream. “What’s going on?” One of your hands is held in hers while the other rests underneath your swollen stomach, supporting the heaviness of the baby. “There’s a carriage waiting for you.” There’s yelling from the distance, footsteps on the roof that make your head tilt. But you’re unable to discern what they’re saying, what’s occurring. All you know is that you’re about to be sent away. Without Seokjin — without Jungkook. “Wait.” You struggle to catch up to her pace, confusion inhibiting your movements. Yet she still pulls you along, past the structures and paths shrouded in darkness. “I can’t leave.” “It doesn’t matter,” Empress Soojin says, more serious than you’ve ever had the chance of witnessing. “You have to protect the baby at all costs.” She’s desperate to protect you, to protect your child. She came to you first when she could’ve run on her own and left you asleep. She chose to keep you from harm over her own well-being. Time and time again, Empress Soojin has made sure you were watched over. And the realization makes guilt well up your throat. Your steps slow and your arm tugs her back. “This baby,” you whisper, “it doesn’t belong to who you think it does.” But Empress Soojin’s hand tightens on yours and she turns around. Her brows are drawn together, the corners of her mouth tilted in a sorrowful smile. “Don’t you think I know that? But it doesn’t matter,” she spits in the midst of your shock and continues pulling you. “The child is supposed to be mine. It will be mine. It’s the only way I can be a mother.” Before you can get a single word out, she turns the corner and there are deafening shouts. A clamour of feet stomping against the wooden floorboards, the clinking of heavy armour following grunts— “Stop right there!” “Stand down!” Her voice is unwavering, strong as she pushes you behind her. “I am your Empress—!” But they are Hoseok’s guards. You recognize them from having followed the man around, from standing by during the ceremony and other celebrations you’ve been a spectator to. They have sworn their allegiance to him. Not to Emperor Minseok and most certainly not to Empress Soojin. But she doesn’t seem to understand she’s been caught, that she’s a mouse cornered by two felines. She is naive and continues to scream at them for their disobedience. You try to tug her away, to get her to run, yet her pride is much too strong and you’re yanked away. Sideways. The collar of your coat is taken by the bloodied knuckles of the guard. Stumbling. He clicks his tongue in annoyance at the ear-piercing Empress and in an effort to silence the ordeal, his weapon raises against you. His sword is high in the air, prepared to slash and end this nightmare. Except, his blade never hits you. Even when you shut your eyes, wrap your arms around your stomach to protect your child, hitch your breath, bracing yourself for the cut….. “NO!” Empress Soojin throws herself in front of you, her arms outstretched, allowing herself to take the blow as she is ripped from across her right shoulder to the left hip. She spits blood, warm crimson spewing out and splattering onto your cheeks. The world seems to come to a stop. Your breathing ceases. The guard’s eyes shake for having hacked the Empress herself. Yet she does not yield in spite of the wound that drips blood to the floor in droplets with a steady rhythm, that soaks into her white nightgown, marring the clean colour. She lurches forward, grabbing a torch attached to the wall and shouts, “Stay back!” Her yell is howled out from her throat, jarring to the ears, full of wrath and will. And she throws the torch, allowing searing flames to engulf the corridor. The guards stagger backwards with widened eyes and after a delayed moment, they retreat with profanities before the smoke can engulf their form. Empress Soojin collapses. You drop down to her as sobs wreck through your frame. As calculating and thoughtless as she has been, she has never once been insincere to you. She has never abandoned you. You cradle Soojin’s head into your lap, trying to wipe at her mouth with the sleeve of your silk overcoat. But she bats your arm away. Her hazy eyes remain connected with yours. “P-protect the child…..prom...ise me…” You nod, tears staining your cheeks forevermore. But you stand, finding leverage against the wall that was slowly being consumed by the sweltering fire and you run. As fast as your weak knees allow you to. You leave Soojin behind — laying on the floor — staring up at the ceiling. She dies before being taken by the fire bleeding through the palace. You run, unsure of where to go but away from the uproar of people, the bloodshed and clashing of swords, away from the blazing inferno, collapsing ceilings and smog that chases your shadow. And it’s when you begin to lose breath and come to a four-way path that you nearly collide with another body. A scream tears out of your chest until you find warm, familiar eyes. “Jin?!” Your brother’s hands secure around your shoulders and he lowers himself for your gazes to meet. “Are you alright?” His chest rises and falls, steadying his breathing as well and you notice the sword dangling by his side, unsuitable and much too lanky. Seokjin has always suited brushes and books more than weapons — something you wish you had told him sooner. “I—I’m fine, but Empress Soojin. I...I left her behind and she’s wounded. There’s fire….fire!” “Y/N,” Seokjin calls you calmly and sternly. “Are you okay?” You nod and he sighs, pulling away. “Then that’s all that matters.” “What’s going on, Jin?! I thought the abdication was going to be tomorrow.” “Some of the ministers changed their minds last minute. They decided they wanted to remain loyalists to the Emperor for fear of their families being punished. The revolt has been moved up.” “Revolt?! I thought….I thought they were just going to force him to abdicate!” You didn’t know that there would be such violence. That all of this was planned prior. It makes you queasy. “Sometimes sacrifice is needed,” Seokjin merely states. “But you don’t have to worry. We still have the majority of the ministers’ support. They would’ve still voted in favour of abdicating the Emperor from his throne.” Your brows are drawn tightly together and you shake your head. “What does that mean?” “It means we’re going to win.” Your older brother smiles, his eyes crinkling, a sense of elation evidently filling his features. But you wonder what the cost of the rebellion coming to fruition is. “I know you’re not carrying the Emperor's child. It’s Jungkook’s, isn’t it?” Seokjin searches your expression for any confirmation, but unlike how you thought he would be wary of your relationship with his close friend and the dangers that came along with it, he appears more relieved. “Jungkook told me,” he explains, “and I told him to come find you. Stay here, alright?” “What?” You grab a hold of your older brother before he can run off, before he can disappear with your worry for him being abandoned with you yet again. “Where are you going?” “I’m going to find Hoseok before he can run away. I’m going to give him what he deserves.” Every syllable is spoken with malice, a sharpness and anticipation flooded between each pause. But you hang onto Seokjin, refusing to let go. You gaze at your sibling, his eyes and hair that appear darker in this lack of lighting, the downturn of his mouth, his shoulders and frame that seem to have gotten thinner in the months you haven’t seen him. You’ve missed Jin so much. And at this moment, you don’t care that the fire is spreading through the palace. That there was smoke already spread at the ceiling. Bloodshed and pitched screams not far from where you stand. You turn deaf to those noises, to the crackling of the flames, the uprising’s cry. “Do you really need to do this? Isn’t this enough already?” “No. It’s not. I won’t be satisfied until I know that bastard hasn’t run away.” “Please, Seokjin,” you beg with your entire frame, fingers tightening on his sleeve until your knuckles have turned white. You do all that you can to reach him, begging him, pleading with him as his younger sister. “D-Don’t go. I miss you. We’re….we’re family. I only have you left and I...I don’t want you to go anymore. Stay with me, please. Please, please, that's all I ask.” You remember. Days under the sun where you would follow him. Days he would take dull sticks and poke you incessantly. Days he would piggyback you and tell you stories he made up off the top of his head. That day the two of you hid in the woven baskets and witnessed the massacre of your family until he covered your eyes with his small hands still dirty from picking flowers. “Don’t go.” But Seokjin’s has already made up his mind. All by himself. You can tell with the way his eyes become saddened, how he merely leans in to plant a kiss at your forehead, how he pulls out of your grasps. Seokjin runs off and you try to chase him as if you were still children playing games in the forest. But just like then, he’s faster than you are. “Seokjin!” He runs, disappearing into the darkness. “Jin!” And you’re left alone. Abandoned. Sobbing heart wrenchingly until your whole being aches. “Kim Seokjin!” You call out to him to no avail, watching the backside of your only brother fading away.

Seokjin hears you, loud and clear. But he doesn’t turn around. He twists around the corner, sword slashing anyone who comes in his way. After years of training, it’s no longer difficult to drive his blade into bodies and let their blood splatter on his hands. It’s rather easy when he consumes himself in his hatred and anger. Seokjin kills any guards still wearing the royal emblem or those who have sworn their allegiance to Jung Hoseok, and any ministers who have decided to stay as loyalists. He spares servants, letting them run past him as they cry, begging for mercy. And he persists, even when he has to lurch forward, the gash of his shoulder dripping of his blood and the nicks on his face sting painfully. He makes it to the grand throne room. The red carpet is rolled in front of him, golden candle lights providing piercing luminescence but making his own shadow darker. This is the place that once held extravagant celebrations to welcome the Emperor’s consorts that were disposed of months later, that held dancers and musicians for the entertainment of the ministers, that failed to save the nation from poverty and famine. And now, Seokjin finds Hoseok seated on the throne. The man is alone. Pouring his last cup of wine to drink. “Jung Hoseok!” Seokjin’s voice booms across the hall, his steps finding vigor as they close the distance. “You can’t run anymore!” “I know,” the middle-aged man says after he sips and smacks his lips, savouring the taste of wine. “I know I’ve lost. It must feel good to undermine my position, huh? I should’ve known better than to underestimate you, but those are things of the past. I can’t change them now.” His calmness exasperates Seokjin to his core. And Hoseok rises to his feet, brushing his robes behind him. His arms are placed behind his back as he walks down the steps of the throne, finally facing the younger man. But he isn’t surrendering, far from it when he takes the sword from the stand and points it at Jin. There’s shouting, an ear-splitting clash of metal against the crackle of the flames becoming louder as they seep through the back wall. Hoseok is stiff, age having slowed his movements. He isn’t as agile as Seokjin is, doesn’t have his fervour, but it’s clear to Jin that he’s not going without a fight. That he will never give up out of his own will. Hoseok would rather burn here. “You killed my family!” Seokjin spits when their blades crash against each other again, the older barely able to deflect. The corner of Hoseok’s mouth tugs. “I ended many families.” Seokjin never tells him about the Kim family, about how his father and mother were both executed when knelt on the dirty ground, how his uncles and aunts were brutalized before being murdered, that the servants’ sobs only stopped once their breathing ceases. Seokjin doesn’t tell, just because he has an inkling, a fear that Hoseok won’t even remember. So he lets his grief speak for itself— “You will pay for what you’ve done.” There’s a swing, another clatter. Hoseok stumbles back before lifting his sword again. There’s a chance. An opportunity. Seokjin could deflect, could move away swiftly without a blink to waste, but his eyes instead pinpoint to Hoseok’s open abdomen. A perfect spot and he seizes the moment. He drives the sword forward. Until he can hear the breath in the older man hitch, see the way his pupils tremble. Even when the cost is that Hoseok’s own blade digs into his shoulder and tears it down into his chest. Blood pours like rain on an April afternoon. It drips in a rhythmic beat, coating the empty throne room until the iron stench overwhelms the smoke of the burning, golden walls. Seokjin uses the remaining of his strength to step back, pulling the sword out of Hoseok. The blood-soaked blade crashes to the ground at the same time as Hoseok’s own body collapses. And Jin falls back a moment later. The pool of his blood is warm, the fire enveloping the room sweltering. He stares at the magnificently painted ceiling before shutting his eyes for the final time. The corners of Seokjin’s mouth tugs upwards into a smile. We’ve won, Y/N.

At the same time, you stumble.

The wind knocks out of your lungs as your knees buckle. You’re grabbed by one of Hoseok’s guards, pulled back until your arm feels like it’s being yanked out of its socket. You cry out as agony overwhelms you and the guard wheezes over the exhaust of the fire engulfing the palace and paints the wooden structures into bright scarlet. “She’s here!” he shouts while you struggle. But before you can be taken, dragged towards the center of the palace, there’s a low grunt from the guard. A short shout is made and he suddenly drops, revealing your saviour. Doe eyes and dark hair, his hands splattered in carmine and his brows knitted closely together. “J-Jungkook!” He embraces you in an instant, arms wrapping around your frame for the first time in ages. His nose digs into your hair, your face into his shoulder as you shake. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here now,” he soothes you in a murmur that you desperately hang on to. But the intimate moment doesn’t last for long. Jungkook pulls away. “We have to go. There’s an open entrance in the back by the stables.” “Wait—wait, Jungkook! Jin. I couldn’t stop him. He—he went to find...he went to find Jung Hoseok and he went towards the fire. I can’t leave him behind. He’s my only brother. Please go look for him, please,” you beg him, hands tightening on his. “I can’t go without him.” “I know,” Jungkook tells you with lips lopsided. “But I need to make sure you’re safe first. I need to fulfill my promise to him. This is what he wanted, okay?” You nod, putting your trust in him and quicken your pace. The faster you go, the more time they’ll be for Jungkook to return and search for Jin before it’s too late. But as the two of you interlace your hands, running alongside one another, you’re stopped meters away from the circular opening of the wall. “Stop!” Emperor Minseok shouts pathetically. He’s obviously shaken, his hair in a disarray, his once magnificent robes dirtied and fluttering open. He is with two other guards wielding weapons, but without his clothes and servants, it is clear that he is undeserving of his title. He is not an Emperor. “Y-You can’t leave! That child is mine!” Minseok points to your stomach. “This isn’t your child!” you shout back at him and the man seemingly pales, eyes horrified as his mouth drops open. “It has never been.” “You….You!” There’s a clamour above the roar of the fire consuming the entire palace. The last of his guards were coming from the corridor and your hand squeezes Jungkook’s. If you die here, then so be it. But you will do so protecting your child until your very last breath. Yet, Jungkook has other plans and it doesn’t encompass your death. “Run,” he whispers sharply into your ear and you whirl around to look at him. “I’ll hold them off. Run and don’t look back.” “But—” “I love you.” Jungkook smiles. His doe eyes crinkle, shining in the flames bleeding to your feet. “I’ll see you again.” He pushes you forward and your feet move on instinct. You run with your arms wrapped around your swollen center, breaths stolen from your parted lips and your eyes shut tight. The guards swing their swords around, but their blades never touch you. There’s a clatter of metal, blades striking one another. Minseok reaches out to seize you, not letting you get away. But his fingertips merely skim the tips of your hair. You hear his grunt, a smothered sound coming from his mouth, the drop of a body. You run. Out through the entrance. Up the dirt incline until your feet begin to slip. Until the darkness has completely covered your form from sight. Until sheer exhaustion forces you to stop. Against Jungkook’s will, you turn around. You watch as the raging fire engulfs the palace, eating away at the structure that stretches across the horizon, as blazing as the sunlight at dawn itself. And you fall to your knees, sobbing for the people you love.

[Epilogue] The dynasty has fallen. New people have taken over old places and you wonder if it was all futile — if history will repeat itself once more — if Seokjin’s sacrifice has been made in vain. For his sake, you hope not. After the rebellion and riots on the streets by the common people, the loyalists of the old empire have been driven away from the country. But you know there’s few of them that are still after you because of your ties to the rebels. There are those on the uprising’s side that are seeking to kill you too. They believe that your child belongs to the deceased Emperor and many would rather be safe than sorry, not wanting to risk his bloodline being in existence at all. But one look at the babbling baby trying to stand in front of you and his striking doe eyes and dark hair, you know for certain that he is of Jungkook’s blood and bones. “Minkook, what are you doing?” You pick up your mischievous, chubby toddler to place on your hip. His grabby hands take your hair and his mouth circles, trying to sound out syllables and string them together. “M-Mum..mum..mama…” You smile, nuzzling into him. “Are you hungry?” Those who believe you, the ones closest to Seokjin, have chosen to protect you from the threats. After the birth, you were brought to a safe house far from the capital where no one knows your name or your child’s. It’s a modest home on top of a green hill, close to the riverbend and where you can see the sunrise and sunset. It’s peaceful and every morning and evening, you’re able to sit on the steps. Waiting. They told you about Seokjin. You heard that several of them saw his body before the entire palace went up into flames, but there’s been no news of Jungkook. No sighting of him. It’s been eleven months since that time. Six from when Minkook was born. You don’t know Jungkook’s whereabouts, don’t know if he can even find you with where you’re hidden now, how he will manage to get himself here. But you believe in his promise. You trust that you will see him again. “Goodnight, Min.” Your sleepy toddler is unable to keep his eyes open for any longer and succumbs to the seduction of sleep. You plant a tender kiss on the top of his round head and set down on the bed, still softly humming a lullaby that Seokjin had taught you so long ago — a way you keep his memory alive. Once Minkook is secure and safe, your footsteps pad quietly across the floor. You come outside, shutting the door behind you, sitting on the wooden steps. The last light of the sun is fading from the sky. The horizon is painted in murky shades of tangerine and rose, the clouds wispy and floating in shapes that you and your brother once tried to discern as children. Someday, your own children will lay in the grass staring at the sky because of his sacrifice and yours. But for now, you watch the sun fall. You watch as night takes over the evening, how another day has passed. But as you turn to head inside as the sky starts to be filled with stars, your breath hitches in your throat. You blink hard to ensure that it's not a dream. That the illusion has not imprinted into your mind after so much desperation and time. But the sight is all too real when you open your eyes again. Over the horizon at a distance and in the last dwindling light of the evening, there is a man with doe eyes and dark hair approaching. His gaze meets yours and a tender smile stretches into his cheeks. His features are tired as if he has been traveling for days, clothes ragged and ripped. But none of it matters. Jungkook comes closer and closer towards you. And you run, meeting him halfway as tears flood your vision. You leap forward and he laughs, arms catching you in a tight embrace. The two of you are finally reunited at last.

#bts fanfic #bts smut #bts scenario #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #bts angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook fanfic #I know this is pretty wild and different from my other stories #but it's a concept I've been meaning to write for a while #hope y'all can still find it entertaining :D #even if it's on the heavier side

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tiredcath · 4 years

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Zukka Fic Recs

after atla came back into pop culture i found myself falling back in love with zukka which resulted in me reading (almost) every zukka fic on ao3 and here are my favorites

Transference by The_Quatermasters (146k)

In a modern AU, Zuko has to deal with settling in a new school after expulsion, dealing with an angry ex and an abusive father. Maybe his new found friendships and growing closeness with Sokka will help him make it through.

Borderlines by The_Quatermasters (73k)

Three years after the war, the work still isn't quite done and the Gaang is scattered across the continents in their efforts to help the world recover. When Aang and Katara pay visit to the Fire Nation where Zuko is Fire Lord and Sokka acts as Ambassador for the Water Tribe, sparks fly between the siblings over Sokka's life choices.

Ashes Inside When You Finish Your Song by Muncaster (47k)

Sokka writes lyrics for his sister’s band. Zuko plays piano and is unnecessarily nice. Fellas, is it gay to write love songs about your friend and his golden eyes?

(AKA, a modern band AU featuring The Gaang, crappy software equipment, homoerotic lyrics, and the realization that maybe, if you think about a guy every night before you sleep, you just might be in love with him.)

sirens & sleepless nights by Satirrian (54k)

Life can be pretty hard living in a city under a totalitarian regime. Between adhering to the ridiculous curfew, keeping himself from being gunned down by a passing patrolman, and paying his unnecessary tolls to the state for, say, breathing, Sokka has his hands full just getting to work. Add aiding a resistance group on top of that, and Sokka should really be getting paid for this.

Then, one night, Sokka finds an injured patrolman collapsed in the street, who tells him with blood on his lips, “If the patrol finds me, I’m dead.”

Real Slow by surveycorpsjean (21k)

“I see.” Zuko closes the scroll. “Is the Water Tribe sending a replacement?”

“Uh yeah,” Sokka gestures to himself dramatically. “You’re looking at him.”

First by HoneyBadgerMole (20k)

Zuko has been nurturing a crush on the jock in his AP Psych class but he has been too scared to talk to him until they get paired up for a project.

the benefits of getting a flat tire by LesbeanLatte (64k)

Zuko makes an impromptu decision to run away from home after a disturbing conversation with Azula. Unfortunately, some plans are better when they're actually, well, planned. Zuko isn't counting on getting a flat tire almost as soon as he's far enough away from the city to really be in the middle of nowhere.

Sokka is immediately taken with the stranger he and his friends find stranded on the side of the road during an afternoon joy ride. However, he has no idea what he's getting involved with and a kind attempt to help a fellow teen in need turns into a massive coverup for a missing person who just so happens to be the son of the mayor of Ba Sing Se.

Azula was just trying to help her big brother - in her own way - by telling him things she thought he deserved to know. Now the situation has gotten wildly out of control. Did she enjoy seeing Zuko upset and afraid? Of course. Had she intended to endanger his life? Not necessarily, but of course, her idiot brother overreacted to everything and that's what happened and now she doesn't know how to stop the chain of events she's indirectly put in place like dominoes.

Operation Leverage by snowandfire (50k)

Sokka's instincts are onto something great. Zuko just wants to serve tea and brood in peace. Ironically, Toph is the only one who can see what's really going on.

The Stingray by Smediterranea (24k)

“You’re not carrying me.”

“I don’t mind,” the lifeguard says easily.

“I can just hop over.”

“On sand?”

Zuko will never admit it, but being carried feels pretty nice. The lifeguard sets him down and eyes him warily.

“Are you really all by yourself?” he asks in a worried tone. “No friends in town you can call to check on you?”

“No,” Zuko confirms. Tears are forming again with alarming speed; his foot throbs painfully with every passing second.

“What kind of burrito do you want?”

“You don’t have to —“ Zuko repeats.

“I’m getting al pastor. You like al pastor?”

AU: Zuko falls for Sokka, the super hot lifeguard who helps him after an unfortunate encounter with a stingray.

it's the illusion of separation by argentoswan (110k)

Sokka takes a job washing dishes at the new tea shop in town. It's a great gig, until he finds out his only coworker is his old high school bully. Sokka really should quit, but he also really needs to afford rent.

Also, Zuko is kind of hot now.

People like to think war means something by trying_to_spell_both_our_names_at_once (21k)

Sokka was the first to leave.

Somehow that hurt the most. . . . Not long after Zuko becomes Firelord, forces gather in the South and next thing he knows he's thrown into a civil war with almost no one by his side. Maybe healing is longer and more complicated than it needs to be, but with the right people by your side it is always possible.

a way that will destroy you by anothermistakemade (14k)

In the wake of Ozai's death, Zuko begins to fall apart. Sokka will do everything in his power to make sure that doesn't happen.

or, zuko might be losing his mind, but he also might just be really sad & traumatized

Those Who Favor Fire by CSHfic, VSfic (30k)

After a failed attempt on his life, Sokka fakes his death, dons a disguise, and infiltrates the would-be assassin's ranks in an attempt to bring them down from the inside.

Zuko learns of his husband's tragic death, mourns, and vows revenge.

Words Mean More at Night by DaisytheDoodleDog (28k)

Even ten years after the end of the war, rebellions rise and risk the balance of the nations. Sokka was willing to do anything to protect his people, which is perhaps why he's leading an army against the rebellion, attacking only as a last result. But Sokka's unwinding, it's taking a toll on him, and the only thing keeping him grounded are the letter Zuko and him exchange late in the night when no one can see the messenger hawks. But as they say, nothing's fair in love and war.

another word for wanting by eurydicees (23k)

Sokka begins to dream of his soulmate when he's eleven years old, and it just gets harder from there. Or, 125 moments soulmates share, and none of them come easy.

(In which your dreams are your soulmate's memories, and Sokka dreams of an all-consuming fire, growing and eating at his soulmate until it burns up the connection between their souls. In which they find love anyways.)

It Has Only Just Begun by Kirazalea (39k)

There is a bitter triumph in crashing when you should be soaring

Zuko had now chosen the path his uncle had been trying so hard to show him; he had someone who believed in him, who maybe loved him; he was travelling with the Avatar and they apparently had a plan to end the war. By all accounts, Zuko should be smiling.

But Uncle was gone (captured by Azula, and Zuko didn't think she would kill him, but he didn’t, couldn’t, know for sure). The Avatar was barely breathing (he could still die at any second and there was nothing any of them could do about it). Azula had conquered the last Earth Kingdom stronghold (all those innocent people who were now at her mercy). It seemed like, for every step Zuko took forward, the world sent him back three more.

But he was determined to push forward anyways. He needed to make his uncle proud, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

aka: zuko joins the gaang at the end of season 2

Nightmares and Reveries by HisMomoness (20k)

Zuko doesn't sleep because when he does, he's haunted by nightmares. Sokka worms his way into a job and makes it his mission to get Zuko to relax. Lots of head pets and one vacation to the South Pole later, Zuko might just be getting the hang of it.

Cue pining, some fluff, and eventual romance.

The One Who Stopped Time by ohhihoney (66k)

All hope was lost to Zuko until one day, his uncle asked a random person at the Jasmine Dragon to tutor his nephew. Gritting his teeth and embarrassed beyond the point of no return, Zuko gave the blue eyed boy his number.

Little did Zuko know how much Sokka would change his world.

Rubbed Off Stars by ohhihoney (2k)

Sokka wasn't going to just sit and watch the boy at the back of the bus cry while trying to rub off pride flags off his cheeks.

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

WIP

Ozymandias, King of Kings by Think_of_a_Wonderful_Thought (168k)

After that fateful Agni Kai, Ozai makes a different call. Branded as a traitor and banished to a prison camp, Zuko learns how cruel the Fire Nation can be to its citizens. Three years, a water tribe raid, and an unexpected meeting with a gang of over-enthusiastic idealistic children puts Zuko back in the spotlight. The revolution is coming and it wants another poster boy, but Zuko is not willing to lend his face to the cause.

Another Brother by AvocadoLove (312k)

It was a mission of revenge. There weren't supposed to be any survivors, but Chief Hakoda couldn't bring himself to kill the Fire Nation boy. Against his better judgment, he brought him home. A Zuko joins the Water Tribe story.

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

BONUS : zuko x jet

Something to Hold Onto by Wildgoosery (122k)

Since the day the walls of Ba Sing Se fell, the Freedom Fighters have struggled to protect what remains of the city and its people. Jet and his second command, a mysterious boy named Li, have spent the summer piecing together an army, hoping for a chance to take the city back for good. But Li is also Zuko, and the time for that secret is quickly running out. Soon, he'll have to decide exactly who he is, what cause he's going to fight for, and where his heart lies.

188 notes · View notes

joontier · 4 years

Text

The King’s Guard | the minis ii.

pairings: kim seokjin x reader ; jeon jungkook x reader ; min yoongi x reader

rating: R (18+) | genre: established relationship! au, historical! au smut, fluff

warnings: explicit sex; (dunno what this kink is called) but jinnie likes being called the king by the lohs; kink discoveries; oral (m receiving); dom-sub undertones

word count: 4.9k

g/n: and because it’s seokjinnie missing hours~~~ Okta is also based off Okta in Hwarang and YES AHRO MAKES AN APPEARANCE WOOTTT also,,, chapter 6 might also come out real soon aCIfjoasdfj

The King’s Guard - Masterlist || navi.

It’s been a while since Seokjin had retired to your shared room after a long day. He’d initially considered waiting for you while he changed into his sleeping garments but after some time and eventually managing to finish a scroll he’d taken from his office, Seokjin gets up from where he’s seated by the window and asks for Yunho.

A different voice answers from outside, “Jeonha, the guard you are looking for is not with us right now.” Seokjin tries to push away the worry that’s starting to creep through him. The king chooses not to reply, quickly heading over to the dresser to put back on the clothes he was wearing earlier.

You’d never stayed out this late before and as much as he hated to admit it, the capitol isn’t always the safest place, even for its own citizens. There were rumors of an uprising rebellion in the south and the thought of you in danger - he couldn’t risk it. He won’t risk it.

The king asks for Chaeyoung, who was told to be by the palace kitchens. He flees out of the hanok as soon as he gets dressed, taking his sword with him. Just in case. With haste in his steps, Seokjin arrives at the kitchen in no time, asking the cooks if they happened to see you anywhere in the palace.

He receives no response concerning your current whereabouts from the gungnyeo’s quarters either, so he gestures to the guards to follow him, the group walking briskly towards the stables. When Seokjin discovers Yunho’s horse is likewise missing, worry grows in his chest, already praying to the heavens that nothing bad has happened to you.

Gesturing for the troop to hurry, he arranges the saddle on his horse by himself. “Jeonha!” Seokjin breathes a sigh of relief as he hears Yunho’s voice calling him from a distance. He pulls on the reins, directing the horse to turn around. The king, however, doesn’t see you with Yunho, nor does he sense any security in the guard’s worried expression.

“_________?” The guard bows briefly, before opening his mouth to speak. Realizing his current predicament does not need to reach the ears of the other guards, Yunho manages just in time to stop himself from speaking out loud.

“My King,” Yunho speaks, voice low as he guides his horse nearer to Seokjin’s. “Jungjeon-mama is uh…” the guard racks his brain for a better word to explain your present condition but attains nothing. Instead, he settles on the plain truth, despite how strange it sounds rolling off his tongue, “the queen is...um… she’s drunk, your grace.”

It takes Seokjin a moment to process Yunho’s words - the possible image of your drunken state too much for your husband to even picture properly. Seokjin worries for your safety - knowing that you’d never had any proper alcohol in your life. The king quietly prays to his ancestors to watch over you for the meantime while he recollects himself before anyone notices, not wanting to cause any more worry.

When Seokjin deems everyone ready, Yunho suggests the troop to prepare a palanquin after having seen your state - clearly far too intoxicated to even sit upright on a horse. Yunho escorts the king to the establishment where Haesoo had called for his help.

Much to yours and Seokjin’s luck there aren't many people on the streets, given it was already deep into the night - which only got Seokjin worried and wondering; what could possibly be the reason for you to visit such a place? And at such a late hour?

Were you unhappy with your marriage? Was he lacking as a husband? As a king perhaps? A million questions are running through his head - unable to think straight as his horse gallops along the dirt road.

“Lady Ahro! Why do I feel like my husband is here?” you giggle, leaning nearly all of your weight on the poor lady. Ahro has been watching over you since she called for Haesoo’s attention who then called for Yunho, and now the same guard had paid her for such a task. Watching over royals was never in her line of duties, especially those whose drunken selves are a pain to attend to, but the lady was willing to do anything as long as she’d get paid.

When someone came to inform her earlier this afternoon of the soon arrival of an elite client, she was banking on one of her regulars paying her a visit, but she never expected the nation’s queen to visit such a place like Okta.

The establishment was built by and for the elites, yes, but it catered to a more generally younger and more… for lack of a better word, carefree audience. People usually came to Okta for two things: to meet new people of the same societal ranking and to have fun, occasionally, a little too much fun in privacy of the rooms it provided.

It was awkward, at first, unsure how to approach each other. You take a deep breath and speak first, and you can sense her gratitude in the small smile playing in the corner of her lips. “I need your advice,” you start off, voice barely above a whisper.

The lady in front of you lightly raises an eyebrow at your request. “I believe you have to be more specific with your request, my queen. It is my belief that I am knowledgeable on most things - but I am not sure which field in particular you wish for me to share my insights.”

You gulp, completely frozen in place. Chewing on your bottom lip, you consider rethinking your life decisions. Why were you here? What actually got you here in the first place? Ah yes, to learn more about what goes on behind the doors of a married couple, or, if you were being completely honest with yourself, you wanted to know more about the pleasures of the flesh.

Confessedly, you and Seokjin were relatively a young married couple, you were together for quite a few years already, but you only had the chance to stay in the privacy of your shared room only after your marriage. Other than that, the only displays of affection you had with Seokjin never really went past kissing, or that one time he accidentally groped your chest when you almost fell out of balance while on a horse… if that even was to be considered under that category…

And it wasn’t that the both of you hadn’t been on that certain level of intimacy yet, but during those times - you felt like you could have actually contributed more. If you were being completely honest, you had mixed feelings about the whole matter - even questioning the fact that you are even concerned about this in the first place.

Due to the hushed rumors circling the noble class of the city, you’ve had the chance to eavesdrop about this particular establishment which allowed the citizens to enjoy art and music in a more...unconventional manner.

Okta was a crossover between an inn and a canteen but people apparently spent more time consuming alcohol while enjoying each others’ company (whichever came first) in the common and private areas inside the place.

You’d even heard of a lady who told tales of all genres, including erotica, in exchange for a few silver coins. The price was reasonable and with your curiosity and your married-woman-insecurities out on your sleeve, you thought Okta was perhaps the place where you’d finally discover the answers to your unspoken queries.

So you had secretly scheduled a meeting with the infamous “Ahro” and the only other person who knew of this rendezvous was Haesoo, who swore on her ancestors that she wouldn’t tell a soul of your whereabouts, unless it would be of a life and death situation.

Your intoxicated state was apparently considered one.

You had most definitely not intended to actually consume alcohol but considering the fact that Lady Ahro’s stories ultimately had the small hairs on your nape stand on end, not to mention those tips she occasionally throws in for you to use, (tonight too, just as she had advised!), you figured you might as well have a little wine running through your veins to boost your lack of courage.

How you got to this point however - practically clinging onto Ahro for dear life as you giggle uncontrollably - was beyond you. Both your mind and vision have become hazy as the hours pass and you’re barely aware of what’s going on in your surroundings.

She hears rustling from outside the room where you spent talking for hours on end, and she wonders if her temporary guardian duties will finally end. At least the handsome guard had already given her more than three weeks worth of her wages.

The king pokes his head in, eyes scanning the room. He finds you practically draped over Ahro who looks like she’d had to deal with you since time immemorial. Apologizing in your stead, he requests Ahro to leave the two of you for a moment.

It takes the pair quite some effort to pry you off the lady. Seokjin offers another bag of silver in exchange for her silence and Ahro almost considers not taking the payment to preserve her dignity, but quickly remembers she didn’t have much of it in the first place so with a wave and a gentle reminder to Seokjin to never leave you alone again in the establishment, Ahro takes her money and scurries off.

“Sarang, it’s time to go.” Seokjin tugs at your hand to pull you up but you decline, looking away as you put on your best cutesy angry face. He just chuckles at you, gasping in surprise as you tug him downwards, ultimately landing on the spot next to yours. “I still want to play.”

Feeling Seokjin’s chest vibrate with laughter, you pout at him. Since when did Seokjin have such a wonderful neck? It seems like this is the first time you’ve seen his bare neck in years - his throat and whatever is that lump that’s sticking out from his throat is suddenly so...attractive?

In fact, you’ve found it insanely attractive that you’re unable to stop yourself from placing a wet kiss on his neck, just below his jawline. His breath hitches and the action only spurs you further, peppering his throat lingering kisses, working your way down to his collarbone.

Seokjin exhales shakily as he gently tries to pry you off him. “_______, dearest. Not here jagiya. We need to get you home.”

“Can we play then? When we get home?”

He’s never seen you reply like this before and your husband is tempted to ask who you were and what could you have possibly done to his wife, but judging by your current state, he deems it’s not going to end well if he does. Instead, Seokjin just nods at you in reply.

He’s surprised when that actually gets you on your feet. Wincing at the sudden headache that booms through your temple, Seokjin holds you steady as you stumble in your stance. As the pain subsides enough to be tolerable, you shake yourself off of Seokjin’s grasp, skipping giddily out of the room.

Finding difficulty bearing with your drunken mood swings, your husband lets his head flop forward in exasperation as he rubs his face with his palms. Realizing he has yet to watch you in case your inability to walk in a straight line might strike again, Seokjin quickly runs after you.

Just as he had thought, you fall midway to the back door, landing on your knees. Your husband rushes to you, asking if you felt any sort of pain. The boisterous laugh that escapes your lips answers his question efficiently.

Because of the sudden sound, Seokjin sees some of the people from the common area are trying to peek through the slits between the wooden panels covering the hallways, wondering where that sound came from. With graceful haste, Seokjin scoops you up from the floor and walks briskly towards the end of the hallway where Yunho and the rest of the group were waiting with a palanquin.

Your husband ushers you into the litter but your unusually stubborn self continues to cling onto the silken fabric of his jeogori so Seokjin had no other choice but to climb in as well - the palanquin, thankfully, spacious enough to fit two passengers.

Latching onto his arm the moment you’ve settled in your seat, Seokjin wonders slightly if you’ll have any recollection of this once you’ve become sober tomorrow. The king heaves a sigh, finally getting the chance to feel that certain level of relief now that you were quiet and beside him at last.

Seokjin might have spoken too soon.

Next thing he knew, you were snuggling into his chest, fingers dancing lazily along his thigh while you’re at it. Your husband didn’t find it suspicious at first, but when he feels your digits trail dangerously up north, Seokjin gently pushes your hand away keeping them secure under his grasp as he places them on your lap.

Desperation can’t seem to stop anybody though. Even with your hands cuffed beneath Seokjin’s huge palms, you manage to latch your lips on his neck one more time, sucking on the sensitive spot along the creamy expanse of his throat.

The sound that reverberates throughout Seokjin’s body is something you’ve never heard of before - the almost animalistic sound canonically shooting a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

You continue your ministrations until Seokjin gets a hold of himself after an embarrassing amount of time, pulling away from you with a stern look on his face. He calls you by your full name, scolding you slightly of a behavior unbecoming of a queen, reminding you that you both weren’t in the confines of your room and any occurrence of a scandalous event is unaffordable by the royal family. You cower slightly in your seat, not expecting your very own husband to use his authoritative king voice on you.

But just like the interesting turn of events in a short time span tonight, the alcohol coursing through your veins seem to have a mind of its own.

Instead of letting your husband hinder you from your intentions, you take advantage of Seokjin’s loosened grip on your hands, climbing onto his lap swiftly and gracefully, that the palanquin manages to not move much so as not to raise any suspicion from outside.

“Have I been a very bad queen, Seokjinnie?” Your hand purposely brushes through his crotch before trailing upward to cup his jaw. Seokjin staggers at the teasing tone of your voice, thoughts drifting off to whatever they made you drink inside that made you a completely different person. He badly needs to get a hold of those too.

Pushing yourself further into his lap, so close that he feels your breath fanning against his nose. “Jeonha,” you whisper salaciously, nipping at the shell of his ear, “Aren’t bad queens going to get punished?” Seokjin remains silent as he stares at you with an intense gaze, lust clouding over his dark orbs.

“Hmm?” you tap his chin once, feeling the faint stubble of a promising beard. Your husband’s face remains stoic even with your provocative efforts, so you decide to take it up a notch, inspired and fueled by one of Ahro’s stories earlier.

Your hand travels under your skirt, lifting it just a little to reveal that tiny sliver of skin to your husband and as you raise yourself a tiny amount from his lap, you swiftly untie the cloth covering your most private of parts, throwing them aside somewhere else inside the palanquin.

“I am most willing to take any punishment, jeonha...” you whisper as you grind your core on his crotch. Even with your thick skirt hindering you from experiencing the intense pleasure from grinding on his clothed cock, there’s still that faint feeling of his erection as you grind even heavier. “Twofold,” you state, gyrating your hips to match your counting. “Threefold…” another one. You see the lump on Seokjin’s throat bob up and down as he gulps. “Fourfold.”

“Don’t worry, my queen. I’ll be sure to punish you accordingly,” comes Seokjin's equally strained reply, not taking his eyes off you as he thrusts upwards.

Seokjin returns you back to your seat beside him effortlessly, not a word spoken. Well, it’s not as if it’s needed. The tension inside in the now-seemingly cramped space is enough for you to perceive what might happen in the next few moments. As if in sync with your thoughts, Seokjin reminds, “Stay still in your seat, unless you want more punishment later.”

You manage to stay still in your seat, despite your thoughts completely haywire. Maybe you wanted more punishment? Or are you already asking for too much? Was he really going to punish you?

Not before long, the palanquin halts, indicating your arrival at the palace. Seokjin spares you a look, heart melting at the sight of you already asleep, snoring slightly in your sleep.

He chuckles at your slumbering form, climbing out of the palanquin first before asking Yunho to assist him as he clambers to get you out of the litter. Seokjin then proceeds to carry you in his arms and up the stairs to your hanok.

Laying you gently on the bed, Seokjin undresses you layer after layer, knowing how uncomfortable it will be for you if you continue sleeping in the multiple layers of clothing you have on. Your husband delicately tears off your jeogori first, then laughs to himself as he turns you to the side to untie the knot on your skirt, remembering your alcohol-induced bravado earlier. The young king makes a mental note to ask someone tomorrow to get a sample of whatever they had given you prior...for research purposes.

He takes the bowl of water he’s kept by the fire to maintain its temperature, pulls out a small washcloth from your dresser and dips the same into the bowl. Seokjin drags the white fabric along the expanse of your skin not covered by your undergarments. When he deems you freshened enough, he pulls on the ribbon holding half of your hair up in a ponytail.

Fishing your favorite brush from a nearby drawer, a satisfied smile plays on the corner of Seokjin’s lips, running the brush along your hair fanned out on the pillows. Though he loves you for who you truly are, one physical attribute of yours that appeals to him most is your hair - he can’t quite put a finger on it, but there’s something about your hair that he finds so feminine, something he finds strangely, but insanely attractive - much more than he can ever admit out loud.

Propping an elbow for something to lean on, he finds brushing your hair particularly soothing and therapeutic, enough to even lull him to a deep sleep, one hand on the brush and the other holding your hand.

A raging headache and a parched throat wake you from your peaceful sleep, squinting as your eyes adjust to take in your surroundings. You try to recollect what happened last night, vague splashes of last night’s events splayed across your thoughts.

A royal robe covering haphazardly draped over someone’s legs discontinues your momentary reminiscence. Twisting your torso to the side, you see your husband, mouth slightly open as he snores away happily in his sleep. He must’ve taken off your outer clothes last night and — you rack your brain thinking hard if you had done something unintelligible and embarrassing.

Your brazen advances last night finally dawn on you, face cringing as you remember bits and pieces of how you were the night before. ‘It must have been a nightmare for Seokjin,’ you think to yourself, already conjuring up a lame apology for your inexcusable behavior.

Pushing your robe away from Seokjin’s legs, you take notice of the erection hidden beneath the confines of his pants. You make an attempt to not stare at it perversely but it was standing tall and proud like that, and oh - your eyes widen as you see it twitch, as if demanding all of your attention.

Wasn’t this a common occurrence in the morning? You might have felt it a few times during your rising when Seokjin spooned you in his sleep, but your timidity can’t seem to address the concern to your own husband.

Looking away, you shift in your position to share your blanket with your husband. Seokjin unexpectedly wakes up at the action though, giving you a small fright. “Sarang, you’re awake already? Seokjin is talking slower than usual, voice still groggy from sleep.

You nod at him with a shy smile, embarrassed at the fact that you almost got caught eyeing that thing between his legs. “Are you alright? Dizzy, perhaps?”

“Just a little, but I’ll be okay. Thank you for taking care of me last night,” you place a kiss on his cheek as Seokjin hums delightedly. “You must have taken quite the beating last night.” Fiddling with your fingers as you apologize for your behavior last night, Seokjin grabs at your hands and takes them between his.

“It’s fine, sarang. Actually, it was quite...amusing, if I do say so myself,” your husband comments, winking at you. Seokjin sits up, resting his back against the wooden board and beckoning you nearer to him.

As you scoot closer, you snuggle into Seokjin’s chest. Your husband places a kiss on your temple, before playing with your hair, just silently carding his fingers through them. “Do you mind telling me what actually happened last night - the things I said, perhaps? I can’t really recall them properly…”

“Truthfully I was worried when I didn’t see you here yesterday. It was already late when I returned from the office and I don’t really want to be that type of husband that locks you inside the palace but I became really anxious when you still hadn’t returned.”

“I’m sorry I made you worry,” you frown, mentally noting to inform Seokjin of your whereabouts before leaving the palace.

“It’s alright, really. Anyways, I found you practically attached to Ahro, was it? And then we went home. Now we’re here.”

“That’s it?” With the evident Seokjin’s haste in his recollection, you’re starting to get suspicious about how the previous night could have ended that quickly - that...uneventful.

“Nothing else happened? Like I didn’t do or say anything? Am I a quiet drunk?” Your husband looks overwhelmed with all your questions, gulping before he responds.

“You kind of said a couple of things...but! It’s nothing really, nothing major…” Seokjin chuckles nervously, scratching at the back of his head.

“That can’t be the whole story?” You raise an eyebrow at your husband, testing him. Sliding lower down his chest a little so you have a better view of him, you trace the faint stubble on his chin. “Tell me, my king? Please?”

“Don’t call me that,” Seokjin mumbles, looking away. “Doesn’t seem like you dislike it though, jeonha.” Your husband heaves a sigh, knowing you’ve won again. “You do know I love you with all my heart, right? And I don’t want you to think that I might take advantage of your drunkenness - which I didn’t, really, because you fell asleep too before anything actually happened…” He was stalling, you figured, as it might involve something that made him uncomfortable.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell the whole thing… I just… why do I only remember me saying something along the lines of punishment?” Seokjin looks down at you with dilated pupils.

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you...it’s just…” your husband pauses, thinking deeply about what his next statement might entail. “I can’t think about it without getting hard…”

Seokjin looks almost strained as he looks to the side, avoiding your eyes. “If only you’ve seen - heard yourself last night, gods! It was like a different you completely”

Just as if the universe is on your side, you’re starting to get clearer recollection of last night’s events, realization slowly dawning on you. Likewise, Ahro’s words ring inside your head, urging you to go make your move. Relying on the last possible ounce of alcohol remaining inside you, you gather all your courage and make a proposition. “Am I still up for punishment? Jeonha?”

Seokjin dramatically exhales, rubbing at his face. “Don’t say things like that, ________!” Laughter is already bubbling in the pit of your stomach (just as much as the anticipation for what’s to come, in case your plan works out) but you control yourself, maintaining a straight face as you continue to query him.

“Why? Did I say something, my king?”

Your husband makes a sound, somewhere between a grunt frustration and resilience, and looks at you dead in the eye, “You saying those things just makes me really want to punish you.” Pulse rapidly accelerating, you make a final question, “What’s stopping you, jeonha?”

Seokjin wastes no time with your affirmation, connecting your lips together. Moaning into the kiss, he shifts in his seat to cage you between him and the bed, strong arms holding him up as he deepens the kiss.

Shamelessly grinding his erection against you, Seokjin grunts, gripping at your thighs to keep them spread, “Do you feel how aroused you get me all the time?” Mewling at the sensation, you manage to choke out a reply, “As do you, my love.”

Your husband deftly unties the undergarments you’ve slept in. “Seok…” a breathy whine escapes you as he latches onto on of your nipples. The foreign feeling of his warm, wet tongue sends you shivering and it takes all your might to stop him as you remember Ahro’s advice yesterday, squeezing at your husband’s lithe biceps.

“What is it, sarang? Do you wish to stop?”

“N-no. I want to take control, Jinnie.”

Albeit slightly taken aback by your behest, Seokjin nods, sitting on his heels. “Lie down, my king. I want to pleasure you.” Shock is evident in your husband’s features as he complies with your command, cock already twitching in anticipation. “Take off you clothes too.” Seokjin obeys without further questioning, unknowingly easing the mild worry nipping at you.

Just as what Ahro had told you yesterday, you splay your hands on his chest, before bending down slowly to place kisses all over the milky expanse of his skin. Moving further south until your reach that thin trail of hair, Seokjin’s sudden intakes of air continuously urge you on, until you finally get to his crown jewel.

Licking at your lips, you hastily pull his pants down, your desperation for a mutual release guiding your actions on instinct. As soon as his cock springs free from its confines, you get into action, placing a wet kiss on the tip of his length before slowly taking the head in your mouth.

“O-oh, fuck! What did that lady tell you back at Okt…” Seokjin cries out a broken moan as you pull your mouth back up then diving back in, eventually getting lower to the base. You feel your husband tremble with your every bob, subconsciously tugging at your hair in pleasure.

Seokjin starts to squirm around you, pushing your mouth away from his shaft. “My love, please…. please let me be inside you. I can’t cum like this, please.” Seokjin beseeches, torso already covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

Your husband switches your positions as he pushes you gently onto the bed, but your hand shoots out to grab at his wrist. “C-can...can I be on top?”

There’s a slight furrow in Seokjin’s brows at your request, but he smiles nonetheless, keeping his excitement at bay. “Of course, love. You’re free to sit on your throne anytime.”

He lies back down, both palms out to support you in your task. Gladly placing your hands on him, you crawl back on his lap, moving on your knees to position yourself to impale yourself on his cock.

Taking his length in your hand, you languidly swipe the tip against your wet folds. With one final breath, you push downward, sinking down on his cock until he’s fully seated inside you. Slowly you start, swiveling your hips just as you were told. Seokjin keeps his gaze at you through hooded eyes – a definite boost of confidence for you.

You settle on a particular rhythm, just gyrating your hips around before it gets too much like you’re almost at that point, but not quite yet. You start alternating by bouncing atop him, while your fingers find your clit, rubbing at your nether bud vigorously to push you towards your high.

Seokjin grabs at your breasts, twisting and tweaking your nipples, stimulating you further. He feels you clench around him as you orgasm nears quickly and his balls tighten likewise, painting your velvety walls white as he reaches his climax after you.

You fall to his chest, panting just as heavily as Seokjin. He decides on keeping himself still sheathed inside you for a while longer, reveling in the feeling of his cum dripping out of your pussy and onto his thigh. “The next time you go to Okta, take me with you, alright? I’ll have whatever you had back there.”

#bts smut #bangtanhq #ficswithluv #btsgoldnet #btswritingcafe #btsguild #hyunglinenetwork #bangtanarmynet #btsghostie #bayanihanboost #kim seokjin #seokjin smut

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prettywordsyouleft · 4 years

Text

Forsaken | Part 4

Summary: As one of the Forsaken, Jinyoung had no right to covet anything as his own. When he stumbles across you standing in the middle of the village he had plundered, the memories of old make him risk it all, clutching at the past in hopes for a better future.

Pairing: Park Jinyoung x reader

Genre: warrior au / star crossed lovers / angst / romance

Warnings: death, kidnapping, cursing, a myriad of emotions - this is a really sad love story.

Index: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

The bed was cold when you rolled over in the morning.

Had it been a dream? You were certain Jinyoung had held you close all night long, breathing words of longing into your ear. And yet, as you sat up, he was nowhere to be seen, his belongings simply waiting for their master to return.

Were you also waiting now?

Your mind was conflicted. It felt too warm, too comfortable to be back within his arms. As Jinyoung held you within the forest, you were unable to get enough of him. But as soon as he wasn’t against you, rational uncertainties crept up on you.

The Jinyoung you knew wouldn’t kill anyone.

What had led him down such a dark and twisted path? The fact that you wanted to comprehend why he was here bothered you more than you wanted to accept. It shouldn’t be something you needed to understand. You were morally against the Rebellion. You saw no need for the power-hungry force taking what didn’t belong to them. You believed of its warriors as nothing more than monsters, spewing out curse words whenever they were mentioned in conversation.

You felt the emotions spill down your cheeks as you grappled with this situation. You would never have those conversations again. Further, you were now inside the Rebellion. The need to survive made humans wicked, you thought.

As the door opened, you initially glared at the intrusion to your inner turmoil, Jinyoung pressing his lips together in a firm line. Why did he just accept your response? Was his guilt that overwhelming that whatever you did, he would deal with it without any complaint?

You remembered how infuriating he could be when he didn’t possess an opinion when you could hold many.

“You are entitled to be how you please,” he said as if he had read your mind. “And you’re welcome to decline breakfast as well. However, given you didn’t eat yesterday, and you’re recovering from your fever, I suggest you do.”

You looked towards the wooden tray he had carried in with a single serving of porridge upon it. You glanced up at him and he smiled weakly. “I ate with the men.”

“Would they dislike it if you ate with me instead?”

“Word travels,” he replied as he scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Is my stay here causing problems for you?”

“No,” he answered too quickly and inhaled a deep breath. “No, it won’t.”

“So then can I eat with everyone else later?”

Jinyoung watched you cautiously. “Why?”

“Do you think keeping me cooped up in here is good for my mind? I spend far too long contemplating who you are and being angered at myself for considering to accept all this. I have too many questions, like how I ended up in these clothes and-”

“I didn’t look, I went by feel. And I was very quick,” Jinyoung responded, his ears turning red in the process. You stumbled to a stop over your rant and began to giggle. Jinyoung merely stared at you, mouth agape. “You find me humorous?”

“I find you puzzling. How, as a grown man are you so frightened of touching a woman’s body? Don’t you take all you can whilst on the road?”

“Where is your husband then? Why aren’t you married? I see no ring to state that you belong to someone else.”

“If I did, would I have died back there too?” you asked without thinking and watched as the hardness reappeared in his eyes. You sighed. “I could have had one.”

“I still would have taken you. I’m cold-hearted man, isn’t that right? Husband or not, I would have taken you as my own.”

“Isn’t it a good thing I’ve always been yours,” you muttered and then swallowed as you felt his sharp focus snap back to your face. Spooning a mouthful of the food into your mouth, you then choked from trying to eat too quickly.

Jinyoung handed you a glass of water and crouched before you. “Slowly, eat more slowly. It’s not going to be your only meal. I make sure my people are fed here.”

“It’s a different camp than the one you were found within,” you said and Jinyoung’s hand on your thigh gripped it momentarily.

“We need to stop talking about the past.”

“It’s all we have that links us. I’m not meant to be in this world with you otherwise and you’re meant to be dead like I was told. Dead beside my parents who hid you and-”

“What?” Jinyoung cut in, his eyes rounding. “What did you just say?”

Your expression softened as you put down your spoon, not realising he was actually clueless to the proceedings that happened after his departure.

“Y/N,” your father said in a hushed voice, his eyes imploring you to look up at him. You had spent the past week in bed, falling ill after the army troops dragged Jinyoung away from you, the same man before you having held you back from chasing after him any further than you had. You hadn’t wanted to see your father ever again and yet with the way he looked at you now, you grew aware of the urgency in his expression. “Take this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a medicine that will help you sleep for two days without stirring. When I leave this room, you must take it, do you understand?”

“Whatever for?!”

“I just need you to do this without question, my child,” he pleaded, pushing the potion bottle into your hand. “Take it and hide the bottle immediately. I love you, please know this is the only way I can protect you.”

“From what, Papa?”

“Have you of my compass?” he continued and you shook your head. “Does Jinyoung have it?”

“I gave it to him before you dragged me back.”

“At least one of you will be guided well in this world,” he murmured and then produced another compass, this time, much smaller than the one you had once carried everywhere you went. Placing the chained gift within your hand, he pressed his lips to your head and then gave you a watery smile. “Use this to find him again.”

“But-”

“It will help you in life more than I will now. Please live.”

And with that the man got up and left the room, tears streaming down your cheeks as you obediently took the potion.

When you opened your eyes again, the house was silent. You eased yourself onto the floorboards of your bedroom, noticing the door that was once closed now open. Dashing into the master bedroom next to yours, you found it empty. Turning for the staircase, you thumped down them and into the front room, rocking back on your heels and shrieking at the sight before you.

Stepping outside and wailing for help of your bloodied parents, you rushed up to the neighbour’s doorstep and knocked on the door repeatedly until you looked into the window. Your blood ran cold, and you felt the world spinning around you.

Shakily pulling out the chain around your neck you held up the compass and searched for direction.

Jinyoung was shaking you now, breaking you out of your emotional revisit to the death of your parents, of all that lived in your town, aside from the small few who managed to escape before the Rebellion entered. You looked up at him, your eyes unfocused. “Stop shaking me.”

“Tell me what happened?!”

“What is there to tell of another town that was plundered and destroyed? Isn’t that what you know of so well?”

“They said you would be spared!” he exclaimed and you finally looked at Jinyoung, the tears running down his face freely. “If I went with them they would all be spared! I never ventured back there to keep you all safe!”

“Only I was spared. My father poisoned me so it looked like I had died from heartbreak. They killed everyone else.”

Jinyoung collapsed at your feet then, his head hung low, uncontrolled sobs leaving him. You didn’t reach out for him, feeling no comfort in reliving the horror of that time in your life. Before you had been found by a little old woman who was travelling through, you had attempted to find a way to take your life so you would be with your parents again. You had been told Jinyoung would be killed for hiding away in your town for as long as he had, and then your parents, along with everyone else who held the secret, paid the price for Jinyoung’s stay there. You hadn’t wanted to live without any of them.

And yet your father’s final plea prevailed, the lady taking you in and caring for you as her own. You carried on, trying to live in their stead as best as you could.

Your parents had died in vain and Jinyoung had been used as a pawn for a bigger picture. There was nothing that could make this situation any better.

At some point, Jinyoung got up and left the room. You hadn’t moved from the spot you were in when he left and didn’t even lift your eyes to the door when it reopened.

However, it wasn’t Jinyoung who entered.

“Hello,” a man said softly, edging around the room. You recognised his voice as one from the group you had travelled with and lifted your head to look up at him. He smiled gently. “I’m not here to harm you. I’m Jackson, Jinyoung’s right-hand man.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know you care about Jinyoung though. You’re that girl he left behind, aren’t you?”

“You know?” you asked curiously and Jackson chuckled softly.

“Not much, just that he carries a compass around that he stole from a girl who saved him as a boy. When asked about what you stole in return, he said his heart.”

“Where is he?”

“Did something happen? He rode out on his horse earlier in the day saying he had to go see Jaebum.” You merely stared at Jackson, not understanding what he meant. “Oh right, you don’t know the people here. Jaebum was taken at the same time as Jinyoung was.”

You thought back to that moment, remembering another young man shackled and being dragged away with Jinyoung. He hadn’t been found in your town, though you heard he had been hiding in a neighbouring village who had alerted of Jinyoung’s existence in the first place.

You worried over what Jinyoung would do.

He arrived back after dusk with another person, Jinyoung surprised to find you waiting with Jackson at your side. He gave Jackson a look and the man beside you merely shrugged before laughing loudly. “Jaebum, are you here for dinner, my friend?”

“I’ve dealt with his mood long enough that you better bring out the wine you found at that little cove a few months ago. I know you hoarded more than you let on.”

“Now now, I don’t think you should paint me so poorly in front of Y/N here.”

“She’s aware we’re all evil bastards,” Jinyoung grumbled as walked right passed you, heading towards the communal area that you had been taken to whilst he was away. There you had helped with preparing dinner, Jackson saying with Jinyoung away that everyone would suffer from Youngjae’s bad cooking.

“I’m not that bad!” Youngjae had corrected and then looked at you with a grin. “But I could do with some help.”

Cooking helped you stay out of your thoughts, but it didn’t ease your worry any. It baffled you to be this concerned over a man who was more than capable of looking after his own back. However, you had only just rediscovered Jinyoung. For what sins he had committed in this world, he was still someone you had missed terribly.

You weren’t ready to lose him again so easily.

“Will you be staying here long?” Youngjae had asked as you peeled the potatoes together and you shrugged.

“I’m not sure of my fate. Just that I’m here now.”

“A lot of us felt like that. I remember the first day I came here. I thought Mark would have me hanging from that tree over there by the end of it.”

“Really? Why?”

Youngjae chuckled and you decided then that you enjoyed the energy he possessed. “Well, I don’t know how much you know about the Rebellion but they’re not meant to help people.”

“No, they take what isn’t theirs and end the lives of many.”

“They do help people, here at least. I was meant to be dead anyway. My left leg had been damaged by another battalion that had taken my farmstead. I was a produce grower for a town over. When Mark rode by me with Jinyoung, I begged them to end my life so I could be out of my pain. Instead, they brought me here.”

“They saved you?” you asked, stunned. You then frowned. “I thought they don’t take prisoners?”

“Are we imprisoned here?” Youngjae asked, gesturing to the open space that he could walk around in. He patted his leg that you had noticed he walked with a strange gait upon earlier. “Instead of hanging me, Jinyoung and Mark took me to Jaebum who is a healer. He fixed my leg as best as he could and now I’m here. I’m grateful to serve these people even if I’m only good at growing food, not cooking it. It’s a safe place here. I’d much rather be close to the enemy lines than out there, oblivious to how your life could be ended.”

You thought over Youngjae’s words for the rest of the day, and when you were seated for dinner, smiling gently at those who sang your praises for how delicious the meal was, you glanced in Jinyoung’s direction, catching his eye briefly. He smiled before turning to Jaebum who was talking about some adventure they once took together.

Could this place be the starting point of nowhere?

_________________

Part 5

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outoftimewriting · 4 years

Text

Imagine (inspired by the incomplete fanfic Son of Underworld) (2/5) (Son of Hades! Percy AU)

Check the other parts in the masterpost - read the warnings before proceeding. Good reading!!

After the worse summer, Percy goes home.

Luke's proposal keeps swimming in his head - the blonde is not wrong, but Percy has been scammed before - he remembers once that a "friend" convinced him to be a lookout for him to do something shady at the Dean's Office and then put the blame on him.

And he was blamed - Percy is black, and black kids are never the innocent ones - but now he knows better.

Being a child of the Underworld gods is not that different from being black.

Percy is comfortable with his skin though - his mother is incredible, and most people at Camp are mixed up. Charles is African-American. Selena's father is Muslim, and the Stoll's mother is Jewish (half the reason they are year-rounders). Clarisse's mom is from Nicaragua. Michael Yew has a Brazilian grandma with Japanese heritage.

He isn't friends with most of them - Charles is like a big brother to him and Michael Yew taught him how to shoot an arrow, but Clarisse is at most a good spar partner and nor the Stolls nor Silena care for his company very much.

Percy tells himself that he doesn't care.

He packs his bags - a blue and red backpack and a few surf shirts from the amusement park where he destroyed a pool and made the ground swallow mechanic spiders, both the Minotaurs horns, now fashioned into very cool knives, his Warhammer and his ax slung across his back. The only sweater he has, the one he came here with, the blue one, is warming him up to the chill of autumn.

Chiron asks him if he doesn't want to stay. He touches the willow standing in the furthest shore of the river, the one that marks the barrier of Camp Half-Blood. It used to be Thalia Grace, daughter of Poseidon.

Chiron looks to him with pity. He doesn't need to know that Percy is planning to murder Gabe Ugliano.

Percy goes to do that. He travels, by car. He has enough money - he has money appearing in his pockets all the time now, his father must be truly guilty.

Then he opens the door of his old apartment - but Gabe is not there, in the living room. There's just his mom, on the couch.

His mom

Alive

Percy cries, and they hug, and then they trade stories. She tells him she was asleep in Olympus, and Zeus gave her back when the bolt got to his hands.

He is less angry. But the heavy weight of indignation seats in his stomach.

There's no time for it now: Percy is going back to Yancy Academy - his grades were not bad - and Gabe is now a very charming statue for someone very rich (later, he will discover it was Persephone who bought it).

He tells her everything, safe in her arms, no shirt, no gloves. His mom can touch him everywhere - not even a cell in his body would attack her.

He is so touch starved he keeps sleeping in her bed for a week, and, at night, he cries. Percy has horrible nightmares - he is just twelve and he has killed.

He tells her about his meeting with his father in hushed whispers at an evening where the sky is blue and pink - just how he likes it.

Sally almost goes to the Underworld herself smack sense in her ex-lover, but she knows Persephone would do so for her.

Percy tells her about Luke - not about the Rebellion, lest any gods hear him, but about Luke and Alabaster and Ethan and those kids, alone in a Cabin of rejects.

She says she is going back to college - and that she'll do her best to go see him every weekend at Yancy.

He tells her about his powers. Sally doesn't like the risks but say he should start practicing for his own safety.

They cuddle and Percy clings to his anchor like a lifeline. Percy wants to go to the Underworld again sometime - more to play with Cerberus than to do anything else.

He takes the bus reluctantly - he offers to stay and go to public school, but he knows his chance lays at Yancy.

Percy study Math. He is in seventh grade now - the real Math is here, the financials and calculus and they keep putting him in "Gifted and Advanced" classes for it.

His English still sucks. Biology, for all that should be easy for him, its way too boring - he prefers dead bodies, thank you very much.

He excels at Math and Health&PE (which summer camp took care), passes with acceptable grades in World History, Geography and Social Studies (he nails a project about demographics with some really helpful ghosts), does badly in Science and fails tragically at English and Literature.

They call him a genius - and a genius has areas they specialize in. His grades in math are enough to push him to the eighth grade.

At weekends, when his mother can't come to see him, he locks his dorm and practices his shadow traveling and his powers over the earth and metal manipulation.

His shadow traveling is a mess - once he ends up in Ukraine, and panics trying to come back, just to end up in Wyoming. Again.

Thrice, he manages to reach the underworld. It's winter - Persephone is somewhere down there, but he doesn't want to see his father. He plays with Cerberus when he has some energy - the first two times he just cuddles up with the dog and sleeps a little.

The last time he goes to the Underworld, it's the last day before summer break - he still has not made any contact with his dad, he still doesn't know if he wants to join Luke, he still doesn't know if he wants to go back to CHB.

He goes back to his Mom's house with a hellhound puppy and makes kitten eyes until she lets it stays - if he trains and feeds him and whatnot.

He has dreams about Grover in a bride's dress. It freaks the hell out of him because there's a cyclops in it.

Percy is crossing the street with groceries when he sees a cyclops. He doesn't give the creature a chance to see him - he goes to his room and start packing - it's too dangerous for him, and he can't lose his Mom again.

He cuddles his Mom and the puppy - which he named Blackjack - and calls Chiron.

Chiron is sending Annabeth - apparently, something happened to the borders of the camp.

Percy decides to help, for Annabeth, for Grover, for the small kids at Cabin 9 and 11, and the newbies (there's one, Will Solace, who isn't even eleven yet and he has been there for a year).

He packs his colorful sweaters (rebelling, but in the opposite direction of his father’s aesthetic), put his puppy in a leash (it's bigger than a mastiff now, but all dogs are puppies) and wait for his best friend.

She meets him with an expression of someone who is announcing a funeral - Grover is lost in his searches for Pan.

Percy thinks the little tremor that shook his building it's a good enough hold in his powers, nothing is broken and no one is dead, so it's fine.

He hugs Annabeth and feels warm inside. Health classes covered changes in his body, but he didn't expect to be that quick. Annabeth is taller than him by at least five inches and much prettier.

He picks up his Warhammer and his ax (how does the mist occlude that? do everyone think he is doing cosplay?), throws a duffel bag in his shoulder, his loyal puppy beside him.

"Are you getting into the dark vibe, Corpse Breath?"

"Shut up Annie"

The camp is being attacked - they get a weird taxi thing, pay extra and are given three random locations in the mainland.

Percy doesn't forget the names. There's Agramonte, in Cuba; Okeechobee, in Florida; and Pic La Selle in Haiti.

CHB is being attacked when they get there - by bronze bulls no less. Percy goes to battle with a weapon in each hand, like a war god.

Clarisse does way more damage than him, bashing bull metal skulls left and right like a master. But he kills one of five and does damage to other two.

She claps him in the back - he is glad he has a sweater on, even if it is a horrible shade of brilliant orange.

Charles and him take the weapons to the Forge to correct any damage. Charles hugs him and then starts gushing about Silena.

Charles and Annabeth takes him to see the new Camp Director.

It's Tantalus.

Percy laughs so hard he almost falls down, and Dionysus looks bored - but Percy isn't dumb, he sees mirth in his eyes.

He wants so badly to do a smart comment. He wants to see if his powers can rip a ghost that his father reinstated. He wants to taunt Tantalus.

"What are you laughing about, metic?"

"Nothing, you remind me of someone."

But Percy fends off other questions, and sits at the Cabin 11 table obediently. He wants to startle that man so badly he won't ever sneer at Percy anymore.

He knows just the people for the job. They aren't in any way close, but they all up for mischief. His opportunity comes with the chariot race announced - Percy corners the Stoll Brothers.

"Let me race with you" He starts, and they look surprised by any emotion coming from him in their direction (Percy smiles were reserved for Annie and Grover and Luke and Alabaster and Ethan).

"I want to startle Tantalus and you want victory - I can give you any chariot, if you let me swarm the whole road with skeletons"

The Stolls look at one another, and mentally say something, before doing a random coin toss.

"I'm racing with you" Says Connor.

They mark a time to see the chariot in the next day. They take the whole Cabin 11 with them to prevent attention - Percy is not letting this game go.

Percy gets a chariot directly from the underworld, black obsidian (not Stygian iron, way too rare) and silver, with blue gems that glisten under the sun, a Helm with wings marking its front.

There are four horses pushing it - skeletal horses, incapable of feeling pain or thirst.

It's the first time Percy feels like he belongs - this is a competition, and he is going to win.

Connor and Travis have an array of contraptions and grenades and smoke bombs.

They arrive at the start line at last, for maximum impact. No one is expecting this - they're waiting for Hermes' old chariot, a rickety thing that should be scrap years ago, with any Pegasi they managed to gather in the stables.

They forgot something: Percy exists. It's normal, and Percy it's okay with it in this instance.

The Stymphalian Birds appear - and are countered by his skeletons hitting their spears and swords on their shields. None of them hit him, and the Cabin 11 arrives at first followed by a disgruntled Clarisse after she fought at least 20 skeletons.

Tantalus tries. He really tries to accuse Percy of cheating, but it's pointed out - with approval of Dionysus to boot - that the Demeter kids used their vines to place third and Pollux and Castor did the same to get the fifth spot - just behind the giant contraption that was the Hephaestus chariot.

Clarisse is not happy with the second spot and the silver laurels, but she claps him in the back anyway - Ares is the god of war, not bad sportsmanship.

The Hermes Cabin is in euphoria - Apollo, who placed last, after Aphrodite since they unleashed a dozen doves with a sleeping potion in their faces, it's doing all of the Cabin 11 chores for a month - and they are having a feast of the gods.

Just that night, Percy sacrifices a big pomegranate for Hades and one for Persephone - forgiveness, can you imagine?

He sacrifices to Hermes, as always, for taking the small kids. He sees the joy in their faces - and while Percy is a person reserved to his friends and now he is mostly stoic Perseus, son of Hades, forge gremlin, he always hugs the kids that have nightmares.

It's not what he wanted - it's weird to be touched. It's weirder to have someone want to be next to him. Percy is a cactus, he is prickly. He never smiles. He misses his mom - she would know what to do.

But the little kids trust him. Lou Ellen is unclaimed since the ending of last summer - Percy doesn't know if she has someone to return to.

Those kids at Cabin 11 deserve more then a couple of teens taking care of them. Those kids deserve better, they all deserve better.

There are seven-year-old children there. They barely know how to read. Percy teaches - Annabeth teaches history and myths and Greek, but is he who takes on math to the younger ones, the ones who barely know how to multiply.

He considers staying year-round. They all had Chiron - but it isn't enough. It isn't a family. It isn't. Percy is not their family either - he doesn't overestimate himself - but at least he cares. Not because of their godly blood, but because they are children.

He still hates touch. He is never without his sweaters and gloves. He never smiles at anyone that isn't Annie or Grover or Luke or Alabaster or Ethan.

These days, he only has Annie.

He misses Luke, and he wants to scoop all of these children and take them with him to Kronos, away from the gods. But for what? Another master to fight for?

Was Luke the one who poisoned Thalia? Would he do the same to Percy if Percy denied him?

A mission is issued to go after Golden Fleece - it's in the same place Grover is, it's what Annie and Percy agree on.

Percy is a calculating boy. He deals in numbers, in measures. He is completely oblivious when it comes to feelings and anything that's more subjective than an equation.

But she thinks he likes them. Her and Grover, and those little kids that follow him around sometimes.

She likes the way her yellow hair contrasts with his dark skin, the way his curls flop in his forehead. She likes the specks of green in his eyes. He is her best friend. It's not the love she has for Luke, but it's something akin to admiration.

Percy and Connor are chosen to go on the mission - and Tantalus tries and bullshits some reason for them to go alone, but Percy shakes his head.

"The oracle said, three people"

He is bullshitting them. Tantalus makes him take Clarisse, and Annabeth stays behind.

"I doubt you can get in the sea of monsters without crossing water, eromenoi"

Perseus laughs and laughs, and his eyes are dark as the night without moon. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his soft blue hoodie, and motions for Connor and Clarisse to follow.

Before he leaves, he kisses her cheek softly. It's going to be okay. He will bring Grover back.

He shadow travels the three on them for the closest location the Grey Sisters gave him. It’s difficult, even with a hellhound. He aims for Okeechobee and lands in Miami.

Percy needs to sleep for at least a day, so they use the time to reach their destiny by car. Connor is a very adept child of Hermes, and soon they’re on the road in a red old pickup.

“So Corpse Breath is the hammer, and you’re the polishing stone? Fitting” snorts Clarisse, and just like that, they are bonding.

Percy expects them to trade shitty childhood stories and stupid hobbies or badmouth their deadbeat godly parents, but that was another trip, with very different people.

Clarisse La Rue is sixteen. Her favorite weapon is a javelin or a spear, but she will always prefer hand to hand combat. She loves Led Zeppelin and thinks Silena’s white hijab is the cutest thing in the world. She speaks Spanish - a relief because Percy barely speaks English.

Connor Stoll is fifteen. He prefers gas bombs to grenades - and he does a mean Molotov. He did graffiti until he was twelve. He thinks the Gardner Sisters from the Demeter Cabin are both cute - but Pollux got hot during the winter.

That’s how Percy discovers bisexuality - in a stolen car with a giant hellhound, a girl who has arms larger than his thighs and drives like a grandma and a boy who is two seconds away from spontaneous combustion.

He thinks that explains Luke and Annabeth - but he doesn’t voice it.

Percy doesn’t smile to them for a long time - he knows not even muscular spasms are free of charge.

He stays stoic until they stop to sleep - and Connor has wings in the back of his underwear and its the most ridiculous thing ever.

They reach the city and wander. They do encounter someone - Hecate herself.

She says to Percy it is her last favor - and he knows she already left for Kronos. Luke’s drachma burns in his pocket. She opens a wall of stone - a passageway the Huntresses use sometimes.

“My son waits for you” his quest mates pretend not to hear it - and he pretends nothing is happening. At least Alabaster is okay.

They walk across the cave for what it feels like a day. He is almost sure Hecate has plans to kill them when they find the exit: In an island spa.

A girl comes and analyze them. She looks at them with a kind smile - but Percy knows smiles have prices.

They go meet with the owner: C.C. He doesn't recognize her, but Connor takes one look at those weird guinea pigs and tap Percy's hand twice.

It's a code: Danger.

They are patient. Clarisse is looking at the flimsy girls with their togas and golden braids - she is not going with them.

C.C. Apparently accepts that Clarisse is "more male than a female" like gender is something defined by dresses and makeup.

As soon as the girls are out of the room, Percy taps Clarisse's hand, and she runs her spear through C.C.'s belly. The woman bleeds ichor - but disappears in a cloud of golden sand.

They go through her things for money while Connor explains that he learned about her from Charles. Charles's first mission almost ended up with him as a guinea pig. At least now they know they are in the right place.

Percy takes all her money and their weapons back. He straps as many knives he can throw in his pants and belt: One can never have enough weapons.

They find some hoods and sneak out to the boats on the beach. Connor steals again. Percy hates water: But the Sea of Monsters is beyond Poseidon's direct control, and Percy is going to hole himself up until they get to the next island.

He vomits. He is so seasick, it's not even funny. He hates boats. He hates large bodies of water. Anything bigger than a pool, and he is out.

Clarisse thinks it's funny. She laughs at him - and weirdly, he smiles back a little. The daughter of Ares plays with Blackjack, and they bond.

They are not friends - but they would kill for each other. They find it weird they had no godly intervention from Olympus - but then, Percy remembers he is just a son of Hades, and the Olympians hate him.

He burns food to Hecate. He doesn't burn food to Hermes, who appears in everyone else's quests, but avoid his own son's.

None of them has enough hubris to try and listen to the sirens. Clarisse's fatal flaw is bloodlust and Connor's is arrogance - the idea he can do anything, steal anything, and he'll never be punished.

They don't hear anything. Their next stop is the Isle of Polyphemus.

This time around, Connor is Nobody, Clarisse sneaks under a sheep to save Grover, and Percy gets the Fleece. They try to escape through a passageway that Percy's powers say lead to Haiti, but the cyclops colapses it with a boulder.

Percy hates cyclops.

They shadowtravel. Percy isn't any better at it, and with Grover tagging along, it's pretty obvious what happens, even if he is wearing the Golden Fleece like a giant blanket of strenght.

They end up in Wyoming. Percy sleeps for a week: he is starting to flick, like a ghost, and the magical sheep skin can only help so much. In this week, apparently, they meet the Party Ponies.

Chiron takes Percy in his back to CHB with the Fleece, but his friends stay behind because the centaurs won't let them mount, and they can't keep up on feet.

Clarisse, Connor and Grover meet Luke, Ethan and Alabaster in their way to an airport. It goes badly, but no one dies. They tell him Ethan only has one eye now, and that Luke looks tired and mad.

Percy thinks joining Kronos might be a bad idea. But then, he goes back to Camp, save the tree, and things don't change. The kids are still kids, alone and sad.

Will Solace was claimed. He says he misses Cabin 11, and some of his brothers don't want him to talk to Percy anymore.

It hurts. They try and keep contact for the following week, but peer pressure pushes Will away. Percy doesn't blame him.

The tree spits Thalia, daughter of Poseidon. She has black hair with green accents, green eyes, uses heavy makeup, and looks like a "Hades spawn" should look.

Percy likes her. He has no need for being the leader, and he has Annie and Grover (and Luke, and Alabaster, and Ethan, he thinks). Annie and Luke love her, so she must be amazing. He tries.

Thalia doesn't like him. She hates Hades, the one who killed her. She doesn't trust him or the fact that he never touches anyone.

Perseus tells himself he doesn't care. And suddenly, Thalia goes from "could be a good friend" to "better stay away".

The Camp celebrates Thalia. He is the hero, he brought the Fleece back, he is also a child of the Big Three. But they hate him, just like the kids in school hate him for his skin colour.

Annie has no time for him. Grover goes back to his search. He doesn't think he is going to join Kronos, but the drachma is still in his pocket.

He goes back to his mother, and then, to Yancy.

This summer, he was the hero. But no matter what, he was still the son of Hades.

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darth-el · 4 years

Text

The Rebellion (Chapter 3)

Pairing: Steve x Reader x Billy (Zombie Apocalypse AU) Warnings: Gore, violence, language, but there is fluff!!!! A/N: This is the final chapter of Senior Year and The Bunker and I’m so sorry that it took so long for me to write. It is a long one with 8.5k words. This also took a different life to what I was expecting which is interesting as well. I hope you all enjoy and feedback is always welcome. Also side note, the films and TV show that inspired how this series went (and there are references to them) are: Night of the Living Dead, Day of the Dead, 28 Days Later, A Scouts Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse, Zombieland, and The Walking Dead. I would fully recommend watching all these films if you haven’t already.

Part 1 Part 2

Masterlist

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Steve stroked your cheek as if to check he wasn't hallucinating.

“We found somewhere safe to stay for a couple of months and then this girl found us and I think she led them to us but I don't know what happened because one minute we were fine and then we had a run in a shop with cult members who I'm guessing were with these guys and then we were raided by them, zombies everywhere and my aim wasn't as good as it should have been,” You were talking really fast Steve's brain couldn't fully comprehend what you were saying. You took a huge breath to regain some of the oxygen you had lost while explaining everything to him.

“Who's 'we'?” He asked raising his eyebrow. You gulped and carried on talking at your quick pace.

“I stayed in Indiana expecting you to be there for weeks, but I ran into Billy Hargrove while I was searching for y-” You were suddenly be cut off by Steve.

“Who?” Steve looked like had been blind sided by this bit of information.

“Billy.” You muttered under your breath remembering how much they actually hated each other in school.

“You spent the couple of months with Billy?” Steve stood up and threw up his arms in frustration, you just looked at him wondering why this was the most important thing to focus on in that moment.

“Steve,” You said as calmly as possible but you didn't know how to finish that sentence.

“Yes?” He scoffed at you. This was far from the reunion you had in mind, but you thought once you saw each other nothing else would matter. You just sighed and shook your head not looking at him and trying to fight back the tears. “You slept with him didn't you?” Steve thought he saw guilt on your face when it was just pure frustration at this whole situation.

“I didn't,” Your voice was cracking. “I did kiss him though.” You confessed now that you were faced with this question. He laughed sarcastically and clapped his hands.

“Oh that's just fucking brilliant.” His tone was equally sarcastically as he started pacing throwing his arms up in the air again.

“I thought you were dead,” You shouted at him. “In that moment we were the only ones alive, you would have done exactly the same.” You screamed, causing the a guard to come in and check what was happening.

“Keep quiet or I'll blow your fucking heads off.” He sneered before slamming and locking the door again. You both looked at each other wide eyed, in that moment Steve knew what happened in between him going missing and now didn't matter because you were right. He was gone, you didn't know if he was dead or alive.

“I wouldn't kiss Billy even if it meant saving humanity.” He tried to joke and sat back down next to you and wrapped an arm around you meaning you could rest your head on him. You let out a gentle laugh.

“It wasn't worth it,” You sighed with a giggle resting your hand his thigh. Steve pulled you in closer and kissed the top of your head softly making you smile. “What happened with you?” You were drawing shapes on his thigh absent mindlessly.

“Where do I start?” He chuckled watching you draw the shapes on his thigh.

“The beginning is always a good place.” You teased adjusting your head so you were a bit more comfortable.

“After we got separated due to the mass of zombies breaking into where we were staying I managed to find a car, I went to find you but you obviously had left so I went searching for you but you were nowhere to be found. I don't know where I was but I was driving along a road and a tree had been chopped down to block the road, which is when I became surrounded by these guys and thrown down here,” Steve explained. “What season is it?” He looked at you trying the gage the amount of time he's been down here for.

“Winter,” It pained you to think he's been down here for months. He exhaled sharply as he knew it was at least three months since he was captured. “What are these people?” You asked quietly not really expecting a proper answer.

“Sadistic,” Steve was trying to mask the fear with humour. You stared up at him puzzled, you knew they must have been but it wasn't answer. ��They think they're the answer to the new world. Join them or rot in here.” He shrugged like he didn't believe what he was saying.

“At least we can rot together.” You sat up and kneeled next to him playing with his hair as it soothed both of you. He laid down and rested his head on your lap making you get into a more comfortable position.

The fluorescent light was continually flickering and buzzing making it difficult to sleep. You have no idea how many days it's been since you last slept. Steve was able to sleep as he had grown used to this. He was laying next to you with an arm stretched out lazily over your stomach, you noticed he was drooling in his sleep making you laugh because the amount of times he would make fun of you for drooling over him in your sleep was constant. Sleep seemed to be the only time he was content down here, he moved slightly and wrapped his arm around you tighter. You enjoyed watching him sleep, but it also motivated you to find a way out of here. You could hear indistinct shouting in the rooms surrounding you and crying, you wondered if this was always the case or not because this was the first time you picked up on it. You could hear the door unlock after a crash was heard and a different guard came in to find the source of the noise and upon seeing you laying on the floor and Steve asleep he slammed the door shut making Steve jump awake. Your eyes narrowed at the door in thought.

“What you thinking?” Steve sounded sleepy and was resting on his elbows looking as sleepy as he sounded.

“How often do they come in here?” You asked still looking at the door and hearing the noises outside.

“Only to give us food,” Steve put his hands over his eyes and laid back down next you.

“Any other times?” You pressed him to think some more as this could be your chance to escape.

“Only when we're an inconvenience.” Steve said not really thinking much more of it making you roll your eyes at how unhelpful he was being, you laid next to him and wrapped yourself around him with your head on his chest. You watched the light flickering and saw that it had a plastic casing around it.

“Do you think you can remove that?” You asked Steve who had fallen back asleep, you nudged him to wake him up and he just grumbled and held you tighter. “Steve?” You voice was firmer.

“What?” Steve mumbled annoyed that you woke him.

“Do you think you can remove that?” You repeated yourself and sat up to make sure that Steve hadn't fallen back asleep.

“Maybe,” Steve was slightly confused by this question, he stood up and tried to reach it but it was just out of his reach. “Get on my shoulders.” He instructed as he pulled you up. You climbed onto his shoulders and managed to pull the casing off easily. You stood on one end of it and snapped it in half so it was jagged, you looked pleased with yourself as you examined it hoping it would work. Steve wondered what you were doing.

“Tell me if this hurts.” You smiled at him, and he looked a bit bewildered by this statement, you stabbed at him in the arm with a small amount of force so he would feel it but not cause him damage. He jumped back as your new weapon made contact with him.

“Why?” Steve asked rubbing where you stabbed him.

“Just checking if it hurts.” You beamed a smile at him, making him wonder if you were enjoying hurting him.

“Why though?” Steve asked again taking the weapon from you apprehensively scared you were going to hurt him again.

“Because if that hurt, imagine it in neck.” You exhaled letting out a small laugh feeling overwhelmed. Steve looked terrified of you, it had been a long time since he saw you and he realised how much you had changed.

“Wouldn't the actual light work better?” Steve looked up at the flickering glass tube of light which was stained yellow with age.

“It would, but I don't want to risk it,” You tilted your head to the side impressed with him.

“What do you mean?” His face was now one of confusion as he passed you the broken case.

“That is going to be hot to touch and unless we can turn that off we might get electrocuted,” You explained unsure if the electrocution thing was true or a myth. Steve slumped his shoulders in defeat before picking up the other half of the snapped casing and swinging it like a baseball bat a few times while you crouched down next down to the door, Steve quickly followed suit as he could see in your eyes you plotting something. “When whoever it is comes in, hit them in the face as hard you can with that and I'll do what I can as well.” You instructed, he saluted to tell you that he understood which was immediately followed by you banging on the door and wailing to get a guard in the room. You heard the door unlock and Steve stood up pressing himself against the wall, the door swung open with force you had to stop it from hitting you in the face making the door shut, you heard the sound of plastic hitting flesh and you jumped into action and stabbed the man in the neck. You were surprised the plan actually worked as the man laid on the floor choking on his blood which was spilling out on the floor.

“Wow!” You exclaimed as you picked up his weapons and stabbing him in the head with the knife he was carrying, you went to put that in your holster only to remember it had been taken from you and slid it over to Steve.

“Wow?” He questioned your response as you checked if the gun was loaded, which it was.

“I was not expecting that to work,” You had amusement in your voice mixed with relief, Steve just blinked at you in shock that you took a gamble on both your lives like that. “It paid off okay.” You blurted out making him look away as you examined the wrist of the guy who had the same branding as the guys in the shop. Steve went for the keys and you made your way out the door quickly and quietly while he locked the door behind you making you gesture vaguely at him.

“What?” He looked at bit blank at you making you shake your head.

“He's dead Steve,” You chuckled to yourself shaking your head. “He isn't going anywhere.” You heard Steve mumble in response but you weren't quite sure what it was, you grabbed his hand and pulled him along the corridor. The bunker was huge was obviously made by someone everyone probably thought was paranoid at the time but was in fact just thinking ahead. You heard voices approach and you shoved Steve into what you hoped to be a cupboard as the door was unlocked, you falling in behind him. He could see your eyes grow wide as you stared behind him and he turned around and to discover a lab with zombie parts strewn all over the place and you jumped when one charged at you only to be pulled back by the chain around it's neck.

“I knew this wasn't a bad idea,” You muttered to yourself as you admired your surroundings.

“What do you think they do in here?” Steve asked as he picked up an arm that was laying on the table and started playing with it.

“I don't know what kind, but it's definitely research.” You sighed as you took the arm from Steve and hit him with it playfully before putting it back down.

“What was that for?” He pouted, but a smile cracked through his pout making him laugh.

“We're not here to play with severed limbs,” Your voice was stern but you could feel a laugh escape. “That is a sentence I never thought I'd say.” You whispered laughing which was cut off by voices approaching the door, you pulled Steve to the side and crouched back down. A guy who looked like your typical mad professor walked in with a guard, as they walked through the door you slid out without them noticing.

Navigating the tunnels was hard, but it became clear that this wasn't just some millionaire who was paranoid about the end of the world; it most likely had something to do with the government initially. To Steve you were running around like a headless chicken when in reality you were trying to find Billy and escape with him too. There was a guard at the end of the corridor you were sneaking down, you instructed Steve to stay where he was but he was waving his arms about as he silently protested and pushed you back as he crept up behind the guard; you weren't sure what he did but you heard a gurgle and saw the body hit the floor as Steve stabbed it in the head. You walked down the corridor to meet Steve who was collecting ammunition for your gun and giving a knife, which turned out to be your old knife. You heard sobbing from a room, instinctively you grabbed the keys from the guard and opened the door to find a woman crying over the body of another woman, she didn't even realise that you were standing in the doorway. Neither you or Steve knew what to do, all you knew was that you had a dead body behind you and one in front of you.

The woman after a couple of minutes felt eyes watching her and turned around her eyes were filled blood, you noticed she had a bite on her shoulder and the body in her room was in fact the body of a zombie, whether or not she was a relative was unknown. You quickly threw the body of the guard with the help of Steve into the room as she lurched towards you, the body knocked her off her path and distracted her as she started to bite into the flesh. Steve closed the door and locked it hoping she wouldn't escape sometime in the future. “That was lucky,” You tried to joke as you made your around the corner. You could hear more screaming and growling coming from each room and it unsettled you.

“What do you think they're doing?” You could feel Steve hover you as you checked if the next corner was clear.

“No idea, but I don't like it,” You didn't take your eyes off the door at the end of the room, no one was guarding it but you felt drawn to it. “Come on.” You took his hand and led him down the passageway and opened the door, you ground to a halt as you gained the attention of men playing poker. Survival instinct kicked in before they could grab their weapons you shot through them all knowing your cover had been blown, Steve stabbing them in the head. You grabbed what you could in terms of ammunition and weapons. Alarms started blaring and you knew you were in trouble now, Steve grabbed your hand and ran in no particular direction, someone shouting orders echoed through the corridors amongst the noise of the alarms. Steve tried to open a door but it was locked, which meant someone was most likely imprisoned in there. You didn't have time for Steve to find the key so you shot at the lock and was ready to kill a zombie if needed, the door opened and inside were two men who looked just as bad as Steve and they both looked at you confused. “Who are you?” One of them asked, he had a long beard and a lot of hair, but had kind eyes behind all his hair.

“Freedom.” Steve took two guns from you which had on your shoulders and tossed them to the guys who scrambled for them and ran out the room.

“Really Steve, freedom?” If it wasn't an emergency you would have teased more about his cheesy line.

“I thought it sounded cool.” He followed you running through the corridors in the opposite direction of the other prisoners, a guy stepped out a room wondering why the alarms were sounding until he saw you, as he went to pick up his gun to fire you had already shot at him. You shot him once more to make sure he was dead and picked up his gun. Steve pulled you back and dragged you into the room that the guard came out of which was a large weapons cupboard.

“Fuck me sideways and call me Rambo,” You weren't really thinking what you were saying as you enamoured with your choice of weapons.

“And you said 'freedom' wasn't cool.” Steve teased as he picked up what happened to be your crossbow.

“We need to be 'freedom' for other people.” You took the crossbow from Steve who was difficulty working it, the moment you loaded it the door opened and a man was standing looking confused before it dawned on him that you were the ones that escaped. You fired the crossbow without thinking and when his body fell to the floor you pulled the bolt out of his eye making Steve cringe and reloaded it and handed it back to Steve.

“You scare me, you know that?” Steve examined the crossbow trying to figure out how you were so at ease with it because it was so heavy and stiff.

“That's why you fell in love with me though.” You blew a kiss and picked up a handgun which had a silencer on it and a holster for it. You were sure they were yours originally, Steve quietly agreed at your statement as he picked up another gun and slung it around his shoulder. Both of you looked like you were you were made of guns where you picked up so many.

The 'rebellion' as you called it went as smoothly as it could despite being chased from all angles, you were breaking people free and the people who captured you were thinning out. You ran past a room and heard banging on the door, you shot at it and the door swung open and Billy was in there with a zombie crawling across the floor where Billy was trying to fight it, you shot at the zombie and it instantly stopped moving as you gave him a gun. “What the fuck is going on?” He was confused by the pandemonium around him.

“Freedom.” Steve dragged you away and to find a way out, Billy following closely behind which you knew Steve wasn't to happy about. In a small dark tunnel you found a ladder and assumed that this was your way out. Light broke through the heavy metal trapdoor as you opened it, a large smile spread across your face because you were free, you helped Steve and Billy out but you could feel the tension between them which you chose to ignore for the moment and continued running trying to find a car; neither of them noticing you were gone until you called their names making them run over to you.

“Your petty high school rivalry means shit in this world,” You smacked them both around the head. “If you want to survive, move!” You smacked them again hoping it would get through to them and they both looked sheepishly down at the floor before following you.

The entirety of the time while trying to find your way out of the forest and onto a road the boys were bickering which made you question whether or not you should just leave them to it and go back to surviving on your own as it was so much easier then. You swung round on your heels holding your gun making them stop in their tracks and saw a zombie coming up behind them.

“Duck,” They both did as you said as you fired the gun hitting the zombie right in the head and letting the body crumple to the floor both of them watching the body when they got what had happened. “You two need work this shit out right now because I am not going to get killed because of your idiocy,” You stormed over to them and threw their weapons behind you so they were out of reach. “Talk,” You threw your hands up in the air, picked up a large stick and planted yourself on the floor as you the carved the stick into a weapon while both the boys looked at you in bewilderment. They both stood there awkwardly, Billy was rubbing the back of his neck as he did when he felt awkward and Steve was kicking a rock avoiding eye contact. “You both consider yourself fucking alpha males and obviously wanted to be the dominant one,” You rolled your eyes at how useless they were “Especially you,” You pointed at Billy. “I know you're pissed at Billy because of the kiss,” You shot a look at Steve who looked like he wanted the world to swallow him up. “So fucking talk about that.” You continued carving you stick to make a weapon waiting for them to talk thinking about useless men were when it came to talking about their feelings, especially to one another.

“That ain't happening,” Billy finally broke the silence making you throw a stick at him which made Steve laugh, you threw your head back in frustration and let out a huge groan.

“I don't want you near her,” Steve glared at Billy, face was filled with anger but his eyes showed that he was hurting more than anything.

“That's not your decision to make,” Billy retorted with his cocky smile making you roll your eyes so much you thought they were going to fall out. “ And I think she made her decision when she kissed me.” Billy knew this was a low blow, hearing him say that felt like a gut punch. Steve glanced at you trying to hide the hurt and walked off. You ran off after him. “Tell me why I shouldn't end your life right now,” You spat at Billy as you walked past who looked way to pleased with himself. Steve was leaning against a tree with his head resting against it as he looked up at the sky watching the birds fly over. You leaned on the tree next to him subconsciously mirroring what he was doing.

“You kissed him?” Steve huffed looking at you.

“I instigated it,” You finally admitted “Missing you and alcohol do not go well,” You sighed with a small laugh, Steve furrowed his brows at you and exhaled as if he was trying to calm himself down.

“I don't want the same conversation again,” Steve pushed himself off the tree and moved so he was facing you. “It just hurt hearing it from him.” He stroked your cheek gently, his eyes were soft but looked tearful. You melted at his touch.

“I love you Steve,” You wrapped your hands his neck and kissed him gently on the nose making him smile.

“I love you too.” It didn't feel like you were in a forest god knows where surrounded by flesh eating ghouls that could attack at any second.

“Come on,” You took Steve's hand and led him back to where Billy was sitting waiting for you which shocked you because you thought he would have taken the opportunity to run away. “This is what's happening,” You caught Billy's attention who was admiring your handiwork on the weapon. “You two are doing what exactly what I say,” Steve and Billy both looked at each other holding their breath because they knew the next words that were coming out your mouth would not be good. “If either of you put us in danger with your incessant arguing I will leave you to get eaten,” Your eyes darted between the both of them. “Do you understand?” They both nodded in agreement knowing you were going to be true to your word. You picked up the weapons and passed them their owners and made your way through the forest.

“Was she always this scary?” Billy tried to make conversation with Steve as he was interested in if this was a drastic change in character.

“Not really,” Steve side eyed Billy not wanting to talk to him.

“Oh.” Billy knew that was the end of the conversation as he trudged along following you.

“She's a completely different person now,” Steve confessed, he knew you were in there somewhere but he almost didn't recognise you. Billy knew this you better than he did.

“She threatened me with a knife two seconds after saving my life,” Billy admitted looking embarrassed. “She also looked like she enjoyed it.” Which made Steve laugh.

“She knows how to survive.” Steve watched you as you gracefully walked through the forest, your long hair that reached down to your waist was now nothing but a memory. Your large wardrobe of pastel dresses were replaced by tight leather trousers, a t-shirt, and a leather jacket. Your once soft features were now hardened.

You all found a safe place to stay for the night, but it was only for the night. Billy was asleep on the bed and you were on guard. You were expecting Steve to be asleep, but he proved you wrong when he sat down next to you on the balcony which had your legs hanging over. When you found the place you devised an escape route which involved you jumping off the balcony onto a trampoline and hopefully over a fence. Usually moonlight would light up the area, but it was cloudy and it was a new moon that night. You rested your head Steve's shoulder, the night was still and it was getting warmer meaning spring was close.

“I'm sorry,” You mumbled under your breath taking Steve's hand in yours while you watched over the ghost town.

“For what?” He was baffled and couldn't understand why you were apologising, he wrapped his arm around you.

“Just for everything.” You moved closer to him so your legs were now touching, you were feeling a bit melancholy and you weren't sure if Steve felt it too.

“I'm sorry too,” You could hear in Steve's voice that he meant it and he was feeling the same as you.

“Get some sleep, I can guard.” He gestured to the room behind you, before standing up you kneeled behind him and wrapped your arms around him.

“Good night.” Your face was buried into his neck, this to Steve was the old you. He watched you as you walked back indoors and made yourself comfortable on the makeshift bed on the floor as you cursed at the sleeping Billy who was taking up the entire bed.

Billy went to find a working car the next day while you Steve packed everything up and got ready for a raid. You wanted to see if the cabin you made your home for a couple of months was still empty as it was truly safe, until humans turned up but you doubted you'd be able to find it now.

“Humans are the worst,” You thought aloud, Steve didn't know exactly where this came from but agreed as he considered everything he had been through in the past year and a bit. You could hear a scraping at the door which meant that a zombie had decided to try either making itself at home or making you lunch. Steve looked slightly worried as you walked over the door and opened it making the zombie fall in, which was immediately greeted by a knife into the head. You started hacking the head off with your knife without fully thinking.

“What are you doing?” Steve moved away from you slightly as he was worried about some of the mess you were causing would get on him.

“It's a long story,” You didn't look up at him as you pulled the head off with difficulty, you proudly presented it to Steve who turned green. “They're attracted to the smell of blood,” You started to explain. “I use the heads in hopes that it'll cover up the smell of us,” Steve stood there trying to figure out the logic which didn't take long as he clapped his hands the moment he understood. You heard a car rock up and Billy climbed out draping his arms over the roof with a pair of sunglasses on which he must have stolen. You picked up your things and the head and threw them in the car and the head in trunk. “I'm driving.” You held out your hand expecting car keys to be dropped in them.

“No!” Billy's face contorted from arrogance into one of horror within seconds as he had flashbacks to your chaotic driving.

“Don't ever let her behind the wheel.” Steve teased as you poked your tongue out at him.

“I learnt that the hard way.” Billy picked you up and put you down so you were now no longer near the driver's door which made Steve uneasy. You kicked Billy in the shins for manhandling you like that, Steve climbed into the back seat of the car and you climbed in next to him. You could see Steve was getting jealous again.

“Steve,” He hums in response turning his head at you, he could see that you could still read him like an open book. “I love you.” You put your hand on his thigh and squeezed it gently to reassure him. Billy was watching you both in the mirror instead of keeping an eye on the road which is when you hit a zombie making you jolt forwards in your seat, your instinct was to put your arm in front of Steve's chest to stop him from hurtling forwards even more. Billy had lost control of the car, he was really thankful in that moment that you warned him about the seatbelts because he would have been a puree in the street otherwise. He managed to regain control after a few agonising seconds, there was a collective sigh of relief as you carried on like normal except the windshield was painted red with chunks attached the wipers which struggled to clear away the mess.

“You okay?” Billy's voice was a bit shaky and you nodded while staring at Steve.

“We're good.” Steve answered looking down at your arm which was still resting on his chest making him happy because even before everything you always put him first and tried your best to protect him.

“Where to?” Billy looked at you in the mirror, the windshield was still smeared red but the outside was more visible now.

“No idea,” You leaned forward in your seat and rested your arms on the backs of the two seats in front of you. You felt Steve's fingers trace along the small of your back which felt electric. “Do you know where we are?”

“We're still in Ohio,” Billy shrugged turning his attention to the road and leaned back into your seat, you nodded in thought.

“How did I end up in Ohio?” Steve tilted his head in confusion looking out the window at the fields you were driving through.

“I want to get as far away as possible from here,” You ignored Steve's comment as you put your head in your hands and racked your brain to think where you could go.

“As long as it's warm I don't care.” Billy broke your train of thought and you looked at him blankly.

“Because that's the real priority here.” It felt like Steve read your mind and Billy rolled his eyes as he continued to drive down the road.

“Canada?” You interjected before an argument could start between the two boys.

“That's a no,” Billy shook his head.

“It's perfect though, it's less populated meaning there's less chance of getting eaten,” You explained rolling your eyes and throwing your arms up in the air.

“She's got a point.” Steve chuckled knowing that would irk Billy.

“What about Mexico then?” Billy suggested not taking his eyes off the road, but gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“If we can survive that then that'll be great,” You couldn't believe what you were hearing. “But I know we're not. Canada is our best bet.” You said bluntly as your stomach made an unearthly noise meaning you needed food.

“You hungry?” Steve was trying not to laugh at this noise as you nodded, stomaching still gurgling. It didn't take long to find another ghost town, you handed Steve your handmade weapon for him to use as Billy sharpened his knife.

“I'm going to stay here,” You checked if your gun was loaded and both the boys were not happy to hear this. “You need to be quiet for this and I'll draw too much attention.” You put your gun in your holster smiling at them. They nodded and made their way into the shop. Billy followed exactly what you did on previous raids which made Steve wonder what he was doing until a zombie made itself known. Billy crept in and you heard a body fall to the floor, you hoped it wasn't Billy. You climbed on to the roof of the car and sat on it keeping watch, your ears had been very attuned to the smallest of noises. You heard a small clattering inside the shop which was most likely one of the guys and could hear low growls over the ultimately silent landscape. The growls were closer as you thought as two zombies staggered around the corner looking as ungraceful as they came, you waited for them to come closer as you decided not to waste bullets on them. They caught you sitting on the roof of your car and staggered over to you, you jumped off the car and got yourself ready. It took longer for them to come over to you than you anticipated making you impatient. You let out a soft groan and walked over to them stabbing them both in the head with ease. You hacked their heads off and played with them as you went back to the car both boys came out the shop with a number of supplies and covered in blood looking like they saw a ghost.

“You guys okay?” You were slightly concerned by their appearances as you threw the heads in the trunk of the car.

“Y-yea...We're fine.” Steve was stumbling over his words, you knew something happened in there but he would tell you when he was ready. Billy didn't say anything, he just climbed in the car and started it while waiting for you to get in.

“If either one of you got bitten you need to tell me now.” Your eyes darted between them hoping they would give away something.

“No one got bit.” Billy's voice was low, it almost sounded like he was holding back tears or anger. You could see in Steve's face he was the same, you sunk down in the seat opening a pack of potato chips the boys stole. The crunching and the sound of the engine were the only things filling the silence.

“How did you cope with your brother?” Steve said softly, tears started to fill his eyes, your stomach sank hearing this.

“I had to accept it happened very quickly,” You screwed up the now empty bag and threw it behind you. “Life goes on and we have to survive,” You pursed your lips and you could see that was not the answer Steve wanted to hear, but Billy knew this was lie. You had become numb and repressed it, you could see Billy looking at you as if to say “tell Steve the truth”.

“Have you accepted it though?” Billy shook his head knowing you weren't going to tell Steve unless he got it out of you himself, you looked at him disbelief as did Steve. You started falling over your words unable to form a coherent sentence or thought.

“I don't think I have,” You let out a huge breath to calm your thoughts and the words fell out of mouth as naturally as breathing. You felt a huge weight lifted off your shoulders, you felt Steve's hand caress yours making you turn to him. Tears were rolling down his cheek which you gently wiped away with your thumb as you rested your free hand on his cheek. “It does get easier though.” You whispered reassuringly, he wasn't wholly convinced but he could see the sincerity in your face.

Billy stopped off every now and again on your journey to nowhere so supplies could be picked up or scouting potential places to sleep for the night, you all felt there nothing suitable and carried on. At some point you had all entered Michigan, you wondered if Billy did think going to Canada was good idea and didn't want to admit it because he protested far too much initially or if this was accidental. You entered a town which looked like it had military involvement but it was now just a ghost town like every other place you went through, you laughed at the thought that if this was an old wild west movie there'd be tumble weed rolling across the roads. Steve was asleep resting on your shoulder, you moved gently so he could sleep on your lap as it was probably a lot more comfortable for him and you could play with his hair. “He saved my life.” Billy murmured not entirely wanting you to hear what he had just said because it would be admitting defeat in his eyes. You hummed in response as you didn't hear him as you were too focused on Steve, making Billy repeat himself which went against his every instinct.

“What happened?” You asked quietly running your fingers through Steve's hair which made him mumble something in his sleep which was complete nonsense.

“There was zombie in the shop,” Billy clutched onto the steering wheel tightly making his knuckles go white at the thought of what happened. He felt like he didn't have the strength to carry on, but knew he had to find it somewhere. “It came up behind me and knocked me to ground and I wasn't in a position to get it off me,” He exhaled as he said this not taking his eyes off the road. “It was incredibly close to biting me. He stabbed it in the head and saved me.” You knew there was more to the story than what Billy was letting on.

“What does that have to do with my brother though?” You were puzzled, you were pleased that both were safe but it didn't explain the pure horror on their face when they left the store. Billy shook his head and bit down hard on his bottom lip. “Was it someone you knew?” You knew that would be a long shot but it was worth asking anyway if it meant a little bit of clarification. He just shook his head and sighed as he pulled over the car so he could regain his composure.

“Where are we?” Steve woke up as the car came to a halt and sounded groggy.

“We've potentially found somewhere to stay.” Billy shrugged getting out the car as if the conversation beforehand hadn't happened.

“This doesn't look s-” You were cut off by the door slamming shut, you watched as the zombies stumbled around the building. Billy grabbed your homemade weapon from the trunk of the car and walked over to the zombies, you weren't sure how many there were but it was in double figures meaning if he made one wrong step he would end up dead. You let your head drop forwards in annoyance before getting out the car yourself to help Billy, you ran up and stabbed the closest one in the head and made your way through them. You could see Billy was releasing his rage out on them and it was dangerous because you knew he wasn't thinking straight and it left a lot of room for error. After a few minutes he managed to kill everything that was trying to attack him, his breathing was heavy and covered in blood as he examined the damage he had done. Steve raced up behind you to check if you were okay, also covered in blood.

“It's safe now.” Billy wiped the hair out of his eyes with his bloody hands. You walked up to the building and saw that the building was padlocked shut, inside you could hear loud moans and banging on the wood covered windows.

“That would be a no.” You skipped down the steps and stood next to Steve who draped his arm around your shoulder.

“Carry on?” Steve looked at the mayhem you were going to leave behind as you made your way to the car, you looked back and could see that Steve and Billy were in a heated discussion about something. Billy stormed over looking angry and climbing into the car and lighting up a cigarette that he must grabbed from the last raid.

“I need to talk to you,” Steve took your hand and pulled you away from the car. You knew it wasn't going to be good. Steve was looking at you intently trying to find the right words to say, you could feel your heart stop as you imagined the worst case scenario. “What happened in the store wasn't good,” Steve started, you chewed the inside of your cheek as you waited for him to confirm your worst fears. “The reason why I asked you about your brother was because,” You could see he was difficulty forming the words and it was breaking your heart and he could see it on your face. “I should have done the same, but couldn't,” Visible confusion swept across your face as you looked at him. “There was a child in the shop who had been bitten. I killed what turned out to be their mother and they didn't want to end up like that,” Steve looked away from you as he said this scared that you would hate him because he wasn't strong like you. “It was actually more like eaten than bitten,” Before he could carry on you swung your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a hug.

“It's okay,” You whispered in his ear, he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you in tightly.

“I didn't want you to know because I'm not strong like you.” He buried his head in the crook of your neck.

“Steve,” You laughed at hearing him say that you're strong. “You are honestly the strongest person I know,” You pulled away slightly so you could look at him and moved a strand of hair that was flopping over his face. He shook his head laughing. “Being in that position isn't about whether or not you're strong, it's far more complex than that,” You looked at him, there was still a lot of pain behind his eyes. “When I chose to do that for my brother, it was for self preservation on my part. I didn't want to watch him turn into what killed him, but as I pulled the trigger the only thing running through my brain was 'what if I fuck up and it doesn't kill him instantly? What if I make a painful death even more painful?' ultimately I knew I made the right decision. I also had the advantage of being bought up with my dad who taught me how to hunt which helped a lot, you however were far more likely to cause more harm than good especially with a knife.” Steve nodded understanding that you were right and you held out your hand and he put his in yours as you walked back to the car.

“It was the zombie that almost got Billy,” Steve admitted as well feeling like the weight had been lifted.

“Does Billy know?” You looked back at him still walking to car and Steve nodded in response.

“My mistake did almost cost another life.” Steve caught up with you so you were now walking side by side.

“Not a mistake, but I didn't think people turned that fast.” Steve smiled down at you feeling happy that he had someone as understanding as you.

“I didn't either.” Steve opened the car door for you and let you climb in and walked around the other side to get into his side.

“All good?” Billy asked flicking his cigarette out the window and putting his sunglasses back on.

“All good.” You smiled as Steve climbed in next to you.

The night drew in and after multiple stops Billy had driven you to the Canadian border, you and Steve were both asleep on one another. The atmosphere in the air was tense and Billy didn't like it. It was eerily deserted despite there being evidence of military presence at some point. You felt a hand whack you. “Go away,” You mumbled adjusting yourself in your seat to get comfortable again in your half asleep state. The hand hit you again making you wake up fully. “What?” You hissed as you jolted up waking Steve up.

“What's going on?” Steve rubbed his eyes as he yawned.

“We're near the border,” Billy pointed at the road in front of him and you climbed over the centre console to sit in the seat next to him. The headlights illuminated what was in front of you, there were barricades at the side of the road and old news papers danced in the headlights where they were picked up in the wind. You felt tense, you turned around to Steve who looked deeply unsure by everything that was surrounding you. Billy stopped the car which scared you as it made you vulnerable. “What do you think we need to do?” Billy's hands were clasping at the steering wheel still as he looked back at Steve and then looked at you.

“I'm scared.” You admitted as you locked your door, not that would make much difference in the end.

“I think keep going.” Steve was scared, but he knew if you were scared he had to be calm for your sake.

“Okay then.” Billy pressed his foot down on the gas slowly when all of sudden an army made themselves known. Your eyes were wide with shock wondering if they were there the entire time or if they saw you coming. A knock on your window made you jump and a man who was dressed in a military uniform was staring at you. You rolled down the window slightly so you could talk to him.

“American?” You all nodded in response to him. “Flights stopped months ago,” You all looked at each other and mouthed the words 'flights' to Steve wondering what he was talking about. “But we can offer you refuge,” He smiled, you wanted to trust him in your gut but after the ordeal you had been through you weren't sure if you should. He hit the roof of car and gestured for you to drive beyond the border. “Three Americans.” You heard him say in a walkie talkie as you rolled up your window and Billy drove off.

Beyond the border the town was functioning like normal. It didn't feel like it hadn't turned to shit just a couple of miles away, but you noticed that the barriers surrounding the place meant that just outside it was shit, but it felt like it was going to be contained. You chuckled softly to yourself hoping this was the start of something new for you and Steve. Billy parked the car and you were greeted by a very happy woman who showed you around and showed you to your houses which had everything you needed from electricity to water. The car was checked and your guns were taken away into storage which you were shown, the guy checking your car held up the heads that you forgot were in there, you leaned into Steve trying to suppress your giggles which made Steve laugh.

“Collector?” The guy joked as he put them down next to him and handed you the rest of your weapons that didn't require ammo. You walked back into your house putting the weapons down by the door deciding you'll deal with them in the morning and before your foot had touched the bottom step you were lifted up bridal style by Steve who carried you upstairs into the nicely decorated bedroom and put on the bed. Steve was hovering over you smiling.

“We finally have a safe place we can call our own.” You played with the neckline of his shirt as he stroked your cheek gently admiring your features.

“All I've ever wanted.” He whispered gently before you pulled him in for a slow, passionate kiss which he quickly reciprocated with a smile as he wanted to do that the moment he saw you in the bunker and every second after.

#Stranger Things #Stranger Things Imagine #Stranger Things x You #Stranger Things x Reader #Stranger Things 1 #Stranger Things 2 #Stranger Things 3 #ST1 #ST2 #ST3 #Steve Harrington #Steve Harrington x You #Steve Harrington x Reader #Billy Hargrove x Reader #Billy Hargrove x You #Billy Hargrove

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greensaplinggrace · 4 years

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Barret Apocalypse AU Pt. 2

PART 1 | PART 2 of Prompt: “Hello! This is kind of out there but I was wondering if you could do a post apocolypse au? With tons of Barret but not very shippy. With lots of found family though! Thanks” ~ @eilesgiire

CAN BE FOUND HERE ON AO3

Three hours and seven houses after leaving camp, Barret still hasn’t found a single shelter even remotely suitable for living.

Most have been the victims of roaming Mobs, walls shredded and marked by the distinct silver shards of glass bombs, destroyed simply for the safety and seclusion of their locations, and the select few that haven’t been touched by the Mobs are overrun by the infected instead. One place is even reduced to shambles by what appears to be an earthquake, not even slightly inhabitable.

Every single time, the houses will look stable from a distance. Safe to explore and eventually settle in for the winter. And every time, they all turn out to be unusable and they all reveal themselves to be disappointing in some way. He’d headed out to look for any house worthy of a home, but not a single place he’s come across so far is even close to meeting his criteria.

It doesn’t have to be much, but it has to be enough.

He won’t settle for anything less when it comes to his little girl.

It hurts to even be separate from her for so long, but he has to do this. If he wants to keep their camp safe, but especially if he wants to keep her safe.

Barret only wants what's best for Marlene; it’s always been what he’s wanted. Beyond the bid for environmental change and the firm rise against corrupt policies. Underneath rebellions and uprisings and what the media had once called terrorism. Throughout all of it - the loud, brash call for freedom and challenging the winds of fate themselves - Barret’s interests have never strayed from Marlene.

Everything he does, he does for her. Keeping the world safe keeps Marlene safe, and providing for Marlene is all Barret has ever wanted to do since the first moment she settled in his arms.

Unfortunately, providing for Marlene means taking risks, and taking risks means leaving her.

Used to be, taking risks meant risking Marlene as well, but Tifa’s solid presence at his side has been a boon the likes of which Barret had never expected. Sent by the planet herself, Tifa had come into their lives not in a whirlwind but in a steady drive back to camp after the day she’d recovered - the day he’d thought she left for good - with a truck bed full of three years worth of supplies and four suitcases brimming with clothes and toys for Marlene.

She’s done nothing but prove her worth every day afterward, pulling her weight around camp and helping to ease the burden of responsibility just a bit. Just enough for him to feel like he’s finally getting somewhere - like he can finally do what he needs.

So now, Marlene is always safe. Tifa stays with her when Barret goes out. Or Barret stays with her when Tifa goes out. Leaving Marlene no longer means abandoning her, and taking care of her doesn’t mean putting her at risk, and recently the world has stopped looking as bleak as it once had. Filling instead with just the faintest, glimmering tinge of hope.

But no amount of hope can change the fact that they need a solid roof over their heads, and no amount of trust in Tifa can help Barret miss his daughter any less.

Hope certainly isn’t getting Barret any closer to finding salvageable shelter, either, and he’s just beginning to give up on the last of it when a woman’s scream rips through the silence of the forest.

Barret hits the brakes with a grating screech and skids over to the side of the road immediately. Eyes wide through the shade of his glasses as he peers intently out the smudged windows of his truck, attempting to gauge any sort of threat level. He’s reluctant to exit the car just yet in case it’s a trap, but if it is a call for help Barret can’t just sit idly by while someone suffers.

He searches for a time before he notices where the screams are coming from, but eventually he sees it. Just down a small pathway in the forest that opens up into a wide clearing sits a house. It’s a massive, immaculately pristine mansion practically crawling with the infected, but that isn’t what chills him to the bone.

Dawn has started to break out the first light of the next day, and the vivid red rays cast a gruesome pallor over the scene laid out before him.

Littered across the blood slick grasses of the clearing are dozens of bodies - possibly hundreds - skewered and piked and cut to pieces like cattle. He’s stumbled into a damned battlefield, Barret realizes, and there’s only one group savage enough to do something like this.

SOLDIERs.

Without another thought he’s out of the car and slamming the door closed behind him. Infected he can deal with. SOLDIERS he can put up a fight against. But whoever is in that mansion? He doubts they can do either, otherwise they’d already be out amidst the fallen.

He sees the group of SOLDIERS almost immediately when he reaches the dip at the end of the pathway, the whole of the clearing opening up before him like some sick wartime display. There’s a man sprawled across the ground right in front of him whose eyes have been burned clean out of his skull, mouth smeared with blood and chest caved in. Laying dead beside him is another person, a woman with her head half severed at the neck and legs bent at an impossible angle. Then another and another, extending out in front of him and beside him, leading into the trees and up to the mansions doors.

At a guess, Barret would say they’re guards, but most of them aren’t even whole enough to identify, either butchered by their aggressors or gnawed at by the crowd of zombies currently tearing at the walls of the mansion.

It’s a level of cruelty Barret has never seen before in his life, and he considers himself a strong man when it comes to violence, but even entering the clearing has his stomach turning at the mere sight of the blood, pooled in wet patches of mud and glinting off matted blades of grass. It’s a massacre.

Killing the sick fucks who did this wouldn’t be punishment enough.

The fact that they’re still here, though? That’s what really pisses him off. There’s only two that he can see, gathered nearer to Barret than the mansion and both looking down at something on the ground, weapons drawn and ready as if they’re not already surrounded by the bodies of their victims. One has red hair and the other has long, distinct silver hair that Barret would be able to recognize anywhere, based on the propaganda that had run rampant throughout Midgar before it’s collapse.

Which means the other must be Genesis.

The first time Barret finally gets to come face to face with the war criminals who have destroyed the lives of so many - who worked gladly for the company that destroyed Barret’s life - and it’s when the world has been overrun by knock-off zombies and mako addicted gangs. And to make matters that much more complicated, there’s only two of the five he knows to exist currently present.

Two people who did all of this.

Shinra really did create monsters.

The heat that burns through Barret’s veins is pure rage when he hears the screams in the mansion cut out in one last abrupt, terrified screech, still standing surrounded by the brutalized bodies of the dead, a horde of infected not even a few meters away and a sea of blood like the earth is bleeding. While these people - these murderers - just linger at the scene of their own crime and talk like this is a damned vacation and not a fucking massacre.

Without even thinking of the danger, Barret is whipping his gun into the air and preparing to fire, free hand clenched into a furious fist at his side and vicious words already at the tip of his tongue. Ready to finally do something for once - ready to fight back and take control -

Yet before he can so much as consider firing, a movement catches his eye. A shock of matted blonde hair that shifts between the only two men still standing. Pale, bloodied limbs struggling to gain traction against the soaked and unforgiving earth. The hacking cough that follows is enough to sober Barret like a bucket of ice cold water as he realizes that somebody is still alive. Pinned between two super soldiers and lying prone as Sephiroth’s sword descends for the final blow.

Barret’s heart hits the back of his throat.

“Hey!” he yells, starting forward as they turn to face him. He ignores the warning frowns that mar their faces, Sephiroth’s sword drawing back ever so slightly as if to attack him instead, and powers on with his gun raised. “Hey! Get the hell away from him!”

It’s Genesis that ends up facing him fully, snapping his sword to attention in one quick, smooth motion and pointing it directly at Barret. It forces him to stop dead in his tracks a good few feet away from them, but Barret’s close enough now to see the pallid state of their faces and Sephiroth’s unnaturally slitted pupils. He looks like a ghost of the pictures Barret had once seen, cracked at the edges and wild eyed, paler than the dead and hair askew like some tormented ghost.

He doesn’t look alive.

And Genesis isn’t much better. Barret never had the chance to get a glimpse of him the way most had been able to with Sephiroth, but he can take a wild fucking guess that the graying, unwashed hair and sallow complexion isn’t normal. Nor is the way he’s acting right now, sword extended in a threat as a twisted smirk graces his delicate features.

They’ve both gone completely off the deep end.

The blonde on the ground isn’t faring too well, either. They’ve done a number on him, kicked and beaten him until his skin is coated in bruises, hair caked in blood and clothes ripped. There’s a cut down his shirt that looks like it was made by the straight edge of a sword purely for the purpose of exposing skin, and Barret’s veins run cold in a different kind of fury at the sight.

It’s easier now than it had been even days ago to believe the rumors. That the SOLDIERs were the ones to start this apocalypse; that it was Shinra’s precious little lapdogs who let the world fall into chaos.

Gaia, Barret is endlessly grateful that Marlene and Tifa aren’t here to see this right now.

“I ain’t playing around,” he snaps, “back the fuck off before I shoot.”

“This isn’t any business of yours,” Sephiroth sighs, sounding as if he’s discussing the weather instead of some poor man’s life, and Barret has to unclench and clench his fist again to refrain from shooting that smug mug right off his face, “I suggest you move along.”

“It’s not going to happen, you twisted fuck.”

Sephiroth’s lips thin at that, his blade finally falling away from the blonde completely as he turns to face Barret alongside Genesis. He looks incandescently angry, eyes alight with a demented sort of fury that has Barret’s hair standing on end, but he doesn’t back down. SOLDIER or not, he’ll find a way to stop them.

“I ain’t gonna let you murder somebody right in front of me!” he protests heatedly, swinging his gun around to face Sephiroth when the other’s eyes narrow dangerously. “The hell is wrong with you?! He’s on the ground right now. He can’t even fight back. ”

“This is SOLDIER business.”

“Of course, that’s why it involved the eighty guard rotation of some rich fuck’s manor? Dead servants and a horde of zombies clawing at the doors of a building that doesn’t even belong to you? SOLDIER business, my ass.”

Sephiroth sucks in a sharp breath, grip tightening ever so slightly on the hilt of his blade, but Barret doesn’t waver an inch as those hateful eyes glare venomously.

“I don’t know you and I don’t care to,” Sephiroth hisses, “but if you continue to try my patience, you’ll soon become acquainted with my blade. This is your last warning.”

“To hell with your fuckin’ warnings. How ‘bout I don’t shoot you for murdering half a small town’s worth of people.”

It’s Genesis that reacts this time around, letting out a laugh as he weaves the tip of his sword through the air. “You think you could hurt us with that toy?” he scoffs, smirk rapidly turning into a mocking sneer, “you’re nothing compared to us. I could put my sword through you before you even got a single bullet out of that worthless pile of scrap.”

“Take your best shot, asshole!”

It happens in the blink of an eye. One moment Barret is standing his ground against two furious supersoldiers, Genesis baring his teeth and winding up in a snarling fury, sword moving so fast Barret can hardly see it cutting through the air as he prepares to meet his end. Then the next there’s a blur of movement and the screech of metal against metal, a massive buster sword reverberating just inches above Barret’s head with the force of Genesis’s blade.

Barret instantly recognizes the blonde hair.

“What the-?”

“Cloud! Enough.” Sephiroth’s own sword is extended now, pressing with careful precision into the pulse point of the blonde, and he does not look any happier than he had thirty seconds ago.

“You two know each other?” Barret’s beginning to suspect this person might not be another unfortunate guard from the mansion. He’s holding his sword level with Genesis - of all people - as if it’s nothing. The weight of his blade alone should have been enough to send him keeling over.

That’s when Barret notices the uniform - a SOLDIER’s uniform. It doesn’t look the same as a first class uniform, but it's definitely not a civilian’s outfit either.

Barret had been protecting a SOLDIER.

A rush of emotions floods him at that. Anger and confusion and frustration making him growl out a warning and direct his gun right back at Sephiroth.

“What is going on here?” he demands, “you’re standing in the middle of a massacre about to kill one of your own?!”

Sephiroth chuckles, tone lightening for the first time since Barret arrived. “Well, we’ve already killed the other.”

Dead silence.

Not even Genesis moves for a second, and the blonde’s arms start to shake beneath the pressure. Though the sword above him poses a massive threat, Barret can’t help the way his eyes are drawn like magnets to the dead body that had been right beside the blonde. The torn, blood soaked remains of a SOLDIER uniform tells him all he needs to know.

They killed him. One of their own. Just as they’d been about to kill the blonde. There truly is no end to Shinra’s cruelty. Even after the company’s demise its loyal soldiers gather to slaughter each other like cattle and destroy the lives of those only trying to get by. Even after Shinra has died the planet still burns, and the SOLDIERs are still the tools of its destruction.

Yet a SOLDIER had also been the one to save his life.

Cloud, Sephiroth had said.

His reflexes are slow, movements groggy, and Barret would bet his only remaining arm that the guy has at least a medium grade concussion. He’s already breaking under the strain of holding back a super soldier - already crumbling beneath an impossible weight. There’s no telling if he’d be able to run or keep up with the fight - no telling if he’s a good enough person to even try it...but he’d been a good enough one to save Barret’s life.

Barret’s determined to get him out of this in one piece.

The next moment is a blur of movement. The snap decision to fire, not at Sephiroth but at his blade, until the sword is ripping the man’s arm sideways and his expression is slackening in surprise. Barret doesn’t even take a moment to contemplate the true suicidal stupidity of attacking someone like Sephiroth before he’s charging forward, grabbing the blonde by the waist and using his gun to take the brunt of Genesis’s sword. It’s only for a second - only to garner enough time to pull the kid back and free him from the lock of blades - but it’s enough for Barret to holler as an electrifying pain numbs his gun arm. The shriek of tearing metal splits the air, accompanied by Genesis’s own noise of outrage, and Barret hauls the kid backwards and onto his shoulders without hesitation.

There’s a beat of tension as Sephiroth recovers his footing and Genesis regains his bearings, Barret staring right at two infuriated super soldiers through the sparks of his shredded arm.

Then the world is rushing back around him. Panic and noise and the need to get the hell out of there. To return home to his daughter.

So Barret takes the kid and he runs.

And hell, he doesn’t look back for anything.

——

Barret winds down several backroads as he makes his way back to camp, determined to shake any tail he might have now that he’s possibly angered some of the most powerful people in the world. He hadn’t seen them pursue him after he’d dumped himself and the kid in his truck and torn out of there like a bat out of hell, but there’s no telling what their kind has up their sleeves.

There’s no telling what the one in his truck has up his sleeve, either, and it’s damn ridiculous that Barret is risking any part of his life for a Shinra lapdog that might turn on them at any moment, but he can’t bring himself to abandon the guy. Can’t allow himself in good conscience to leave someone so clearly injured out to fend for themself, let alone someone who’d happened to save his life. Even if Barret had also happened to save theirs. Barret would say that makes them even, but he knows it’s more complicated than that - knows that ties of any sort of blood can lead people to do bad things. It's hard to break from that mold. Hard to choose something good over those you consider family.

Cloud turned on his people. That takes more than guts. Though Barret doesn’t know if 'more' is a bad thing or a good thing, considering it had led him to being a turncoat. No matter how justified it may have been.

He brings the blonde back to camp because it’s the right thing to do, and because apparently he’s made a habit of picking up strays. But it’s with a heavy heart and a host of fears, millions of horror scenarios playing out in his head. A swirling mass of dreadful scenes depicting Marlene and Tifa hurt and dying because of his actions - his family hunted now by people they have no hope of beating alone.

Scenes that follow him all the way home.

Yet when he pulls up to camp he doesn’t even think to let those worries show, and when he steps out of the car and slams the door shut behind him, there’s nothing on his face but a massive, beaming smile as he sets sights on his little girl. She squeals when she sees him, dashing forward in a mad scramble of flying cookware from the portable oven.

“Daddy!” she screams excitedly, “Daddy, you’re back!” She hits him with all the force of her tiny body and he laughs as he takes her up in his arm. The warmth and relief that fills him almost brings tears to his eyes, and he hugs her so tight to his chest that he can feel her breathing and alive against him.

“That’s right, angel! Safe and sound, just like I promised.”

She giggles against his neck, small fists rising to press at the nape of his neck in a hug. “Tifa and me were making you dinner!”

“Oh, is that so?” He chuckles, looking up to see Tifa standing a short distance away. She looks relaxed and happy, smiling with a languid sort of bliss as she watches the two of them.

Then her eyes drift down to his destroyed arm and the expression drops to one of pure panic, her gaze darting back up to his own with alarm.

He winces and shakes his head, silently telling her he’ll explain it all later. But he refuses to let go of Marlene right now - refuses to let her out of his sights - so he nods at the passenger seat of the truck, observing pensively as Tifa finally seems to catch his drift, circling around the car to check inside.

“Did you bring back anything fun, Daddy?” Marlene asks sweetly, leaning away to peer up at him with wide eyes. He hums for a moment to stall, hearing Tifa’s small gasp as she catches sight of the battered SOLDIER, and tries to keep his tone light when he answers.

“Not this time, baby. Had to focus on houses instead of stuff, remember?”

“Uh huh! You were house hunting!” She exclaims proudly, eyes crinkling with the force of her smile.

It’s impossible not to return one of his own, warm and loving as he moves them both away from the situation about to unfold, further into the camp. “That’s right! When did you get such a good memory?”

Marlene kicks her legs in the air with an offended sniff. “I always have a good memory. It’s you that forgets things. Like my necklace!” She pouts.

“Well, you’ve got me there,” he laughs, forcing his tone into something unworried as he turns to see Tifa haul the blonde from the car. She slams the door shut with enough force to make Marlene jump, and as she carries the blonde bridal style into the clearing he notices the dark shadow of horror in her eyes, lips tight and arms shaking as she stares down at him.

Marlene can’t help turning at the noise, and Barret has no power to stop her as she gets a look at their new guest. She gasps, mouth dropping open as she begins to squirm eagerly in his grasp. “Who’s that?! Is he another friend? Is he staying with us too, like Tifa?”

“I don’t know!” He keeps a hold of her as Tifa sets the blonde down on her own mattress, instantly digging around in her pack for supplies. Then turns his full attention on Marlene again, looking sternly into her pleading brown eyes until she stills enough to listen.

“We don’t know if he’s staying, yet,” he tells her honestly, voice gentle, “But we can’t bother him right now, okay? He’s hurt and he might be dangerous.”

“Dangerous how? Who is he?” It’s Tifa who speaks, although she doesn’t look back at him as she does so, and Barret sighs as he crouches to lower Marlene to the ground. She races over to them both before he can do anything, but he trusts that Tifa won’t let any harm come to Marlene.

“A fool, apparently,” Barret snorts with bitter self reproach, “and a turncoat too. ‘Less his friends were just…” he glances at Marlene, shocked and curious as she hides behind Tifa and peaks out at the blonde from around the woman’s shoulder. “...hurting him for the fun of it. They looked past the point of sanity, though, so who the hell knows.”

“A Cluster?” Tifa frets, “I thought they didn’t wander out this way.”

“They usually don’t. Stick to the roads and such. Don’t got time for the likes of backwoods campers. But this wasn’t a Cluster, it was worse.”

“Worse how?” She finally turns to look back at him, and the furrow between her brows makes his heart ache for her. He almost doesn’t want to say it, but -

“SOLDIERS.”

She freezes, expression going blank, and he knows nothing good can be going through her head right now.

“What?” She croaks breathlessly, “You brought a SOLDIER back here? Are you insane? ”

“What’s a soldier?” Marlene’s voice is small and afraid, and Barret swallows the conversation in an instant at her tone, falling to his knees and beckoning her over.

“It’s nothing, sweetheart. Come here.”

He sees Tifa drop the conversation as well, biting her lip to keep from speaking as she settles a comforting hand on Marlene’s shoulder. She forces herself to relax as she gives Marlene a warm smile, nudging her toward Barret, and after a few seconds Marlene begins to approach with tiny steps. She’s fidgeting, casting fervent looks back at the limp body next to Tifa.

“Is our new friend a bad guy?” she asks hesitantly, eventually working up the courage to speak as she gets closer.

Barret swallows thickly. “No, he’s not- not a bad guy. He saved my life.” Then, louder as he directs it to Tifa, “he saved my life.”

She sighs and nods, shoulders tense as she turns back to keep working on Cloud, and Barret leans forward the rest of the distance to sweep Marlene up again into a comforting hug. Like magic, though, she’s already moved on from the emotion of two seconds ago. Fear turned to a palpable interest as she hums curiously against him and vibrates with a new kind of energy.

“So he’s a hero?” She asks as he stands to take them to her tent.

“I suppose he is,” he admits reluctantly, holding back a scowl.

“Then why is he so hurt?”

He parts the flaps of her tent and carries her into the muted blue shadows, laying her gently down on her sleeping bag. She yawns widely, rubbing at her eyes and sniffing, but she doesn’t let up on the questioning gaze for one second.

Barret toys with his next words. “His old family...didn’t treat him very well.”

“But why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Families aren’t supposed to hurt each other. They’re supposed to take care of each other. Like you do with me.”

His gaze softens and he brushes a stray lock from her eyes, mulling over his next response. “I take care of you because I love you, and you’re my precious little girl.” She giggles when he leans down to smother her in a sloppy kiss, pushing his face away playfully. Then he leans back and sobers up, saying tenderly, “These people...they weren’t like us. They didn’t agree with him, sweetheart. I don’t know the whole story, but I know they tried to kick him out.”

“They wanted to abandon him?”

She sounds so sad, and Barret doesn’t know how to make it better. Doesn’t want to lie to her but doesn’t want to hurt her.

He exhales slowly and presses her back into her bag when she tries to rise. The heavy weight of his hands rests on her chest for a moment in solid comfort, and after a time her small fingers come up to rest atop his own. She pats at him solemnly like it’s him that needs the comforting, and he chokes back a laugh.

“We should keep him,” she says, “so he can know what a real family is.”

“We aren’t his family, sweetheart.”

“But you’re a Daddy. And you said that we should always help and protect people.”

“That’s-” He huffs in amusement and relents beneath the insistence of her hopeful eyes. “Very kind, Marlene. And very brave.”

Her smile is shy with the light pink in her cheeks, but her eyes sparkle victoriously. Barret doesn’t know how to tell her that the SOLDIER probably won’t be around come morning, if he even stays that long at all. So he turns his palm to catch her wrists between his fingers, bringing her hands up to lay a kiss on the back of each. Then he lowers them back down to kiss her goodnight as well, hushing her worries with a gentle touch to the forehead.

“I couldn't be more proud of you,” he says lowly, “my kind girl. You’ve grown up so well.”

“I think you’re the kindest, Daddy, for helping people even when they’re mean. I think you’re a hero, too. You and Auntie Tifa and…”

“His name is Cloud,” Barret admits, already regretting saying the words. And sure enough-

“And Uncle Cloud!”

“How about we wait until he’s awake to see if he wants to be called that, huh?” It’s a lot more rational than he wants it to be, but he can’t bear to snuff out the flickering light of hope Marlene’s found in the situation.

“Fine,” she pouts, before brightening excitedly, “and then he can tell us a story! About how he was the hero and saved you.”

Barret rolls his eyes and stands to leave. “I saved him too, you know.”

“Sure, Daddy.”

“Yeah, yeah...Goodnight, little bug.”

“Night night!” He exits the tent and zips up the flaps, and it’s only after he’s turned and made his halfway across the camp that he hears, “don’t let the bed bugs bite!” sound out behind him.

Barret chuckles fondly, wincing at a sudden sting of pain in his gun arm, and glances over at where Tifa’s working on the SOLDIER.

His smile drops almost instantly as he sees her leaning back on her heels, hands raised defensively against the harsh movements of her patient.

He’s awake, Barret thinks.

And acting exactly as Barret had feared, judging by the distress clear from across camp. He grits his teeth and storms over, hand already clenched into a fist.

“Hey!” Tifa jumps in surprise, turning to face him as he approaches, and Barret only faintly registers the lack of fear on her face before an infuriatingly cold voice is piercing the air.

“You can’t keep me here,” Cloud says, rising to sit up despite the obvious agony it brings him. He wraps an arm around his stomach, but the intensity of his glare doesn’t waver once.

Tifa worries at her lip as he moves, hands hovering over his battered body as if she doesn’t know where to place them. “You’re still injured, you can’t be up and about! Let me help you,” she practically begs, and Barret’s blood boils at the sound of it. What right does this kid have?

“Not interested.”

“Oh you can’t be serious!” Barret finally snaps, coming to a stomping halt right next to the both of them and scowling furiously down at the kid. “Drop the tough guy act and suck it up. You ain’t helpin’ no one with that attitude, least of all yourself.”

He opens his mouth to say more and falters almost violently when he catches sight of Cloud’s exposed upper body, teeth clacking shut as his eyes widen.

The kid’s shirt is cut right off of him now, with the tight black binder around his chest exposed for all to see. Yet what really horrifies Barret is the garish mass of bruises painting every inch of his skin. He’s coated in cuts and stab wounds, shaking with exhaustion and ribs stark against his thin body, with what looks like an actual bullet wound still red and seeping in his shoulder. Under the pale light of the moon, with blood and dirt washed away, he looks worse than he had sprawled out on that battlefield.

Barret’s stomach turns.

“Shit,” he breathes out before he can stop himself, “what the hell did they do to you?”

“A lot less than what they did to Zack!” His voice cracks and his teeth clench after he speaks, as if the words have spilled unwillingly from his mouth.

“The other SOLDIER?” The one they killed?

The words spark a fire in Cloud that has him whipping to attention so quickly Barret’s surprised he doesn’t keel over from the pain. “It ain’t any of your business!” he grinds out, voice desperate and guarded and hurt all at once, lashing out like an injured animal, “Stop treating me like I’m made of glass. Stop talking like you’re familiar with me. You don’t even know me.”

Tifa crosses her arms and raises her chin defiantly, unflinching in the face of Cloud’s anger, and meets his gaze head on when he turns to glare at her. Barret’s hit with another sense of profound respect for this woman, who doesn’t even blink at the unnatural glow of mako eyes in the night, upper body rising to match Cloud’s own harsh tension.

“You’re not being treated like glass! Your injuries are getting taken care of. Last I checked, there’s a hell of a difference.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Ya can’t take care of shit, soldier! Do you hear yourself?” Barret hisses, “do you see yourself? You wouldn’t make it a day out in the wild alone.”

Cloud works his jaw, the stubborn set of his shoulders unrelenting for just a second before his expression shifts, softening in surprise as his trembling body finally can’t take the stress anymore. Tifa reaches out just in time to catch him as he collapses, and the way his lashes flutter, eyes glazing over, speaks more about his wounds than whatever shit was spilling out of his mouth.

Barret snorts. “What a dumbass.”

“Barret!” Tifa scolds, lowering the kid with such a painful amount of gentleness that he’s half convinced the kid may have been onto something about being treated like glass.

“Look, he’s an asshole!” Barret defends, waving his gun arm at the kid in a momentary lapse of judgement that has it zinging with pain. He covers up a wince before Tifa can see it and continues on, growing tenser with each passing moment, voice heated with the pain and frustration of the day. “We’ve done nothing but help him and he’s acting like he doesn’t give a single shit. Dozens of people died today. I almost died! He almost died!”

“And his friend did die, so maybe cut him some slack.”

“That doesn’t excuse his shitty behavior.”

“It was one conversation, Barret! For a few minutes, while he was concussed and injured and barely coherent. He probably won’t even remember it in the morning.”

Barret grinds his teeth and quiets, because he knows she’s right. Know he’s overreacting but damn, everything about the kid had rubbed him the wrong way. “He’s a SOLDIER, Tifa.”

“One who apparently saved your life. One that you brought back with you, which tells me a bit more about what you really feel about this situation.”

“I just don’t trust him,” Barret says, “and I don’t like him.”

Tifa just shakes her head. “Go to sleep, Barret. You’ll want to apologize in the morning.”

“You said he wouldn’t remember the damn conversation anyway!” Barret huffs indignantly, the thought of apologizing makes his hackles rise like nothing else, and he’s thinking he may need to take Tifa’s advice, after all. That he should go to bed before he does something else he might regret.

Something- not something else- because there’s not anything else that he-

Dammit .

“Yeah,” he sighs, waving his hand as Tifa opens her mouth to keep fighting, “yeah, you’re right.”

He gives her a soft goodnight, feeling a bit better when she relaxes and sends him a reassuring smile before turning back to work on Cloud, and heads over to his own tent to settle in for the night.

He just needs some time to cool down - just needs to take a moment to himself so he can grieve the brutal loss of his prosthetic and the deaths of every single person he’d seen today. Needs to be able to reconcile with the horrifying levels of destruction he’d witnessed.

Once that’s done - once he’s had the time to settle down - he’ll apologize. Or find the guy some ice cream. He doesn’t know. But right now, just for the night, he needs to rest.

He goes to sleep with a calm mind that night, content and soothed by the knowledge that things turned out okay, with the firm resolution that he’ll get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow and lighten the air between him and the new guy.

Unfortunately, come morning, Tifa’s bedroll is empty. The top kicked aside and the buster sword missing from where it had been propped up against a tree.

Cloud is nowhere is sight.

And as Barret looks around in sleepy bewilderment, he realizes that neither is the truck.

“Mother fucker!”

#barret wallace #dad barret #soft barret #fanfiction #marlene wallace #tifa lockhart #cloud strife #protective barret #whump #ff7 #ffvii #remake #hurt comfort #cloud strife needs a hug #barret needs a hug #promptfills

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wanderingjedihistorian · 1 year

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Chapters: 11/11 Fandom: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, Star Wars - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-2224 | Cody & CT-7567 | Rex, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker Characters: CC-2224 | Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Ghost Company Members (Star Wars: The Clone Wars), Bail Organa, Yoda (Star Wars), CT-7567 | Rex, Ahsoka Tano, CC-1010 | Fox Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Order 66 Happened Differently (Star Wars), Canon Compliant Minor Character Death, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, CC-2224 | Cody Needs a Hug, Honestly everyone needs hugs, Protective CC-2224 | Cody, Worried Obi-Wan Kenobi, Good Friend Bail Organa, The Alderaanians are terrifyingly competent, The clones and Jedi approve, Protective Clone Troopers (Star Wars), Palps' plans didn't account for everything, plotting and planning, Jedi Service Corps (Star Wars), Staging galactic rescues is hard, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Angst and Feels, comfort and feels, Seriously just All The Feels, Angst, As Happy An Ending as anything dealing with Order 66 can have, Hopeful Ending Series: Part 1 of The Road to Risk and Rebellion

Final chapter summary: There are a few surprises still in store as the move to Odessen occurs.

Featuring one more piece of art by @love-like-poetry!

#my writing #star wars fanfiction #art for my fic #codywan #road to risk and rebellion au

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greensword101 · 4 years

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Inquisitor!Kanan AU Pt. 1

Alright, this is going to sound stupid, but I’ve skimmed through a few fics where Kanan is an Inquisitor but is either a reluctant recruit or immediately becomes conflicted when he meets Ezra, his space son.

That didn’t make sense to me. An Inquisitor was a Jedi that fell to the Dark Side. And those who fall typically do so in a sense of “the road to Hell is paved with good intentions” at times or because they are disillusioned like Bariss was in the Clone Wars. In the event that Kanan ever turned to the Dark Side, I believe it would be for good intentions or because of his earlier characteristics as a Padawan (i.e. curiosity). It could be justified as Kanan was fourteen when Order 66 happened, but what if his master fell to the Dark Side prior to this right around the time she took him on as a student? Cue him becoming the Anakin to her Palpatine, except Depa genuinely cares about her student (ironic).

In this au, Depa Billiba had begun to lose faith in the Jedi Order right as she meets Caleb and she sees him as a kindred sou, especially after she learns more about the boy. One who is questioning the way of the Jedi in ways that the Council is very uncomfortable dealing with. Naturally, this feeling of isolation leads to Caleb trusting Billiba, especially when she states that the Jedi are afraid of people like him.

“But why?” Caleb asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Because, my Padawan,” Depa smiled, “the most dangerous weapon one can have is a weapon that can think for itself.”

Caleb, having never known his parents, having been considered an outcast by his peers, puts his faith in the first person to openly express faith in him and encourages his curiosity. Thus begins the decent of Master and Padawan to the Dark Side. Depa, who was drawn towards it due to her disillusionment of the Jedi and Caleb, who’s hunger for knowledge of all kinds would become insatiable as his understanding of the Dark Side grew.

When the Jedi Purge occurs, Caleb and Depa are spared from the slaughter, having deserted their Clone comrades and killing those who have attempted to take their lives. They go into hiding, taking work as bounty hunters or stealing whatever they can. Usually, it would be Jedi archives or artifacts that the Council wouldn’t have wanted falling into the wrong hands.

It doesn’t take long for them to be put under the Emperor’s radar and he orders them to be hunted down to join him as his assassins or die. Naturally, Depa and Caleb agree to serve as Inquisitors, out of pragmatism and because they felt flattered that their abilities were acknowledged by the Emperor himself.

Depa and Caleb stand out among the Inquisitors, being the only Former Jedi to be a part of the Master/Apprentice dynamic before the Republic fell. Caleb stands out due to being the youngest, but somehow just as brutal as the rest of their comrades as the First Sister and First Brother. The First Sister and First Brother quickly become a dreaded duo, due to their strong bond to one another and meshing together fighting styles of Light and Dark. After all, the First Brother considers “know thy enemy” to be the greatest teacher (after Depa, of course).

As the Empire looms over the galaxy, the Emperor soon realizes what a great threat the duo would become if they continued without challenge. Never mind the fact that overthrowing the Emperor never crossed either minds of the First Brother and Sister. They are content with knowledge for knowledge’s sake, freedom to act as they please, and with staying as a team. The Seventh Sister made the mistake of suggesting the First Brother was being groomed to be the First Sister’s boy toy. Her screams still echo to this day in the old buildings of Coruscant.

Through Vader, the Emperor sets up an “accident” to occur on one of the duo’s missions together. Caleb survives at the cost of his beloved mentor, who’s last words to him were “Run!” When he learns that the First Brother survived, the Emperor placed blame on Vader (true from a certain point of view) and redirects anger at his apprentice. It is a clever plan that he knew would lead to the First Brother either killing Vader and taking over as the Emperor’s apprentice or Vader dealing with a potential rival a move is made against him. Caleb knows this himself and he goes through a drastic change in personality.

His thirst for knowledge, unbeknownst to the Emperor, would lead to him desperately searching for hidden knowledge of the Force, such as saving the ones he loves most from certain death. At the same time, he becomes ruthless as an Inquisitor, isolating himself from others and seeking comfort in pleasures of the flesh and drink when the memory of his beloved mentor burns too painfully in his mind to function.

Jump to “Spark of Rebellion” time and without meeting Kanan, the chances of Hera meeting the rest of Ghost seem impossible now, right? Wrong! The Force works in mysterious ways, after all, and while she doesn’t find her crew through one person, she still manages to find the like of Ezra by herself on Lothal.

Ezra is still the same kid from canon: trusting no one, hard to think about others, a thief. And he managed to steal Hera’s heart when he tries to run off with her ship. Chopper stops him and a deal is made: work as her employee and Hera would forget about the kid trying to steal her baby. She also promises actual payment which manages to keep Ezra invested and maybe allows him to open up to her.

And through Ezra, they still manage to find Zeb and Sabine. Ezra has a brief crush on Sabine that evolves into a platonic friendship. Sabine still views the Ghost crew as a family. Zeb still smells. Chopper is Chopper. Hera is suddenly like a single mom with the distant uncle that suddenly decides to help her raise the kids.

Without a second actual adult - no, Zeb, you may be the oldest but you are at the same mental age as Ezra sometimes - Hera is probably more stressed than usual. She loves her crew to death, but it can be a bit much sometimes without a second hand to help.

But they are still the same force - no pun intended - to be reckoned with and get under the radars of both the Empire and Rebel alliance.

Ezra doesn’t know about his Force abilities for a while, not even when they are executing a rescue mission to extract an old Jedi Master named Luminara. It’s trickier without Kanan to do the mind trick on Stormtroopers, but Sabine and Zeb manage to distract the two guards in the end while Ezra sneaks in.

The first thing he notices is how weak and frail this “Luminara” lady is. The second is how he seems to feel her presence in his very bones, like an old memory. The third is another presence, a colder one that makes him shiver.

Enter the First Brother. The years since he’s turned have changed him drastically. He wears the Inquisitor uniform, with a black cape. His skin tone is pale as snow, like he hasn’t seen the sun in years. His hair is long and not held down by a ponytail (imagine it a bit like a lion’s mane) and his yellow eyes. piercing and seeming to see through Ezra.

He’s expecting a Jedi risking discovery to rescue the body of Luminara, someone who would hopefully give him a decent challenge. He’s not expecting a teenage boy who is clearly not a Jedi and clearly has never seen what a lightsaber looks like when the First Brother pulls one out.

Ezra in canon was aware of the Force existing and had been pleading with his mentor to actually teach him. Here, he’s thrown into a massive loop and straight up terrified of this new enemy who clearly wasn’t a Stormtrooper. His typical maneuvering doesn’t work when the First Brother is able to pin him down without making physical contact. To Caleb, this is just him barely using Force Stasis. To Ezra, it’s like he’s walked into a nightmare.

Ezra, now frozen both literal and in fear, has a new enemy blocking his only exit and no way to warn his team about the danger they’re in.

“How did you know Luminara?” The First Brother asked.

Ezra doesn’t respond, he isn’t sure his mouth can work and his mind is numb.

“You can still talk if you want to, kid,” the man added in a surprisingly gentle voice.

Somehow, Ezra finds his courage, “I don’t know her. I was trying to rescue her.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s a prisoner of the Empire,” Ezra tries and fails to snarl defiantly at the man, “She doesn’t deserve to be treated like this.”

“You’re partially right,” the First Brother admitted, “She didn’t deserve the fate she got. But the Empire needed a honey pot to draw in the flies.”

“D-didn’t...?”

“Luminara is dead, been that way for a long time.” Out of the corner of Ezra’s eye, he notices the pale Mirialan’s body fading away like dust in the wind. His heart stills.

After a tense moment, Ezra collapses to the ground, having been freed.

“I don’t take pleasure in snuffing younglings,” the First Brother said dismissively. “Take your friends and leave this place.”

Ezra doesn’t even bother asking how the hell he knew Ezra didn’t come alone and simply runs out of the cell. He finds Sabine and Zeb and they all flee in one piece. He doesn’t speak for the rest of the day, too shaken from his experience with the new enemy to do anything.

He has no experience with the Force. He understands he is different, but not why. And he certainly doesn’t expect to see that man again after today.

Meanwhile, the First Brother, for the first time in years, feels something close to excitement. Someone who could use the Force, someone who clearly didn’t know about the Force until just then, someone that was on the side of the rebels.

He sincerely hoped his master was looking down on him in the afterlife, because he was going to become that kid’s new teacher whether the kid wanted him or not.

To be continued...

#star wars rebels #au #inquisitor!kanan #dark side!kanan #caleb dume #depa billaba #ezra bridger #hera syndulla #grand inquisitor #kanan is thinking of getting a space kid on the dark side #ezra doesn't know about the Force #for now #maybe ashoka will help him

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squeallywrites · 4 years

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VIXX Masterlist

Cha Hakyeon | N

The Forgotten Vale - Ongoing

N/Reader

The Dawnguard, a group of vampire hunters, has begun to take in recruits. Curious about joining, you make your way over to their base, only for your first mission to introduce you to someone you were not expecting.

Oneshots:

Lost - N/Reader

A Chance - N/OC

Soft and Sweet - N/Gender Neutral Reader

Jung Taekwoon | Leo

Rebellion

Leo/OC

VIXX is on tour in America and are on their way to Chicago from Cleveland when a bright flash sends their van crashing off the road. Getting picked up by a motorcycle gang, lead by a mysterious rider, they are taken to a hidden fortress. Realising that they have been sent 4 years into the future with no known way to return home, the guys start to help the rebellion try to take down the Administration. Tensions start to rise when Dragon, leader of the Rebellion, catches the eye of quietest member.

My Emperor -Ongoing

Leo/Reader

When you wake up in a different world, it takes some adjusting. Especially when you’re now a potential bride for the Crown Prince of the Korean Empire. But even that is not what it seems…

Destiny’s A Callin’

Leo/Reader

When you’re trying to finish up your last year of college, you receive a phone call from someone you never thought would contact you, let alone lead you on an adventure you could have only imagined of having. Now you have to come to grips with the past and balancing it with the present.

Oneshots:

The Eyes Have It - Soulmate AU

On the Prowl - Familiars AU

The Marked Bride - Leo POV; Reaper AU

Lee Jaehwan | Ken

Promise

Ken/OC

When Ken made a promise to his childhood friend, he intends to keep it. So when he receives a letter years later, he risks everything to see her one last time before she passes away. Everything goes well, that is until it doesn’t.

Oneshots:

Neighbours - Ken/Reader

Forbidden Love - Ken/Reader; Fantasy AU

The Voice in the Marsh - Ken & Gender Neutral Reader; Fantasy AU

Kim Wonsik | Ravi

Centuries - Ongoing

Ravi

During a typhoon, Ravi gets into an accident that sends him reeling through time to viking Europe. Now he has to get used to the olden ways of survival as well as becoming the slave to a master he struggles to understand.

Guardians - Ongoing

Ravi/Reader

When you’re sent back to in time to early Silla, you thought that you would be stuck as a servant for an arrogant noble and his family. Then on the year anniversary, a caller from one of the prince’s comes to announce the search for a bride.

Oneshots:

A Tail or Two - Mermaid AU - Ravi/OC

Winter Heart - Modern God AU - Ravi/OC

A Game of Phones - Ravi/Reader

Within the Pages - Ravi/Reader

Lee Hongbin

Sacred Blood - Ongoing

Hongbin/Reader

There was a lot that went bump in the night, but for all the tales, there were just as many for the warriors of old, the protectors of humanity. These soldiers were known throughout the land to be unbeatable, but no one even knew what they looked like.

And apparently they were taking refuge in your village.

Oneshots:

Drained - Hongbin/Reader

Dawnstar - Hongbin/Reader; Skyrim AU

Amongst the Stars - Star Wars AU

Questioning the Light - Hongbin/Villain Reader; Superhero AU

Han Sanghyuk | Hyuk

In Search of a Cure - Coming Soon

Oneshots:

Dance the Night Away - Hyuk/OC

Worth It? - Demon Hyuk, Reader

Dragon’s Hymn - Dragon Hyuk/Reader

Never Forgive and Never Forget - Reaper Hyuk/Reader

I’ll Protect You - Fairy Hyuk/Reader

#vixx masterlist #vixx fanfic #vixx au #vixx fanfiction #masterlist

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alexrogersstark · 5 years

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Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse Superfamily AU?

What if Miles’ parents died of a fire when he was around six months old. After adopting a five year old Peter five years prior, Steve and Tony decided they wanted another kid, and the adoption agency gave them Miles.

Sixteen years later, Peter was off living in his own apartment with his partner occasionally visiting his parents and the other Avengers at the tower. Movie nights on weekends were still the norm for their family and Peter made sure he always took Miles out on Sundays to have a ‘brother bonding day.’ It’s tradition. Peter took after their dad; he had a love and a knack for science Miles would never quite understand, but Miles took after his pops. On the days Peter and their dad would lock themselves away in the lab trying to figure out some sort of equation or theory to solve and prove, Miles and their pops would draw and paint for hours in the studio.

When Spider-Man showed up when Miles was six, Miles could not be more entranced. The masked vigilante the Avengers were assigned to arrest and bring into SHIELD (a job they never really took all that seriously to begin with) was the coolest thing in the world to Miles. He could tell that his dad never really liked Spider-Man because the young hero was a risk, but his pops thought the masked vigilante was doing good. So did Miles.

One day while painting graffiti in a tunnel off the subway tracks (he may get the arts gene from his pops, but his dad’s rebellion streak was in his blood as well) Miles got bit by a spider, and the next day... Well? There were a few issues. Suddenly his fingers were sticking to things - like the pretty new girl’s hair - and the ceiling and the walls. For the life of him, he could not LET GO!

So Miles went back to the subway to look for the spider, but lo and behold, his favorite superhero crashed the party, and he’s fighting a villain, which was kinda more than a little awesome. That was, until he got caught up in the middle of the fight. A fight where the state of New York literally hung in the balance between being sucked into a black hole or not. It seemed like Spider-Man was just about to save the day when Miles slipped and started to fall into the sub-basement. Without hesitating, Spider-Man leapt to rescue him, catching him and bringing him to a metal cart. That’s when Miles’ sensed it, and he coulf see by the head tilt, the narrowing then widening of white eyes that Spider-Man could sense it as well, blurting out: “You’re like me!” as if he were a child receiving the best Christmas gift ever.

Offering to teach Miles the ropes, Spider-Man smiled beneath the mask before shooting away and back up to the powerful generator he was supposed to destroy. Miles watched the epic battle between Green Goblin and Spider-Man unfold, excitement and adrenaline pumping through him, but then the generator went off and Green Goblin shoved Spider-Man into the beam. The room exploded as Spider-Man was yanked out and the generator began to break down, exploding the sub-level they were on. When the dust cleared, Miles could see Spider-Man’s prone body lying in the rubble and instantly climbed down to help. Spider-Man’s breathing was labored and he didn’t look good. Parts of the mask were torn, one familiar brown eye staring back at him.

Lifting the mask with trembling fingers, Miles couldn’t help the choked gasp from leaving his closing throat when it revealed Peter underneath. His brother gave him a weak smile and assured him everything would be alright. It’d be okay. He’d be fine. It was just, Peter needed Miles to use his powers to take the over-ride code up to the the ceiling and shut the machine off for good. When he was done that, they’d go home. But a shuffling and a loud, deep voice echoed from around a corner of precariously swaying rubble pile and Peter turned even whiter. Frantically, he forced the USB into Miles’ hand and told him to run. At first, Miles didn’t move, but then Peter yelled it frantically, and Miles had never heard his brother sound more terrified in his life. The man had always been the picture of calm. A rock Miles could climb on whenever the seas around him had been storming. So he ran.

Miles looked back once, but it was all he needed. He could hear the muffled conversation with perfect clarity, the anger from the man and the resignation from his brother. And he watched as the man rose his fists into the air, watched as he brought them down against Peter’s chest, watched as his brother took his last breath.

With tears blurring his vision and sobs choking the air from his lungs, Miles ran, the USB held firmly in his grip. Ran all the way back to the tower. When he got there, his parents were shocked since he was supposed to be at school in his dorm, but they let him stay the night nonetheless. Miles could hear it from his room: the moment they get the call and learn that their son, Peter Parker, Spider-Man, was dead.

The days following passed in a hollow blur. People mourn, his classmates kept sending him sympathetic looks, the new girl kept trying to talk to him, not seeming to understand that his brother had just died, and his parents... his dad wouldn’t leave the shop. Hadn’t for days, and Miles had to wonder if he’d been broken so bad that his dad had broken his sobriety and spent his hours in a drunk stupor trying to forget the pain. His pops went in and out of the workshop; the first day he stayed in there as well, probably holding his dad and himself together best he could, inviting Miles to come, but not pushing when he refused. After that, though, pops would bring food to dad, try to get him to come out, spend a few hours probably sharing in their combined grief, and spend the rest of his hours trying and trying to get Miles to talk to him. To tell him what he knew his son is hiding. But Miles said nothing because he knew his parents would hate him. They’d hate him because he was there and he didn’t save him. Couldn’t step up the way the rest of them could, and it was his fault Peter died.

There were so many people there for Peter’s funeral. Him, his pops, and his dad were at the very front, Aunt May right behind them, standing in front of an oak coffin. Miles couldn’t help but think this was some kind of sick joke. His pops was standing tall, silent tears running down his grim face as he stared forward stoically, body positioned in parade rest except for the single arm wrapped around his dad. His dad who’s wearing sunglasses and looking pale and gaunt. He grips on to pops firmly as if that was the only thing keeping him standing, and Miles began to think that it was. His dad’s other hand came up to wrap around his collarbones, pulling Miles firmly against a firm chest where a circular object poked into his spine and Miles finally let go, turning around, hugging his dad, and sobbing into his shoulder as his pop’s pulled them both into his broad chest as if he could protect them from this. They all knew he couldn’t, but it was a nice sentiment.

That night, Miles took the USB and visited Peter’s grave by himself. He tried to tell Peter, convince him, or maybe just himself, that Miles couldn’t do this. He couldn’t save Peter. How could he save the entirety of New York?

There was a sudden tingle at the back of Miles’ neck, and he whipped around just in time to send the large shadow currently lurking over him about twenty feet into the air with a bolt of electricity. A bolt of electricity that came from his own palm. He also found himself being tugged into the snow by something yanking at his chest. Cursing under his breath and shouting out an apology, Miles got up and ran to the man, inspecting the string of white stuck to his sternum. Then he stopped in his tracks because that man looked familiar. Really familiar.

When the cops came, though, it wasn’t like he could stay. His parent’s would kill him if they found out he’d sneaked out. They hadn’t let him leave the tower, with the exception of walking to and from school every day (and hell no is he spending the nights in the un-fortified place anymore), since they got the call of Peter’s death. And they most certainly hadn’t let him go anywhere alone. But he was stuck to this man who was wearing a Spider-Man costume and looked like his brother would in a good twenty-five years. Except maybe a little fatter. Maybe.

With his best shot - which, he’d admit, really wasn’t all that great - Miles grabbed the man’s wrist and aimed the sticky-string on a building the opposite side of the road. He managed to hit a passing train, which was great because the cops wouldn’t get a chance to get to him, but also not great because they were now being dragged along by a freaking train and he may be breaking his not-brother’s face and body as they bounced along the ground and in between passing vehicles.

After they came to a stop, Miles took the man to the subway station because it was the only place he knew he could hide from his parents and the cops, and tied him up. Something the man gets out of easily once he wakes up. It was cool. Super cool because the man said he was Peter Parker. He was Peter Parker and he was alive and well and Spider-Man and standing right in front of Miles. Miles couldn’t help but hug the guy who was not really his brother, but he’s close enough right now, and Miles would take anything at the moment. The man pushed him away, muttering something about kids and how gross and weird they were and started walking away. Something that Miles couldn’t let happen because his brother thought he could save New York. His brother asked him to do this and Miles will be dammed if he didn’t. Not now. Now that he had a chance.

It took some convincing (and some pretty cool walking up a wall action) but Mr. Parker agreed to help him. Well, he agreed to fix the issue himself, but same difference. There was just the teeny tiny problem of the USB breaking during their little train escapade. But Mr. Parker said they could make a new one, and Miles decided to take this as his chance to convince the man to teach him how to be Spider-Man.

They break-in to Doc Oc’s office, which somehow translated to training - not that Miles knew how it translated to that, but apparently it did - and got the computer. They also learned the Miles could turn invisible. Also really cool Oh, and the pretty new girl at his school? Her name was Gwen and she’s one hell of a badass Spider-Woman. The three of them trekked to Aunt May’s house after the fight because Mr. Parker believed that this universe’s Spider-Man had a lair there. Miles wouldn’t be surprised; Peter always made sure to visit her at least once a week, and sometimes he’d bring Miles with him as well. She looked at Miles sympathetically when she sees the group and pulled him in for a hug, which he accepted gratefully. Aunt May had always been warm and soft, and she always smelled sweet and homey. She brought them in, but informed them that Peter never kept a lair there, but did introduce them to three more people. Peter Parker, a man in a black and white mask and an old-timey accent, Peni Parker, a girl from the future with a killer robot, and Spider-Pig. That’s it. He’s just a pig.

No one had any other ideas as to where Peter might have kept his lair except Miles. And it wouldn’t be fun or easy.

The group made their way to the tower and Miles let them in. Somehow, he got JARVIS to aid them in staying away from any other people. Mr. Parker and Gwen both raised their brows at him when JARVIS told him that his parents had been worried sick about him, but he’d just informed them both that Miles was here and okay. Miles just shrugged at them and told them that Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, A.K.A. Iron Man and Captain America, were his dads.

Together, they made their way through the tower, and Miles convinced JARVIS to lead them to Peter’s personal lab. He’d never been down here before, but until this point, he also had no idea Peter had a lab. The lights turned on as they descend, and Miles felt his breath catch at the sight. He could feel his brother in this place. Spider-Man suits lined the walls like Iron Man suits did in dad’s workshop, and Miles could make out a few vials and sparking wires spread across a few tables.

He stopped dead when he also spotted his dad sitting at one of the tables looking at the group in shock.

When his dad looked from Mr. Parker to him, Miles couldn’t hold it back anymore. In a rush of air, he told his dad everything. How he was bitten, how he was there, how he couldn’t save Peter, and how he visited his brother’s grave and ran into another dimension Peter Parker. By the end, his dad was holding him in his arms, telling him that everything would be okay. That it wasn’t his fault, and Miles just holds onto him tighter.

He also said that he needed Miles to stop, now. To let it go and let the Avengers handle this.

Miles stepped away, and he could feel the shock growing on his features as he stared at his dad in astonishment. He insisted that it’s okay; it was his duty to fight in place of his brother. He promised Peter. Promised. His dad, on the other hand, started yelling at him, telling him how dangerous the job was, how he wouldn’t have let Peter be Spider-Man if he had known, how he was not going to lose his other son. And Miles insisted he could fight, that he could help because he needed to be the one to press the button to close the portal so the rest of the Spider-People (and pig) could go home. He was ready. When his dad said that he’s not, Miles looked to the other Spider-Versions for help, but they just looked at him sadly. Mr. Parker stepped forward and tried to say that they might still have time to train him and work with him, but everyone, especially his dad, was convinced that he wasn’t.

Angrily, Miles stormed out, rushing past his pops when he got back upstairs without explanation and heading to his dorm at school. When the group found him, they all had sad looks on their faces, and Mr. Parker put a hand on his shoulder and said, “I didn’t know he was your brother.” Miles just shook his head, looking up at them and glaring at them. He could help, he knew he could. He didn’t want their pity or understanding; he just wanted to fulfill the promise he made. Watching as the rest of them leave, Miles eyed Mr. Parker as the man circled him; he tried to fight. He really did, but Mr. Parker was right. He didn’t know how to electrocute people, didn’t know how to turn invisible on command. So Miles was left in his chair, tied up in webbing and without the USB.

Closing his eyes, he thought back on all the times he and Peter had hung out. All the times when he talked to Peter about Spider-Man, asked him about his thoughts on the guy. He could still see the sly smile that crossed Peter’s face at the questions he answered nonetheless. It was one particular conversation Miles remembers. One conversation that made all the pieces of the puzzle fall together, and Miles wondered how he never figured it out before.

He’d asked Peter why Spider-Man was a good guy. Unlike pops and dad, he wasn’t bound to any organization and didn’t need to answer to anyone. His identity had been kept secret for years now, and no one seemed none the wiser as to who Spider-Man was. Peter had just laughed and ruffled his hair. Miles remembered Peter asking him if Miles would choose to use powers like that for selfish gain if he’d had them. When Miles shook his head, looking a little disgruntled at the thought, Peter got this far away look in his eye as he stared out the window of the diner they’d found. He started talking, as if recalling something deep within the recesses of his brain, about how people were given a choice. They were always given a choice between good and bad, and sometimes that line was a lot thinner than people might think. But there was always a right choice. There had to be because what else would separate them from the people behind bars? What separated dad and pops from the villains they’d faced? Sometimes those choices seemed impossible to make; certain situations seemed impossible to figure out. In those time, though, Peter said he thought Spider-Man probably recalled the people in his life who got him to where he was. The people he admired most, and he’d ask himself what they’d do. If they were here now, what would they do? What would they tell him to do? Peter had shaken himself from his stupor, then, and looked back across the table at Miles, a bright smile coming to his face. He’d leaned forward, like he was about to tell Miles a secret, and Miles smiled back leaning in to hear him. “With great power comes great responsibility,” Peter murmured and leaned back. In a louder voice, as he looked down to pick at his half-eaten food, Peter smiled softly. “Uncle Ben told me that, remember? Sometimes I think Spider-Man somehow has that exact same advice constantly running through his head.” Miles had just smiled and leaned back himself, telling Peter that he missed Uncle Ben as well, even if they hadn’t been related. Uncle Ben never seemed to give that much thought, and Peter’s smile grew as he began shoveling food back into his mouth recalling how much dad and pops loved Uncle Ben as well. Dad had always appreciated the man’s enjoyment of the lab and his tech and his wicked sense of humor and adoration for his sons, and Pops loved his calm demeanor and wise remarks on certain problems.

Memory firm in his mind, Miles took a deep breath and pushed at the energy swirling in his core, feeling it begin to burn its way outward. A smile graced his lips as he heard the crackling and felt the webbing begin to loosen around him. It fell away and Miles jumped to the door, rushing back to the tower.

To his surprise, his dad was still in the lab when Miles got there. His eyes were red rimmed, like they always were these days, but there was a sense of peace about him. He blinked as Miles entered, letting out a breath and closing his eyes. When he opened them, they were determined and set. “If you’re gonna do this, then you’re doing it right,” he said, and Miles watched in astonishment as his dad began tearing through the lab with the manic energy he’d been lacking lately, gathering things in his hands. Pausing in front of Miles, he raised his brows. “You gonna help or what, son?” A smile crossed Miles’ face and he ran to his dad and hugged him tight. His dad simply hugged him back before pushing him towards the suits, telling Miles to grab one while he fixed up the web shooters. Together, they improved the suit and the shooter, his dad taking things apart and putting them back together before handing them over to Miles to redesign how he wanted.

With one last hug, his dad watching him with a proud look on his face, Miles ran out the door and up to the top of the tower, a black suit with red accents covering from head to toe. Taking a deep breath, he leapt down, feeling the wind across the spandex covering his face until shooting his hand out and sending a web to the nearest building. Swinging across New York, running with cars, jumping from rooftop to rooftop... it was amazing. He could feel exactly what Peter had felt; fell in love with what his brother fell in love with. In the suit. it was like Peter was right next to him.

He was worried he wouldn’t make it in time, but Miles jumped at the guy right before he could take out Mr. Parker. Smiling widely at his friends, Miles webbed the USB towards him, asking, “Well? What are you waiting for?”

It was the most exhilarating moment in his life, and Miles never felt so alive before. He jumped between buses and streetlights and other floating fixtures as the machine whirred behind him, universes once again colliding. Suddenly, it wasn’t so hard anymore, fighting next to Mr. Parker and Spider-Woman. He felt like he’d found his place. Taking a running leap, Miles launched himself onto the ceiling, crawling to where the controls sat bared, and inserted the key. One by one, he watched as his friends made their way home. Gwen even promised they’d see each other again; they were friends now, after all. Then it was just Mr. Parker, who lifted his mask and searched Miles face.

“I’m sorry you lost him,” he said quietly, and Miles closed his eyes, nodding his head slowly and swallowing. “He would be real proud of you, right now.” And Miles felt his lips quirk. “I know this because I’m proud of you right now. So very proud.”

Letting go of his hold, Miles launched himself at Mr. Parker, hugging him tight before letting him go and grabbing at the key. “Go,” he said, shaking off Mr. Parker’s arguments, grabbing him quickly and holding him out towards the portal. “I’ve got this,” he said, voice sure. They both blinked at a shifting of movement from the corner of their eyes, watching as Miles’ dad stepped into the control center and looked up at them. His dad, not wearing the Iron Man armor, standing back in a clean pair of jeans, a clean AC/DC shirt, and a newly shaven face. Miles met his eyes, and his dad nodded at him. Miles’ eyes shifted back to Mr. Parker before he repeated, “I’ve got this.” With a nod of his own, Mr. Parker smiled let Miles drop him into the portal and back home to put his own life back together.

When the man who killed his brother pulled Miles away from the ceiling, he saw red. He so desperately wanted revenge. Wanted to make the man pay for killing Peter, and Peter’s words flashed through his mind. If he’d been alive, if it were him fighting this man, Peter wouldn’t kill him. Wouldn’t waste the time or energy because it wasn’t worth it and there was a portal that needed closing before New York became a black hole.

The man was strong, though. Stronger than Miles, and he felt himself losing as the man pummeled him to the bus that served as the ground beneath them. He felt his energy draining from him as the man stalked forward towards his prone body, talking at him about the pain of losing his family and the futility at which Miles was fighting. The man had proven once that he could beat Spider-Man, and he was about to do it again.

Cheek pressed against the cool metal of the bus, Miles glanced at his dad who was staring at him, wide-eyed and gripping the window pane where shattered glass was surely digging into his palms. At that look, his dad cried out, “Get up, Spider-Man!” And Miles knew what he had to do.

Struggling to get himself up, Miles staggered to his feet, wavering in front of a man larger than life who could beat him on pure, brute strength. Miles might not be as strong, but that wasn’t all he had. As the man stepped closer, Miles reached out, digging back into himself and poking at that energy curling and building inside his gut; he pushed with all his might, shocking the man and sending him flying back. Hearing an excited whoop from his dad over the jarring noise of the machines, Miles flung himself back to the control panel, grabbed the USB and twisted.

Beneath (or was it above?) him, he felt the building begin to shake. Watched his dad wobble and fall to the floor as another earthquake wracked New York city, just as it had the last time the machine shut down. He gaped on as the beams sucked everything back into itself before bursting in a bright flash of light. Closing his eyes and raising an arm to cover his face, Miles waited for everything to subside before blinking them back open. Looking around, everything looked to have gone back to normal. The beams were gone, the machines destroyed, his dad was stumbling back onto his feet, looking up to make sure Miles was okay. The large man lay on the ground unconscious and... a smaller, lankier frame lay a few feet away. A frame in a red and blue suit with a tuft of brown hair on top of his head, and young, twenty-six year old features relaxed as a chest slowly rose and fell.

Crying out, Miles jumped down, landing next to the person who looked exactly like his brother. Exactly like the Peter Parker from this universe. Grasping on to lean shoulders, Miles shook and shook hard until brown eyes fluttered open. They didn’t quite focus, couldn’t seem to figure out how, but a relieved smile graced this Peter’s features. “Oh,” he sighed, closing his eyes again and relaxing into Miles hold. “You figured out how to shut the thing down. Good. Told you I’d be alright, didn’t I?”

Peter, his brother, couldn’t seem to keep himself awake after that and promptly passed out again. Miles didn’t even look up when he heard the scraping of footsteps and his dad finally stepping in front of him, looking down at Peter with a mix of awe and shock on his face. His dad couldn’t seem to keep the tears at bay, and suddenly he was sobbing over Peter’s sleeping form, cradling Peter’s head in his lap. Miles let out a choked sob himself, and then his dad was tugging Miles towards his chest as well, hugging both his sons close.

“My sons,” he whispered into their hair, and Miles couldn’t help but smile as he wrapped his arms tightly around his father and his brother.

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