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slippinmickeys · 5 years

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Release Valve (3/10): Think That Was a Message?

Mulder hung up the phone and turned to Scully. “They found Vanessa Glassie,” he said. “Alive?” Scully asked. “Alive, well, and living with her secret boyfriend,” he replied. “Please tell me the secret boyfriend isn’t some 50 year old sex offender.” “He’s a 17 year old kid emancipated from abusive parents. Holding down a job, working on his GED, and much more friendly and helpful to investigators than our missing ‘victim.’” “She doesn’t want to go back?” Mulder shrugged. “She’s in love.” “How’d they find her?” “Agent Stone,” Mulder went on, “Found a wiped chat room, apparently. They used the will-o’-the-wisp as a cover. When her friends were busy looking at the light, Vanessa slipped off into the bushes and away to her happily-ever-after.” “Did Vanessa and her boyfriend fabricate the ghost light?” Scully asked. “If they did, they’re not copping to it,” Mulder said. “And Marcie Vincent is still missing. As of now the fi follet is still our number one suspect.” XxXxXxXxX Vanessa Glassie sat back in the chair in the interrogation room with her arms crossed, shooting looks of pissy venom between Isaacs and Stone. “You were friends with Marcie Vincent?” Isaacs asked her. “I want to talk to Marty.” “That’s not possible right now,” from Stone. Vanessa rolled her eyes with the bearing and precision only teenage girls seemed able to achieve. “I’m not going back to my parents,” she said then, flatly. “The law says you have to,” Stone said. Isaacs shot him a look. Don’t piss off the bear. “Not if we’re married,” said Vanessa, smugly. Isaacs knew the law in Louisiana required parental consent for marriages of those under 18, but she wasn’t about to put a toe in that water. “My job isn’t to tell you how to live your life, Vanessa,” she said, pointing at Stone. “We don’t care what you do.” Vanessa seemed to stand down at that. “What we do care about, and what our job is, is to find Marcie.” Vanessa visibly sobered. “You guys were friends?” “Yeah,” Vanessa said. “She… She was supposed to bring me more of my stuff that night.” “What night,” said Stone, “the night she disappeared?” Vanessa nodded. “We were supposed to meet in the swamp,” she said, “she never showed. I thought she just got caught sneaking out and got grounded or something.” “Have you heard from her since then?” asked Isaacs. “I’ve been kinda trying to lay low,” said Vanessa, clearly starting to feel a sense of guilt.

“Do you have any idea what happened to her?”

Vanessa shook her head.

“Will you let us know if you think of anything or if you hear from her?” She said to the girl. The girl nodded, drawing into herself. “They...” she said, as they stood to collect their files, “they’re saying it was the fi follet. With Marcie. Was it?” Isaacs and Stone looked at each other. “Did you see the fi follet?” Stone asked her, “the night you fled?”

“Only out of the corner of my eye. Once it came out, I told Kelly I had to pee and made a break for it.” They made to leave. “But,” Vanessa said, “I thought I saw it again later. On our way back to Marty’s the night we were supposed to meet Marcie.” “What do you mean?” Isaacs asked. “From the car. It was a ways off, but, it was a green light. It seemed to be moving around a lot.” “Was it over the swamp?” Stone asked. “That’s the thing,” Vanessa went on, “it wasn’t near the swamp at all. It was off the highway a ways. Toward Marcie’s house.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

Mulder let out a low whistle. “This is getting good,” he said into the receiver. “What do you think, Agent Mulder?” Isaacs asked him. “Any insight?” “She said the green light off toward Marcie’s house was moving around a lot?” “That’s what she said.” “That doesn’t sound like a will-o’-the-wisp.” “It doesn’t sound like swamp gas, either,” said Isaacs. “You got me,” said Mulder. “See what you find, and let me know.” “Yes, sir,” said Isaacs. “And Isaacs?” “Sir?” “Be careful.” Scully turned a glare at him as he hung up. “Mulder, if you don’t start putting those calls on speaker phone, I’m going to quit.” He gave her a cheeky grin and brought her up to speed on what Isaacs and Stone had found. “What are you thinking?” Scully said when he’d finished. “I don’t know what to think, honestly. But I’m starting to think it’s not swamp gas. And I’m also starting to think maybe we should go down there.” “Let’s give them another day,” Scully said, “see what happens.” Mulder nodded and made his way over to the graphing table. He pulled out a satellite map of Louisiana and brought the desk’s magnifying glass down on a section of Vermilion Parish. “This is about where the will-o’-the-wisp picture was taken,” he said, pointing to the map. “And here’s the highway that runs through it. Here’s the Vincent property over here,” he pointed again, adjacent to the swamp. “And this is the State land, I’m guessing this is roughly where Vanessa Glassie saw the lights.” “And what’s that?” Said Scully, leaning down and trying to get a closer look. She pushed the magnifying glass closer to a small grey smudge on the map where Mulder had just indicated, smack in the middle of the State land. It didn’t look like any other part of the map. It was grey where the rest of the area was green and had no strict borders. “Is that…” Scully started to say, “it looks like it was smudged out, somehow.” Mulder flipped the paper over. “It’s not the printing,” he said, “the paper is fine.” He walked to his desk and got on the phone. “Hey Jerry, it’s Mulder. Can you send me the digital file of the Louisiana sat map you printed for me a few days ago? Yeah, email’s fine. Thanks.” His computer pinged a minute later and he and Scully both moved to his desk. He pulled up the photo. It had the same small grey smudge. “The date on this satellite picture is less than six months old,” Scully said, pointing to the date stamp on the corner of the picture. “Grab your coat, Scully,” Mulder said, clicking a few things on his computer, then heading for the door and grabbing his own, “we gotta pick up some Kung Pao Chicken.” Scully didn’t even bother asking. She followed him out the door. XxXxXxXxX “Somebody Photoshopped your sat map,” Langly said, his mouth full, pointing at the monitor with a pair of chopsticks. “You guys about to do something to piss off the Pentagon?” Frohike asked from the couch.

He was sitting next to Scully who’d kicked off her shoes and had her feet up on the edge of the coffee table in front of her. Mulder couldn’t help but take in the dichotomy of her bubble toes resting amongst the shambles of circuit board and wiring. The table was awash in computer parts and Chinese takeout cartons. His eyes met hers as she licked a drop of plum sauce from her lower lip. Mulder struggled to remember what he’d been about to say. Scully said it for him. “The Pentagon? Isn’t it a USGS map?” “It’s a USGS labeled map,” said Byers, setting down his own food on a nearby shelf, “but it’s a military satellite that took the picture. The pixels are too dense for anything else.” “So what are they trying to hide?” Said Frohike. “Think you can help us find out?” Asked Mulder. Five hours later they were looking at the un-Photoshopped version of the satellite map of Vermilion Parish. “That’s kind of… anticlimactic,” from Scully, who had fallen asleep on the Gunmen’s sofa, her jacket tucked around her. She woke up to the celebratory brouhaha when the boys had gotten in and all three Gunmen plus Mulder shot her a look of disappointed contempt. “Every party has a pooper,” said Mulder, leaning against a gunmetal shelf, his tie long-since discarded. “It’s a nondescript, rectangular building,” Scully said, edging the guys away and leaning toward the monitor, “and not a very big one to boot.” “I admit it’s not terribly revelatory,” said Mulder, “but why try to hide it?” Scully didn’t have an answer to that. “There’s no road leading to it,” said Byers, “and it’s what… two, three miles from the highway?” “Looks like that could be a footpath, not too far away,” said Frohike, “but it’s on the adjacent private property.” “That’s still over a mile away,” said Byers, “whatever this place is, it doesn’t get a lot of traffic.” In the corner, Langly yawned, and Scully followed suit. Like a kid coming down from a sugar high, the excitement from a few moments before waned and a pall of exhaustion seemed to fall over the room. Mulder threw his tie over his shoulder and offered Scully his elbow. “Come on,” he said. “My car’s at the office,” she said, stifling another yawn. “I’ll take you home,” he said quietly. Scully swayed into him, and he put his arm around her waist, his nose in her hair as he squeezed her, before remembering that they weren’t alone. He escorted her through the Gunmen’s lair, the trio of outliers behind them silent as voyeurs, staring unabashedly at their retreat. They were going to give him shit for this, he thought as he slammed home their security door. He found he didn’t even care.

XxXxXxXxX Isaacs was glad she’d remembered to pack a pair of sneakers as she and Stone bushwacked through the damp field, though they’d never quite be the same, she thought, sinking inches into muck with every step. Stone squinted at the printout of the sat map Mulder had sent them this morning. “Shouldn’t be too much further,” he said. They’d upgraded their rental to an SUV and had driven as far as they could off the highway, making the rest of their way on foot. “This is about where Vanessa said she saw those other lights, too,” he added, and he and Isaacs exchanged a look. Twenty minutes later they came to a chain-link fence with signs every twenty feet along it reading “US GOVERNMENT PROPERTY: NO TRESPASSING.” “The hell?” said Stone. They stood at the fence regarding it a moment before Isaacs shrugged and walked up to it. “We work for the US Government,” she said, and scaled it easily, hopping down on the other side. Stone hesitated before huffing out a sigh. “I thought this was supposed to be Louisiana State land,” he said, as he landed next to Isaacs with slightly less grace. “There’s also not supposed to be anything out here,” she said, nodding to the sat map in his hand. “And yet…” When they finally got to the building, it was as it looked from the sky above. Simple, nondescript, and not very big, about the size of a simple ranch house. It was painted a beige-y green, with a simple but sturdy corrugated roof, painted the same color. “How do you get in?” Isaacs said, walking north along the perimeter. “I’ll go that way,” Stone said, pointing to the other direction. They met on the backside. “What the hell,” said Stone, confusion creeping into his voice. “There’s no door.” “No windows either,” said Isaacs, putting her hands on her hips. “There are security cameras, though,” said Stone, nodding toward the eaves where cameras were perched, blinking at them steadily. A low rumble started then, lasting about 5 seconds. “Thunder?” Stone looked toward Isaacs, then out at the cloudless sky. “I think,” she said, taking an involuntary step backwards, “I think it’s coming from inside.” The rumble happened again, lasting longer this time. Isaacs started feeling a vibration from under her feet. “I don’t know about you,” Stone started to say, but Isaacs interrupted him. “Yeah, no, let’s get out of here.”

They moved quickly away from the building, Isaacs trying to calm her sudden nerves. Once they were back on the other side of the fence, Stone pulled out his phone. “I’m going to call Mulder,” he said. “You get reception out here?” Isaacs asked, looking at her own phone’s display. “No,” Stone said shortly, snapping the flip phone closed and running his hands through his hair in frustration. Another low rumble started then and they looked at each other. “Isaacs,” Stone started to say, a hint of fear creeping into his tone. Isaacs held up a finger, silencing him. She turned and scanned the skyline. “There,” she said, pointing North. It took a moment for Stone to see it, but then it came on them rapidly. An unmarked black helicopter was heading right for them, flying low. Really low. They both threw themselves to the ground as it growled overhead. After it passed them, it gained altitude and then was gone, the Doppler effect of its sonance fading as quickly as it had come on. They both rose slowly. “Think that was a message?” Isaacs said, picking pieces of leaf and grass out of her tight braids. She tended toward sarcasm when she was unnerved. “Sure as hell felt like one,” said Stone as he angrily brushed off the front of his suit coat. “Well,” said Isaacs, trying to reorient herself, “if we make it back to civilization, I think I want some backup.” “I think I do too,” said Stone. They both kept looking back over their shoulder as they made their way to their rental, a pall of presage weighing heavy on them both.

#the x-files #fanfic #fanfiction #msr #my fic #Release Valve

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mattzerella-sticks · 5 years

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Fifty Cents (a Dean/Cas fic for the holidays, 2.8 k)

With Christmas just around the corner, Dean has to do some serious grocery shopping - enough to feed an army. Literally. And a few extra guests. He takes Jack and Cas with him to the grocery store. But will they be bringing home only food? Or is there more to find? The smallest of things can be the most thoughtful presents, given the right meaning and intention.

Dean might have to find a new source of income. Fake credit cards and hustling pool won’t cut it anymore, now that the Bunker reached maximum capacity. It didn’t matter most of the time, no one staying for longer than necessary before hitting the roads on their next hunt. Except Sam, the generous leader he was, decided to introduce Christmas break to the hunting community. And with Jody and Donna bringing the girls down to Lebanon as well, they needed to re-stock their kitchen.

Coupons eased some of his worry, but he couldn’t do the shopping alone. On his way out, he grabbed Cas and Jack. “But we still need to decorate the tree!” Sam called to him.

Dean yelled back, “And we need food, which is more important?” When his brother didn’t answer, he knew the fight was won. “That’s what I thought, Paul Bunyan.”

Although the help he brought wasn’t much of any.

Jack had never been in a supermarket until then. “I didn’t require food before, and now that I do you always handled buying it.” The first few times he made them wait was cute, slack-jawed in awe over all the different options decorating the aisles. But then Dean realized they’d been there an hour, and still nowhere closer to finishing.

And Cas… “Dean, I think we can do better than these. I heard gluten-free buns are much healthier, even if they are a tad more expensive.”

‘Someone’s been spending too much time with Sam…’ “Cas, like I said we don’t need them. Our coupon only works for white bread and rye.”

“But still –“

“Look,” he stopped their carts, “As sweet as I think this is – you looking out for me – it doesn’t matter? It’s not like food will kill me… you made sure of that.”

“I regret telling you about my maintenance of your circulatory system.”

Dean grins, kissing his cheek. “You just want to keep me safe any way you can, you big ol’ sap.” He blushes immediately after, still not used to such brazen displays of public affection.

He and Cas have been learning a new dance since they’ve come together. Dean, reliant on the old routine they’ve managed for years, still fumbled with each step. Every time Cas would slip his hand into his, or their feet hooked together under a table, Dean would fight every instinct that told him to pull away. He’s lost more times than he’s won, but the numbers are slowly growing in their favor. ‘For Cas, I’d keep at it, even if it takes me years…’

Cas smiles back at him, tapping at his hand still on the grocery cart. “Okay,” he says, “Then let’s say we check out, then. I’m sure we have enough food.” He wiggles his full cart, looking at the stuffed contents in Dean’s.

“…Yeah.” They call Jack over from where he’s been lingering in the candy aisle. Jack carries an assortment of treats in his arms, and the puppy dog eyes Sam showed him at full blast. Dean sighs, “No, you can’t have all of those.”

“But look!” he says, “They’re all Christmas themed! There’s some gingerbread cookies, peppermint colored popcorn, dark chocolate filled with nougat, peppermint and marshmallow-stuffed bites, peppermint –“

“Don’t people know there’s more to Christmas than peppermint?” Dean rolls his eyes, “Look, you can get one – and you have to put all the rest back while me and Cas go to the register.”

Jack considers his load, thinking carefully. He chooses, dropping it in Dean’s cart. “This girl was telling me about these. They’re called a ‘Dark Chocolate Orange’ – and are supposed to be delicious?” He squints then, glancing backwards, “Although, she did get rather emotional when describing them…”

Dean snaps him back into focus. “Well, all right, when you’re done go wait outside by the doors.” Jack scurries back to the aisle, disappearing. He turns to Cas. “I thought he was going with the nougat.”

“Surprises abound so close to Christmas. Come on… I think register 3 is the shortest.” They get in line, Dean before Cas, waiting while the woman in front finishes unloading her cart before moving forward.

There’re no problems when Dean reaches the register. The cashier glances at the conveyer, eyes widening at the size of his purchase. “Yeah,” Dean chuckles, “Got a lot of family coming ‘round for the holidays…”

“I hope they brought their appetites,” she says, scanning the first few items. Dean jokes along with her until the very end, easing her into a good mood before he springs his coupon booklet on her. She takes them all. “Have a happy holidays!”

“You too!” He looks to Cas, “I’ll be with Jack, so –“

“Go,” Cas tells him, “I have to push my cart up.” Dean does so, gaze never leaving Cas’s until he’s outside.

Jack wasn’t by the doors. Instead, he was a few feet away, examining two rows of four machines. They were each half-filled, cardboard fliers taped onto their fronts. He’s toying with the flaps on the bottom, spinning the dial with his other hand.

“Jack?” Dean asks, “What’re you doing?”

“Looking for my prize. I spun the dial?”

Dean feels his soul trying to escape, but by pinching his brows he manages to keep it tethered. “Jack… did you put in any money?”

“No… why?”

“Seriously?” Dean clears his throat, “Jack, you have to give the thing money, and then it’ll spit out its junk.”

“Junk?”

“Y’know,” he waves a hand over it all, “All the stuff that pops out of here? Junk.”

“Then why would they sell it if it was junk?”

“Because kids can be annoyingly persistent when they want things, and parents are willing to spend… what is it? Fifty cents to shut them up.”

“…Do you have fifty cents, Dean?”

“What? No, you’re not getting anything.”

“But Dean –“

“No, and that’s final.”

“What’s final?” Cas steps onto the scene, cart filled with the collapsible bags Sam foisted on them years ago. Dean still opts for plastic, just to piss him off and to keep their little baggie collection in stock.

Jack pleads his case with Cas. “Dean won’t let me get one of these pieces of junk!”

Cas raises a brow. “Jack… if it’s junk… why would you want it?”

He shrugs. “People buy junk they don’t want all the time. Dean said so –“

“That’s different!” Dean, indignant, stomps his foot, “That was when we were passing a garage sale. This isn’t that.”

Cas sighs, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. “Jack, why don’t you take Dean’s cart and go unload it into Baby. I’ll speak with Dean about these… trinkets.”

Jack beams, snatching the keys from Dean. “Thank you, dad.” He leaves them, with Dean mocking him, parroting his words in a higher pitch.

He turns to Cas. “We aren’t letting him have any of these. He’ll get bored with it or lose it – and Baby already has enough toys jammed into her.” Cas walks past him over to the machines, ignoring him. “Cas?”

“Can you explain these to me?” he asks, “I’m still not quite sure what Jack is asking for.”

Dean inches closer, pressing up against Cas’s back, reaching a hand out to gesture. “So these are like mini vending machines, except instead of snacks and drinks it dumps out these little, useless items. Like a fake tattoo, tiny figurines, sticky hands –“

“And jewelry?”

“Yeah… fake, tinny, plastic-y jewelry.” He peeks out from the corner of his eyes, taking in Cas’s features. His brows are drawn in, and mouth pulled down at the side. From the angel of his head, Dean can tell Cas tilts it. ‘All signs that he’s thinking…’ “You can’t be seriously considering letting Jack buy these?”

“Well how much is it?”

“Fifty cents –“

“That’s all? Dean, we have fifty cents. It wouldn’t be too much out of our budget.”

“But it’s the principle of the thing! If I tell him one thing, and you another – then he’s just gonna keep coming to you!”

“Dean, you’re overreacting,” Cas tells him, “besides… I didn’t say I’d be buying anything for Jack…”

“…You want one?”

“Why not? It’s my fifty cents.”

“But you can use it for… literally anything else!”

“I don’t know… that little ring there looks nice.” He points to a picture of it printed on the cardboard sign. “I might get that.”

“Cas, you don’t get to pick and choose what you get,” he says, all the while Cas digs two quarters out from his pockets. Dean watches Cas drag them closer to the slot. “I have tons of rings at home! I don’t really wear them anymore but I’m sure one can fit you.”

It’s too late. Cas slips one in, and then the other. Twisting the knob, they wait for the plop of the little egg container. He reaches inside, pulling it out. His fist stays closed, neither wishing to look at what they got yet.

“Well,” Dean says, staring at Cas’s hand, “I hope you’re happy.”

“Not yet… we still don’t know if it’s a ring or not.”

“You seriously think you’re going to get a ring?”

“I think so… do you not?”

“These bad boys are like slot machines – designed to rip you off.”

“Well if you’re that sure of yourself… would you care to make a wager?”

Dean shouldn’t rise to the bait. ‘This is a definite trap.’ But Cas looks at him with that special gleam in his eye, the one sparkle that holds all his little secrets. ‘As if he knows something I don’t.’ He’s always hated it, shining like a jewel hidden behind layers and locks he doesn’t have the time or the keys to go about freeing. Even though it tempts and sings to him. He always needed to rely on Cas dragging it to the surface and showing him. Never being able to do so without his help.

Today is no different.

“Fine,” Dean huffs, crossing his arms, “If it’s not a ring… you have to go with Sam to that True Crime lecture weekend he’s been bugging us about all month.”

“Okay.”

There’s a long pause after that. “Well?” he asks.

“Well what?”

“What if it is a ring?”

Cas hums, finally giving his hand attention. “I guess we’ll just have to see.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “No, I mean what do you want –“

It’s no matter. Cas opens his hand, exposing the packaged good. He pops it open, freeing its contents. Dean wants to curse, rub his eyes, and even stick another fifty cents in and try his luck. Because he cannot believe what they’re staring at: a cheap, metal ring with a plastic blue stone. “Son of a…”

“I do believe I win, Dean.”

‘Of course… he must have cheated somehow.’ Dean, still, honors his word. “All right,” he says, “What d’ya got? Give Jack the talk? No hunts for a month? Bottom the next three times we have sex? Because that’s not really a punishment for me…”

“Marry me.”

Dean’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “W-what?” His ears ring, like bells clanging around in his head. Heart beating like a war drum in his chest, Dean draws in a shaky breath. He nearly faints, legs melting into jelly. “Did you just –“?

“I did,” Cas says, “I can say it again if you –“

“No, no I heard you the first time. It’s… do you really…”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t, Dean.”

‘That’s true. You’re never known to beat around the bush… well –‘ “I… wow.” There’s a lot for Dean to process. His mind whirs and whistles like Sam’s laptop after a not-so-safe visit to some of his favorite websites. It even slips into a blue-screen-like state for a few seconds, screeching to come up with an answer. He can’t. “We – we haven’t been dating for very long.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Cas says, reaching out for Dean’s hand. It’s limp in his grip, stunned from the shock. “Dean, I have loved you for far longer. The only benefit to our new status is that I can act on my feelings. Just like you do with yours?”

He assures Cas, “Of course. I love you, too… for so long –“

“Then why don’t we?” Cas asks, “I mean… I know it won’t be fairly legal, you being dead and I not having a shred of credible identity. But I want you to know that I’m committed to you… to us.”

“I never doubted that, Cas…” Dean bites at his lip, fighting a smile. “You really wanna get married?”

Cas shakes the ring around. “I think my gesture speaks for itself…”

Dean knows he’s cherry cheeked, even though he willed it not to happen. Cas’s gesture was like a dip, and now Dean is scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, either holding on or falling on his ass. ‘I never thought about it really…’ It did cross his mind, from time to time. Although in the context of normality – getting away from hunting and settling down. He knew Cas was it for him, though, as was the hunting lifestyle. Being a part of it, he never thought they could fit anything else normal into their lives besides what they have now. ‘But really, isn’t normal what we make for ourselves? Jesse and Cesar did it…’

He doesn’t know why he needed all this time to think.

Cas shifts on his feet. “If… if you don’t think we are quite ready for this I – I can understand. And I won’t take your ‘no’ as a commentary on our relationship –“

“Y’know, Cas?” Dean cuts him off, “For future reference? Outside a grocery store is like, near the top of the list on worst places for grand romantic gestures…”

They share a short laugh. Cas peeks from under his eyelashes. “So…?”

“Yes,” Dean tells him, “Yes I want to marry you. I want to have the chick flick ceremony, I want to carry you over the threshold – hell, I even want to introduce you as my husband wherever we go.” He squeezes Cas’s hand. “I want to do everything and more with you for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Eternity, Dean,” Cas says, drawing him in closer, “That’s how long.” They kiss, Dean laying his other hand on Cas’s cheek, brushing his thumb against the stubble. It’s one of the best kisses they’ve shared – the warm fire spreading between them soothing the frosty chill in the air. Dean pulls away, gasping.

“Wow.”

“I know.” Cas untangles their fingers, going for the ring. He removes it from its case, grabbing Dean’s hand to slip it on.

‘It’s… it’s… it’s crap.’ The ring is a little tight, and he knows it’ll leave a green stain once – ‘if’ – he gets it off. But he can’t stop smiling, his face straining for holding his muscles like that for too long. The metal can’t be any better than wire, and the stone is probably a giant sequin. ‘Probably the most beautiful thing I’ve seen though – well… second beautiful…’ Dean looks up at Cas. “You know… this totally blows my present to you out of the water.”

“You already gave me the best gift I could ever ask for, though.”

“…You really wanted a robe and slippers? I can’t believe you sneaked –“

“What? No, Dean. Your answer – your yes – that’s what I was talking about.”

“Oh… Cas you big romantic idiot.” Dean drags him into another heated kiss, both hands around his face. It’s too much for a grocery store; really, as they hold so tightly onto one another they could fuse into a single being. Anyone could walk by, and even the spirit of Christmas couldn’t keep them safe if the wrong person were to see them. And in the Midwest, the odds weren’t in their favor.

Dean, again needing to breath, breaks the kiss. They rest their foreheads against each other, absorbed in each other’s orbits.

That’s when Jack comes back. “Hey!” he says, interrupting their moment. Dean and Cas jump apart, rounding on the other boy. Jack barely pays them any mind, too intent on staring at Dean’s hand. “Why come he gets to have one and I don’t?”

Dean almost collapses from that. Cas chuckles, drawing Dean back into his embrace. “What do you say, Dean? Marry me… and let Jack get a toy from these little machines? I mean… it is only fifty cents.”

“I don’t know… that might be too much.” He doesn’t drag it out for long. Dean rolls his eyes, “Go wild, kid. But only one.” Jack pumps his fist, rushing over while Cas snags his cart back. “We should get these packed in. I want to get home and celebrate.”

“As do I…” They’re walking back to Baby, Cas pushing the cart with Dean by his side. A few feet away from their ride, he stops. “Dean?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Did you seriously get me a robe and slippers?”

Dean can’t meet Cas’s gaze. “…I’m not the best gift giver, Cas. Remember what I got you for your first birthday?”

“Ah yes, who could forget – a tie…” Then, Cas shoots Dean a dirty smirk. “Although, if I remember correctly. You more than made up for it once we made it back behind closed doors. The tie came in pretty handy then…”

“…Shut up and start hauling.”

#Supernatural #Spn #Spn fanfic #Supernatural fanfiction #Spn fanfiction #Dean Winchester #Castiel #Jack Kline #Destiel #Destiel fanfiction #Destiel Holiday fanfic

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ceruleanmusings · 5 years

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46 Melanie and Isaac.

46. “If you love it so much, then why don’t you marry it?”

Note: this is set post-series and I know you haven’t seen the show yet but there’s nothing spoilery in this. The only thing you need to know is that they’re out of high school and are now on the road trying to round up hunters whilst simultaneously trying not to die. As usual, this turned out longer than I planned but I haven’t spent much time writing Melisaac even though I love ‘em to bits so I ran with it and didn’t want to stop. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to write more about ‘em!

Beneath the dim wattage of the old light-bulb, Melanie cradled Isaac’s face in her hands, turning it this way and that to catch any bit of light that descended over them. She wished the light could be brighter, just to help a little bit more, but beggers can’t be choosers. It was the first motel they could find that didn’t repulse her on sight, wasn’t named Glen Capri, and at least looked as if they washed their towels. That was one thing Melanie refused to budge on. Besides, she didn’t need the extra light, in the grand scheme of things. Her eyes did just fine.

“Hmmm.” Melanie’s now violet-hued eyes roamed every inch of Isaac’s face, waiting to catch something, anything that was the slightest bit off. He healed not too long after bursting in through the motel room door, holding his side where a giant gash tore his shirt and left the hem barely hanging by a thread. The swelling around his eye followed suit but there had been blood dripping down his face from somewhere and she just wanted to be sure whatever injury it was had healed as well.

“Mel, I’m fine” Isaac stated. Her nose wrinkled. She’d heard that one too many times to just let it go. And every time he said it came at the tail end of him having disappeared when her back was turned. Fine. Sure. And she was the Queen of England. “I’ve healed.”

“For now,” she stated. She blinked and her eyes reverted from the violet haze and back to her normal ocean blue, dimming like a spotlight. She pushed a breath out her nose and rubbed her thumbs against the stubble coating his jaw. His eyes slipped closed at her touch, eyelashes fluttering. She paused, taking the time to look at him again, really look at him. Just in case it was the last time. For all she knew, it could be.

It’s been a long time since they were in Beacon Hills. A long time since they saw Scott and Lydia and Malia and the others. Their initial separation was due to pursuing college degrees. Now? Once again, they were trying to stay alive. They were supposed to regroup at their designated meeting place by the end of the month. Until then, all she got was radio silence. No texts, no phone calls, nothing.

That’s why she appreciated having Isaac along for the ride with her. Not that she’d ever let him leave her side now that he was back. Not that he’d let her leave him either. Nowhere was safe and, even though she had better eyesight and vantage point than most, it was nice to have someone else who could watch her back.

Her hands slid down from his face and rested around the back of his neck. She laced her fingers together, her thumbs resting against the sides of his neck. His pulse thrummed beneath the pads of her thumbs; a steady beat. His eyes opened and he tilted his head further back, locking eyes with her. It was strange, looking down at him like this. She was so used to having to take a few steps back to talk to him without causing a crick in her neck from looking up at him that, now, standing between his legs as he sat slumped in a chair in the cramped bathroom, his hands loosely gripping the backs of her thighs, it was a nice and welcomed change.

“They didn’t get me,” Isaac insisted.

Melanie snorted. “Think you and I have a very different definition of that,” she commented.

His lip quirked in the corner. “They were young. Inexperienced. Newbies at best. Incompetent at worst.” A fire flickered in his eyes as pride wrapped around his words. “I was fine.”

“Why’d you leave in the first place?”

His hand left her thigh; cool air brushed against her skin, replacing the warmth his large hand radiated as he rubbed at the back of his neck. Her eyes squinted at the gesture, at his habit. “Just wanted to scope the area. Be sure we were safe.”

“You could have told me.”

“You were taking a shower. Didn’t think I’d be long.”

“Isaac Newton—”

He rolled his eyes at her dropping his middle name. Her nostrils flared and her eyes hardened. “I healed,” he reiterated. As if that meant something. Which it did. Not that it made her feel any better.

“But what if you didn’t?” she demanded. “You keep doing that. Keep disappearing. Am I supposed to just wait around for the day you don’t come back? At least tell me. Okay? Isn’t that how this is supposed to work?” She pressed her lips together until the growing pain of curling them around her teeth made her ease up. In more ways than one. Her weary body relaxed and she, momentarily, shifted her attention to the steady beat of his pulse under her thumbs. She took in a deep breath and let it out, waiting for her heartbeat to match his slow rhythm before speaking again, this time much softer than her previous attempt. “I don’t like not knowing where you are. Maybe you’re trying to protect me, but…that’s not protecting me. Okay? Because you getting hurt matters.”

He made a face. Melanie didn’t take it personally, for she knew the face wasn’t at her or what she said but for how he felt. Feelings and emotions, even after all this time, were still new to him. He didn’t trust them. He didn’t trust a lot, but she knew he trusted her and her words and her feelings.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered.

“Not as sorry as you would have been if you were dead,” she said so earnestly that he chuckled.

“Yeah?” An eyebrow lifted and he dropped his hand from his neck, placing it back on her thigh, pulling her closer. “How sorry would I be?”

“Pretty damn sorry! You wouldn’t be able to rest in the afterlife. No siree! I’d find a way to make your living hell a living hell!”

“I don’t doubt it,” Isaac said, his voice dipping to a low rasp. Goosebumps erupted over her skin, whether from his fingertips lightly brushing against the ticklish spots behind her knees or because of his tone she wasn’t sure. “You’re freakishly persistent.”

“Better believe it, buddy.” She leaned forward, brushing her nose against his. A growl rumbled in his chest, the vibrations sending another round of goosebumps to flare on her skin. His fingernails poked into her skin. “You’re stuck with me. Whether you like it or not.”

He grunted. “Some threat.”

She half smiled, forcing her gaze away from him. It’d been too long since they were this close. Sleeping didn’t even put them within inches of each other anymore. Someone needed to be the lookout as they traded off on catching up on their five hours-a-day routine. And while she missed this—his breath on her neck, that look in his eye, the touch of his fingers on her body—she resisted. She did not want to go at it in such a small and sketchy bathroom. Even her truck, parked dutifully outside, would be a better venue…. She pushed the thought away before his werewolf senses kicked in and he practically smelled her thoughts on her.

Lifting her hands from his neck, she ran them upwards and into his hair. It curled at the ends, moreso than usual. Haircuts came few and far between on the road. Though that wasn’t a total loss; she loved the five o’clock shadow that grew on his chin. Loved that there was more hair for her to grab and curl her fingers around up top. But now, as she did so, she noted the matted strands, slightly damp with crusting blood. Ah. So that’s where it came from. His healing abilities closed the cut, allowing her to believe that the culprit sat on his face, near his temple rather than on his head.

Curling her fingers around the strands, she lifted and gave them a gentle tug. Isaac squirmed beneath her but otherwise stayed quiet. His fingers brushed against the hem of her shorts, causing every nerve within her to stand at attention. Apparently, it’d been too long for him too.

“You should wash your hair,” she stated. “It’ll get too matted.”

“Do I have to?” he asked, nose wrinkling and mouth pouting much like a child. An oversized child, but a child nonetheless. He raised his arm, motioning towards the front door that lay only a few feet away. “I just knocked out some hunters. Doesn’t that get me…a hall pass or something?”

“Your only other option is licking it off yourself,” Melanie said. At his sour expression she laughed and said, “You’re the werewolf, not me. Dogs can groom themselves. When they’re not being stubborn.” She lightly flicked the tip of his nose an he bit at her fingers. “I can do it, if you want.”

“Yes, please,” he said, the words coming out as a long sigh as he slumped even further in the chair. As if the two words released a cork within him and allowed the weariness dragging in his bones to take over. His feet stuck out of the doorway and curled around the doorframe which lead into the living room —or what one could call the tiny square that held a bed with faded floral prints, one tv that showed three channels, four if they balanced rabbit ears on the nearby chair, and a lamp with holes in the shade that they couldn’t figure out if they came from cigarettes, moths, or bullets. She made a mental note that the next place they found would be big enough for him to properly stretch out. Between her old truck and these stuffy motel rooms, he could be a contortionist.

She stepped away from him, noting the lack of warmth when she slipped out of his grasp. She spotted her bag by the bed and dug through it until she got to the large ziploc bag that held her bathroom essentials. They had to pack light to keep moving but, even then, she wouldn’t and couldn’t go light with her bathroom supplies. She refused to settle on that front. They hunters may have taken away their comforts but they could never claim that they took her humanity.

Isaac eyed the bag when Melanie returned to the bathroom, zeroing in on one thing in particular. “I think you’re taking this whole ‘dog’ thing a little too seriously,” he commented.

“This is for your hair, not your face,” Melanie replied, taking out the spray bottle in question. All traces of amusement and the beginning of a joke died on her tongue as she clocked in his tense posture and his dead-on stare with the bottle. “It’s just for your hair,” she repeated, softening her voice. She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I promise.”

Lips pressed together, Isaac nodded once. His shoulders lowered from his ears but, still, he watched her with a trained eye as she removed a small bottle of shampoo from the bag as well.

Only for Isaac would she squash down every fleeting though of dirt and germs and who knows what was probably crawling on the toilet lid that she climbed atop of just to reach his head. Anyway to put him at ease and quell his flight tendencies. That was her territory. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, mentally ridding herself of such an inappropriate joke. Even all the way out in the middle of nowhere habits died hard.

“Close your eyes,” she ordered before tugging on the pump handle of the spray bottle. Within a few sprays his hair was saturated enough for her to add the shampoo. She took a moment to inhale the fruity scent that wafted out of the shampoo bottle; it canceled out the light yet lingering smell of wet sock. She rubbed the thick and goopy liquid between her hands, raised them to Isaac’s head, and then paused. Learning over, she poked at Isaac’s shoulder with her elbow. When he turned his head, eyebrows furrowed, she leaned over and pressed a kiss to his mouth. His lips remained pursed when she pulled away.

“You know, I have night vision. And thermal vision. And sometimes x-ray vision when I get a little curious”—his lips quirked in the corners in a pseudo smirk—”So I would know if anyone were coming. But I get why you check. And I do appreciate it. I didn’t thank you, so thank you.”

He nuzzled against her cheek; she closed her eyes at his stubble scratching against her cheek. “Do you think we’ll be able to stop running one day?” he asked, his breath ghosting across her skin.

“I hope so. Then that means we finally won.” Melanie pressed a kiss to his cheek and leaned back. She rubbed her hands together again and then sank them into his wet hair. A few soapy bubbles quickly multiplied to a lather that she scrubbed over his head.

Taking her time, she ran her fingers though every strand of hair, scratched her nails against his scalp, and rubbed the tender spots behind his ears and at the nape of his neck. Every now and then he’d squirm and when she hit a particularly sensitive spot he’d let out an appreciative groan, which earned him a kiss to the side of the neck. And she scrubbed her fingers in his hair long past all the blood had been removed. It’s the most relaxed she’d seen him in weeks; he deserved the break.

“Where would you go? If we didn’t have to run anymore?” Melanie asked, breaking the silence that had settled over them.

Humming, Isaac tapped his laced fingers against the back of his hands. “Maybe Vermont.”

“Why Vermont?”

“I have family up there. Cousins. We used to visit all the time, during the summer.” He pushed a long breath out his nose as a wistful tone attached to his words. “We’d go to the lakes. Ride ATVs. Tour the Ben & Jerry’s factory. I learned to fly-fish with my brother there. We’d catch frogs and chase fireflies, too.”

“Aww. I love fireflies. I haven’t seen any in forever,” Melanie commented. She removed her hands from Isaac’s hair—smiling in satisfaction at the groan of disappointment that followed—and unscrewed the cap of her spray bottle, dumping the rest of the water over his hair until the soap ran out.

She grabbed a nearby towel and dropped it over his head, rubbing at his damp hair when he added, “They also have a mystery dinner cruise on Thursday nights on some lakes.”

“No way!” she exclaimed, eyes widening. “That’s, like, the best night ever!”

“Uh-huh. Nothing marks a good time quite like a murder,” Isaac said, his words muffled by the towel.

“Fake murder,” she pointed out. “The only good kind there is!” She went back to rubbing and twisted her mouth to the side. “Sounds like some sort of paradise up there.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I love it there.”

“Well, if you love it so much, why don’t you marry it?” she teased with a child-like cadence.

“I think that’s illegal—”

“Didn’t stop that lady from marrying the Eiffel Tower.”

“—and besides, I’d much rather marry you.”

She didn’t mean to yank the towel down over Isaac’s face, bashing his nose in the process. Really, she didn’t. But…how else was she supposed to react?? Isaac didn’t say things like that! He didn’t look that far ahead. The future wasn’t something he concerned himself about, especially as of late. Not like her.

Isaac yanked the towel off his head as she jumped down from her perch on the toilet. She really didn’t want to have to explain to a doctor that she got a concussion from falling off one. Talk about embarrassing.

“Is that your way of saying no?” he asked, wringing the towel between his hands. Melanie focused on his hair sticking out in all directions rather than looking at him. Her fingers twitching by her sides.

“Is that your way of asking?”

He wrung tighter. “Just something I’ve been thinking about lately.”

Melanie’s eyelids fluttered as she tried to get some sort of semblance of control of her ping-ponging emotions. But the only thing that came out of her mouth was, “…sorry for your nose.”

“It’ll heal,” Isaac said.

“Nice to have a constant to rely on.”

“Exactly,” he said, giving her a pointed look.

Her lips parted and a blush appeared on her cheeks and her stomach flip-flopped in the best way possible. She reached out, cupped his cheek and rubbed her thumb against the stubble by his mouth. He turned his cheek into her palm, brushing the side of his lips against her skin. “Are you tired?”

“I can sleep in the truck.”

“Okay.” Her mouth lifted into a sweet smile. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”

#zadien #isaac lahey #melanie crowe #melisaac #otp: the song an the howl #my writings #eeeesh this is long!#I hope you like It!

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junghelioseok · 6 years

Text

budapest.

↳ over many years and across several dozen cities, you fell in love.

◇ yoongi x reader ◇ fluff | smut | secret agent!au ◇ 11.1k [1/1]

notes: so i fully intended to post this on yoongi’s actual birthday, but that didn’t quite work out. i’m very bad at writing on a schedule, and yoongi kind of took this plot in unexpected directions. also, this is a little different from anything i’ve written prior, and i’m still not sure how i feel about it. nonetheless, happy belated birthday to our lovely genius, min yoongi!

⇢ now updated with a moodboard by @whimsicalliethereal aka cara! thank you, dear!!!

[Seoul, present day]

Don’t, you want to say. Please, please, please don’t.

“Christ, not this shit again,” is what you say instead, shaking your head. After all, begging and pleading is hardly your style, and you know that the man standing beside you is just going to do as he pleases, anyhow.

From across the room, Jungkook grins at you, his dark eyes twinkling with mirth underneath equally dark hair. Slowly—deliberately—he lets his gaze slide over to your companion, grin widening impossibly as he raises one finger and curls it in a beckoning motion. If you have learned anything about the platinum-haired man next to you over these past few years, it’s that he never, ever backs down from a challenge. And Jungkook knows it.

“He’s...” you start, unsure of how the sentence will end. Goading you? An asshole? Both are true, but your companion doesn’t give you the chance to finish speaking, his sleepy eyes narrowing at the insolent young man on the other side of the room.

“Come on, Yoongi,” Jungkook lilts mockingly. “You scared?”

“As if, brat,” is Yoongi’s harsh retort as he stalks forward, brushing past Jungkook roughly to stand at the machine looming behind him.

The impish grin on Jungkook’s face doesn’t even falter as he recovers his balance. “Let’s go,” he proclaims cheerily, grabbing the plastic gun from its holster and taking aim at the screen. Yoongi mirrors his movements, irritably raking his pale hair out of his eyes, and you can only sigh and follow after him.

Not for the first time, you recall why you hate downtime. Quiet days are hard to come by in your line of work, but on the rare occasion that you do have a break, your colleagues inevitably find a way to stir up trouble. You’re still not sure how Jungkook and Taehyung managed to convince a group of highly trained secret agents to go to an arcade, of all places, but this early in the afternoon the place is nearly deserted and you are grateful for that. The fewer witnesses there are, the better—and you’re certain that the aftermath of this shooting match won’t be pretty. Almost as if sensing the impending trouble, Taehyung and Jimin flock to your side. A few feet away, you spot Hoseok and Jin at the air hockey table, the puck floating around aimlessly, forgotten, as their attentions refocus on the new game unfolding.

Tinny gunshots ring out, drawing your attention back to the two men facing off. Jungkook’s brow is furrowed in concentration, alert gaze fixated on the screen in front of him as his finger twitches on the plastic trigger. The young man is practically humming with energy, the thrill of competition radiating off of his body in waves. But it’s nothing compared to Yoongi, whose dark eyes are narrowed to slits. He radiates serenity even with every inch of his lithe frame tensed like a coiling snake ready to strike, and an icy chill runs down your spine at the sudden, palpable aura of danger suffusing the room.

“This is fucking child’s play,” Yoongi drawls as he fires off another round. His eyes find yours, indolent and shining with the barest glimmer of amusement. “Remember Budapest?”

A smile stretches across your lips, ignoring the curious glances of your colleagues. “How could I forget?”

The corner of Yoongi’s mouth tilts up into a smirk. Enemy soldiers begin to swarm on the game screen, toy weapons raised, but they are no match for Jungkook’s quick reflexes and Yoongi’s deadly precision. Their scores fluctuate back and forth, neither one staying in the lead for very long before the other manages to pull ahead again, and you hold your breath as the clock slowly ticks down toward zero.

And then your phone is buzzing in your pocket—a unique staccato rhythm that can only mean one thing. Beside you, Taehyung’s hand twitches for his own device, pulling it out and reading the new message. “It’s RM,” he says, and that’s all you need to hear. The game is forgotten, plastic guns abandoned in their stands, as the seven of you stride out of the dark arcade and into the bright afternoon sun.

///

[Incheon, seven years ago]

You meet RM for the first time on a sunny Friday afternoon, in the final stretch of your frantic dash to work. To this day, you still don’t know who ran into who—all you know is that one minute you are skidding around the corner and the next, you are sprawled out on the sidewalk with all the air knocked out of your lungs.

“Are you all right?”

For a few seconds, you can only blink dumbly, squinting against the bright sunlight as you try to regain your bearings. A pair of thick-rimmed glasses hovers above you, fluttering back and forth like a worried hummingbird, and you think for a moment that perhaps you’ve hit your head and lost your mind completely. But then the glasses float downward, closer and closer until a man’s face finally materializes behind the distinctive black frames, his features creased in concern. Golden sunlight illuminates him like a halo, and you blink blearily up at him—once, twice, three times. Maybe he’s an angel, a dazed part of your mind whispers.

Then he’s speaking again, his voice low and comforting and warmer than any other you’ve heard in a long time. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for knocking you over… Here, let me help you up.” He stretches out a hand and you instinctively take it, feeling the way his fingers tighten over yours.

When you are back on your feet, your voice finally returns. “Uh, thanks. Sorry for running into you.”

The man straightens to his full height, dimples dotting his cheeks as he laughs. “Please, don’t apologize. If anything, we were both at fault. I’ve always been clumsy, and I have a tendency to get lost in my thoughts at the worst times.” His sharp gaze rakes over you worriedly. “I hope you’re not hurt. Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine,” you confirm. “Thanks for helping me up.” Brushing off your jacket, you begin inspecting your uniform for any rips. With the current state of your bank account, you really couldn’t afford to buy a new one. Picking at a loose thread on the hem of your shirt, you start when you realize that the tall man still hasn’t left. “Um, did you need something else?” you query tentatively, looking up at him. “I’m kind of running late for work as it is…”

He smiles. “Ah, of course. You work at the restaurant down the street, right?”

You open your mouth to ask him how he knew that when you realize that the name of the restaurant is printed on the front pocket of your uniform shirt. Quickly, you shut your mouth and nod in affirmation as you begin walking. The man immediately falls into stride beside you, his dark overcoat fluttering with every step.

“You’re very good at your job, you know,” he says conversationally, as if remarking on the weather. When he catches sight of your shocked expression, he holds up his hands and huffs out an embarrassed chuckle. “Please don’t think of me as some sort of creep. I happened upon your workplace one day, developed a fondness for the herbed chicken, and now I can’t seem to stop going back for more.”

His dimples are almost disarmingly charming, and you can find no trace of deceit in his open, honest expression. “The chicken is really good,” you concede with a small smile.

He nods and offers you another dimpled grin. “I’ve always admired chefs. It’s amazing that they can consistently produce quality food, even under pressure and time constraints.”

“That’s very true,” you agree, surprised by his observation. “Not many people think like that.”

“Servers are amazing too,” he continues. “You work under constant pressure, and with very little room for mistakes. It’s really quite admirable what you do.”

“Admirable?” You can’t help but laugh. “Maybe. But it’s hardly the most lucrative career choice.”

“Perhaps not,” he says, and you swear that a glimmer of triumph flashes in his eyes before he wipes it away. “What is it you would like to do, then?”

No one has asked you that in years—not since a drunk driver hit your parents’ car when you were in high school and left you orphaned—so you give the only honest response you can muster. “I… I don’t know.”

The tall man nods slowly, contemplatively. “I might be able to help, if you’re willing to take a chance and trust me,” he says as he reaches into his overcoat pocket and pulls out a black card bearing only the word ‘Bangtan’ in shimmering black text, a phone number emblazoned underneath in pale gray. He hands it to you, long fingers skimming across yours, and the brief touch is electric, tingling with promises of new beginnings.

Dumbfounded, you stare at the stiff, glossy rectangle for a few long seconds. By the time you look up again, the tall man is already halfway across the street, striding purposefully toward a destination unbeknownst to you. “Wait!” you call, hating the desperation tingeing your tone as he turns around curiously. “What’s your name?”

He only flashes you another smile, boyish dimples a stark contrast to his mysterious, powerful aura. “You can call me RM,” he replies smoothly. “It’s nice to meet you, {Name}.”

Then he is walking again, leaving you alone in front of the restaurant you have worked at for the last four years. You glance at the door, and then at the business card—thick, heavy, and undoubtedly expensive—in your palm. You feel as if you are standing at the edge of a cliff, teetering at the brink.

You hesitate, taking a deep breath.

Inhale, exhale.

And you take the plunge.

///

[Seoul, present day]

Bangtan’s headquarters are housed in a nondescript, modern building in downtown Seoul, the monochrome steel and polished glass front tucked away on a side street where everyone is much too preoccupied with their own day-to-day lives to notice anything amiss. To casual passersby, it simply appears to be a regular office with regular employees, nestled between the surrounding stores and restaurants—nothing worth a second, closer look and certainly nothing that exposes it as the headquarters of one of the most dangerous spy organizations in the world.

Seokjin is the first one to the door, leading the way inside with Yoongi just behind him, his platinum blond head shining like a beacon in the sudden dimness. You follow after, gaze darting left, right, and upward as you pass through the threshold, ever on the alert. Undoubtedly, the others are doing the same—in your line of work, there is no such thing as too careful, and all of you are well aware of that fact.

After a series of twisting corridors and an elevator ride, you end up in the conference room where Bangtan’s leader is already waiting, seated at the head of the table with his chin propped up in his palm. The man you first met as RM all those years ago you now know as Namjoon, and over time, you have grown as close as family.

“Hey,” Namjoon greets, waving as everyone files inside and finds a seat. “Welcome back.”

You flash him a smile as you sit down; the others murmur their greetings as well. Then Seokjin speaks up, plopping down beside the ashy-haired leader. “Your message sounded pretty urgent,” Jin says, leaning back in his chair. “What’s up?”

Namjoon glances around the table searchingly before answering, his voice low and brimming with an undercurrent of suppressed energy. “There have been rumors of a rising terrorist sect in Brazil in the last few months. My sources tell me that they’re growing stronger by the day, and that’s something that we cannot afford to let happen.”

Hoseok leans forward, a grin stretching his lips. “Sounds like you want us to scout it out, Namjoon,” he says with a wink. “Where are they based?”

Namjoon smiles back. “Rio de Janeiro.”

///

[Rio de Janeiro, six years ago]

You remember your last trip to Rio de Janeiro with vivid clarity. If you close your eyes, you can still see Christ the Redeemer perched on the mountaintop, watching over the sprawling city with his stony gaze. But even a statue is no match for the glowering man slouched beside you, cold irritation suffusing every inch of his face.

“I think you were supposed to take a right back there, Tae,” you mumble helplessly from the backseat of the car. Next to you, Yoongi’s gaze hardens even more, if possible.

Taehyung shoots you a smile in the rearview mirror, oblivious to the looming, pale-haired threat in the backseat. “Guess we’ll just have to take the next exit!”

“That won’t take us to the same place, you idiot,” Yoongi grits out, his entire body stiffening.

“You never know,” is Taehyung’s carefree response, and you lay a tentative hand on Yoongi’s shoulder before he decides to do something drastic, like leap forward and wrestle the younger man out of the driver’s seat.

“Here, I’ve got directions to the hotel on my phone,” you say hurriedly, leaning forward and showing him the screen. “All you have to do is turn around at this light and make a left.”

Taehyung barely glances at your phone, but follows the directions nonetheless. As the car veers back onto the right route, you sense Yoongi relaxing back into the seat, the tension dissipating like fog on a sunny day.

The rest of the ride passes quietly. Before you know it, Taehyung is slowing to a stop in front of the hotel, a valet striding over to take the keys from him. By the time you free yourself from the seatbelt, Yoongi is already outside unloading the trunk, and you quickly climb out to help.

Twenty minutes later, the three of you are checked into your room—a well-furnished suite with two bedrooms and a wide living area with a pullout couch. Yoongi tosses his bag into one of the bedrooms before Taehyung can even walk through the front door, and you sheepishly take the other.

“Think of this as hazing,” he curtly tells the younger man. “There should be extra blankets in the closet over there.”

Taehyung follows the direction of Yoongi’s finger and nods resignedly, dragging a few blankets and a lopsided pillow over to the couch. You trail after, intent on helping him set up his bed.

“Sorry you have to sleep on the couch,” you say as you toss the cushions aside.

The copper-haired man offers you a small smile. “Don’t worry about it. I can fall asleep just about anywhere.” Grasping the metal frame folded inside the couch, he heaves it out, and together you manage to flatten the contraption into a bed.

“Don’t mind him, by the way,” you say as you smooth out the wrinkled mattress. “He’s not usually like this.”

A low hum from behind you sends your heart palpitating quicker in your chest. “I’m not?” Yoongi asks coolly, plucking up a pillow from the ground and eyeing it with disinterest. “Then tell me, what am I usually like?”

“A little nicer, I guess?” you offer lamely.

He snorts. “You’ve only known me for a year. We’ve never even been on a mission together.”

“Sure, but I’ve seen you around headquarters with the others,” you retort. “Believe it or not, I’ve been able to pick up on your overall personality through those interactions.”

Yoongi arches a brow, and you hate that you can’t read his expression. “How very perceptive of you,” he jabs, voice steeped in sarcasm, and you open your mouth, ready to offer up a biting response.

Taehyung chooses that moment to interrupt, effectively breaking the tension by clearing his throat loudly and throwing a sheet down on the makeshift bed, dramatically pretending to struggle with the corners. “I’m so bad at this,” he laments, and you can’t help but giggle as he practically rolls himself into the sheet.

“Stay still and let me untangle you, you goof,” you tell him, tugging gently on the soft cotton wrapped around his chest. “Christ. How did you even manage to do this?”

The young man shrugs, brown eyes glimmering with mirth behind his coppery hair. “What can I say? I have a talent.”

You laugh, finally managing to extricate him from the tangled mess. Together, the two of you finish making the bed—an effort Yoongi steadfastly ignores as he takes a seat in the armchair by the window and stares out over the city pensively. When Taehyung tosses the last pillow down and declares his intent to go scope out the hotel amenities, you decide against accompanying him. The door clicks shut behind the copper-haired man, and you turn to your other companion, his platinum hair shining almost golden in the setting sun.

“Hey,” you start, sitting down at the edge of the newly made bed. “Why do you hate me so much?”

He is silent for a moment. Then, in a voice so low that you can barely make it out over the muted hum of traffic from outside, he murmurs, “I don’t.”

“Really? You sure have a funny way of showing affection, then.”

Yoongi blinks slowly, lazily, eyes still fixated on the window. “I never said I liked you.”

You lean back on your hands, feeling the mattress dip under your fingertips. “Ah, so you’re just apathetic. Don’t care at all. Got it.”

He hums in agreement. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

A stifling silence fills the room, and you suddenly wish Taehyung were here to provide a distraction. Returning to your room feels like a defeat you’re not willing to admit, so you make yourself comfortable and pull out your phone instead, intent on brushing up on your Portuguese. But as minutes turn into an hour without the younger man’s return, you finally retreat to your bedroom, escaping the cool indifference radiating off the silent, pale-haired man hovering in the corner of the room like a ghost.

Sleep comes slowly. At some point in the night, you hear Taehyung return to the suite, listening through the door as the mattress springs creak under his weight. You guess that he’s probably sliding off his shoes and getting ready to go to bed. You’re not sure where Yoongi is, but you assume that he’s probably shut away in the other bedroom. It’s not as if you care, anyway.

When you wake up the next morning, the sky is still dark. From the other side of the wall, you can hear the shower running, so you drag yourself out of bed with a resigned sigh. Opening your door and peering out into the living area, you can just barely make out the shape of the Taehyung’s pullout couch. A low groan sounds from within the mess of blankets and sheets piled in the center, and you suppress a snicker as you pad over, poking at the head of hair peeking out from beneath the pillow.

“Morning, Tae.”

The only response you receive comes in the form of a grumbled curse. You grin. Grasping the corner of the pillow obscuring his face, you tug it away and toss it aside.

“Up and at ‘em, buddy,” you insist, laughing at the petulant expression on his face as he sits up slowly, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

Something crosses his features then, something playful and dangerous. Mere seconds later, a couch cushion collides with your head, knocking the air straight out of your lungs in a surprised gasp.

“Oh, hell no,” you growl, grabbing a pillow and adopting a defensive stance.

“Come and get me,” Taehyung challenges with a brash grin, jumping up and inching toward his discarded cushion. Immediately, you begin circling around the couch in an attempt to cut him off, but he is quicker and manages to grab the soft weapon with a triumphant cry. Squeaking, you dodge his blow and leap over the back of the couch, using it as cover.

Preoccupied with the impromptu pillow fight, neither of you notice that the shower is no longer running. The fact that a third presence is now in the room also goes by unnoticed—only when Yoongi speaks up do you realize that he’s standing in the doorway with a raised brow.

“What the fuck is this?”

You wince at the annoyance lacing his tone, meekly dropping your pillow. Taehyung, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to notice the older man’s irritation—or if he does, he chooses to ignore it completely. “A pillow fight, of course,” he responds cheerfully, all traces of his previous tiredness gone.

Yoongi’s expression is one of pure disbelief, and you can’t really blame him. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he hisses, raking a hand through his damp hair. “Did you both somehow forget that we’re on a goddamn mission?”

You haven’t, of course. Today, the leader of one of Brazil’s most radical political parties is holding a rally with the intent to announce his plans to run for president, but it’s an announcement he won’t get to make if Bangtan has a say in the matter. You glance at the coffee table where a sleek black case rests, housing Yoongi’s sniper rifle. Your own weapon is still sitting on your nightstand, clean and ready for action.

“Doesn’t the rally start at eleven?” Taehyung asks. “We’ve still got four hours to get over to the park.”

“You’re not even dressed yet,” Yoongi replies pointedly, eyeing the younger man’s checkered blue pajamas. “Or is that what you’re wearing today?”

Taehyung brushes off the sarcasm, instead choosing to pick up his bag of toiletries. “I’m going to go shower, if that’s okay with you, {Name}.”

“Go for it,” you tell him.

“I’ll be quick, promise,” he assures with a grin, and you laugh as you give him a gentle push toward the bathroom.

“I trust you. Now go!”

Yoongi lets out a disbelieving snort when Taehyung disappears around the corner. “You trust that kid?”

You shrug, wandering over to the little kitchenette in the corner and filling the electric kettle with water. “He’s not that much younger than you, you know. Besides, we have to trust him. He’s our partner, and I’m sure Joon assigned him here for a reason.”

He doesn’t look convinced as he follows you, leaning against the counter and eyeing the instant coffee packets distastefully. “Namjoon makes mistakes sometimes,” he grumbles, and if you didn’t know better, you would say that he almost sounds petulant.

“Sure, Namjoon’s not perfect, but I trust him and his judgment. And if he trusts Tae, I do too.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond right away. Pouring himself a glass of water, he takes a long sip as he stares out the window at the gradually lightening sky. Then he mutters, “You’re too optimistic.”

You ponder that for a moment. “Maybe you’re just a pessimist,” you respond with a shrug, only to immediately think that perhaps you need to get your hearing checked, because Yoongi laughs. It’s a short, low chuckle that brims with more than a bit of derision, but it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him amused and you’re pleasantly surprised by how agreeable his lingering smile is.

“Maybe I am.”

And then the conversation is over. The bathroom door creaks open and Taehyung steps out, hair dripping and dressed entirely in black. “Your turn,” he says cheerily, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the room he just vacated, and you thank him with a nod. A hot shower to clear your head is exactly what you need.

A little over an hour later, the three of you are in the car, on the way to the park where the political rally is being held. Yoongi had insisted on driving this time, leaving you and Taehyung in the backseat, calling out occasional directions to the pale-haired man.

Taehyung squints at the screen of his phone. “Okay, so it looks like you want to take a left here?”

“Don’t listen to him, Yoongi, you want to take a right!” you exclaim, slapping the phone out of Taehyung’s hand and jabbing your finger insistently in the correct direction.

The vehicle veers right—Yoongi cursing all the while—but you make it to your destination with no additional mishaps. Yoongi parks the car and the three of you pile out, equipment in hand.

“I’ll let RM know we’ve arrived,” you say, pulling out your phone and typing out the message.

Yoongi nods. “Everyone remember their positions?” he asks. In his black suit, he looks like a young CEO on his way to a meeting, but you know that the heavy case in his hand spells impending death, not a business deal.

“Roger!” Taehyung responds with a mock salute. Beside him, you nod.

“Good. Let’s go.”

People are already beginning to stream into the park, and Taehyung disappears surreptitiously into the crowd with ease. Meanwhile, you and Yoongi split up—you heading into one of the tall surrounding buildings while he takes another on the opposite side.

“Can you both hear me?” Taehyung’s chipper voice filters through your earpiece.

“Loud and clear, V,” you murmur as you enter the stairwell, using his codename. Taking the steps two at a time, you make your way toward the twelfth floor.

“Ditto,” Yoongi’s voice drawls. “Are you in position?”

“Affirmative,” Taehyung confirms, and you smile. As playful and carefree as the young man can be, you knew that you were right in your original assessment of him as a valuable, trusted colleague.

“I’m almost in position too,” you mutter as you leave the stairwell and peer carefully out the window at the lush park below. A sizeable crowd has gathered in front of the makeshift stage near the fountain in the center. Opening up your case, you pull out your rifle and begin getting ready, adjusting the sight.

“Ready, Siren?” Yoongi’s voice comes through the earpiece, low and urgent. “It’s almost eleven. The target should be entering soon.”

“Give me ten seconds, Suga,” you respond, mounting your weapon and checking the barrel one last time.

“Target spotted,” Taehyung says in a hushed voice. “Entering from stage left. That’s you, Suga.”

You hear Yoongi exhale harshly through his nose. Glancing down, you see the radical party leader getting ready to ascend the short flight of stairs to a stage that he will never set foot on if all goes according to plan. “Copy, V,” Yoongi says softly, voice deadly calm. “Ready in three, two, one—”

You don’t hear the gunshot, but the man crumples before he can even make it to the second step. A shocked murmur rises from the crowd gathered around, security rushing forward to assess the damage done and prevent any more injuries.

Taehyung whistles lowly. “Nice shot. Looks like you won’t have to go in for a second, Siren.”

“Shut the hell up and get out of there,” Yoongi orders. “Rendezvous at the car.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” the younger man says. Even through the earpiece, you can hear the grin in his voice. Quickly, you begin breaking down your equipment, packing it back into the sleek black case. As you dash back into the stairwell, you hear footsteps echoing from above your head, and you aren’t eager to find out whether they’re friends or foes.

You make it down the stairs and out of the building in record time, dashing into the crowd and hiding among the panicked civilians. Slowly, you wade through the frantic people milling about, resorting to shoving several out of your way in your attempt to get to the rendezvous point.

Just as you finally break free of the crowd, gunshots sound from behind you. Chancing a glance back, you spot the security forces swarming forward, weapons raised. Just down the block—less than one hundred meters away—you can see the car, Taehyung waving at you from the driver’s seat.

“Fuck!” Yoongi’s voice crackles through your earpiece suddenly. “They must have been tipped off. Where are you guys?”

“V is at the rendezvous point, and I’m making my way there now,” you hiss, walking faster and hoping that you simply look like a bystander trying to avoid the outbreak of violence. But when a bullet whizzes past your shoulder, you give up all pretenses and break into a full-blown run. Shouting erupts from behind you, but you ignore it, feet thudding against the pavement as you dash toward the waiting car. From the opposite end of the block, you spot Yoongi rounding a corner and sprinting toward you, his platinum hair gleaming in the sun.

The two of you reach the car at the same time, ducking behind the vehicle as the security forces bear down, stalking ever closer. A few bullets ricochet off the vehicle and Yoongi snarls out another curse, wrenching the car door open and shoving you inside. Surprised by the gesture, you watch as he ducks behind the car again and pulls a pistol from within his jacket. Rapidly, he fires off a few rounds before jumping into the backseat beside you. “Drive, V!”

Taehyung doesn’t have to be told twice. Slamming down on the gas pedal, he tears away from the curb and down the street in a fit of squealing tires. The gunfire doesn’t cease, but none of the shots manage to penetrate the bulletproof windows and Yoongi keeps his grip on his gun just in case.

When you are certain that you are no longer in danger and Taehyung is no longer driving like a madman, you turn toward Yoongi with only one thought on your mind. He narrows his eyes at your mild expression, and you suppress the urge to smile. “So, Yoongi,” you start, removing your earpiece and tucking it away in your pocket. “It seemed to me that you were trying to protect me back there. But weren’t you just telling me yesterday that you didn’t care about me?”

The platinum-haired man can only stare, jaw dropping a little. “You’re fucking insane,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now? Not how we barely managed to get away, or who tipped off the Brazilian police, but that?”

“People react strangely in life-threatening scenarios,” you tell him placidly.

“You’re insane,” he repeats.

You just grin, turning your gaze to the window and watching the city of Rio de Janeiro flash by.

///

[Seoul, present day]

“Rio, huh?” Hoseok hums thoughtfully. “Been a while since I’ve been there.”

“I’ve never been there,” Jimin pipes up. “Namjoon never sends me.”

“That’s because your Portuguese is terrible,” Yoongi points out coolly, propping a foot up on the conference table and relaxing into his chair. “You’d stick out like sore thumb.”

Jimin pouts. “Hey! You don’t speak Finnish, but you were still in Helsinki last week.”

“No one speaks fucking Finnish outside of Finland,” Yoongi replies with a careless shrug. Then his gaze flickers over to you, glinting with amusement. “Just like how no one speaks Hungarian outside of Hungary.”

“Not that we needed to know the language, anyway,” you say with a smirk, catching on to his drift immediately. “There wasn’t exactly much room for discussion in Budapest.”

“True,” the platinum-haired man responds easily.

Inquiring eyes stare back at you from all around the table. “What the hell are you talki—“ Jimin starts to ask, but you are quick to interrupt.

“Hey, you know what I just realized? You’re the only one who hasn’t been to South America, Jimin!”

“Ahh, why are you pointing that out?” the blond man whines, immediately distracted by your remark. “It’s not even that big of a deal!”

Yoongi raises a brow. “You might be the only person here who hasn’t been to every continent,” he points out, a subtle smirk flickering across his face.

“Excluding Antarctica,” you interject.

“Excluding Antarctica,” Yoongi agrees.

Jimin rakes a hand through his golden hair, clearly frazzled by the sudden attack. “That can’t be true,” he protests, brown eyes darting between you and Yoongi before flitting over to the other members of Bangtan gathered around the conference table. “Have you been to South America, Jin?”

“Buenos Aires, about two years ago. And Montevideo, just a few months back,” the older man replies.

The blond deflates slightly. “Okay, how about the rest of you? Jungkook?”

“I went to Lima with Tae last year,” the youngest member says solemnly.

Jimin’s shoulders slump even further. “Have you all really been to every continent already?”

Yoongi doesn’t even pause to think about it. “Yes.”

“Yeah, me too,” you confirm.

“Wait, are we counting the Middle East separately?” Taehyung asks, raising a hand.

Jin shakes his head. “No, the Middle East is part of Asia.”

“Oh, really? Then I’ve been to every continent too.”

“Okay, sheesh,” Jimin says sullenly. “It’s not my fault I keep getting sent to the United States over and over.” His lower lip is beginning to jut out in a gloomy pout, and you finally take pity on him, patting his shoulder reassuringly.

“Hey, you know we’re just teasing, right?”

Namjoon chooses that moment to comment as well, flashing Jimin a disarming, dimpled smile. “I know I send you to Washington a lot, but it’s only because you’re one of the most diplomatic members of Bangtan. Please don’t misunderstand, Jimin.”

The praise seems to soothe the blond man as he straightens back up to his regular height. “Thanks, Namjoon.” He pauses for a second, pursing his lips thoughtfully before continuing. “But if you could send me somewhere other than the District of Columbia next time, that’d be great.”

Namjoon laughs. “Consider it done.”

///

[Washington DC, five years ago]

It is absolutely, ridiculously, mind-numbingly hot. The heat engulfs you from the moment you step off the plane, raising sweat on your temples during the brief walk through the jetway and making you squirm until you finally find solace in the air-conditioned comfort of the airport.

“I hate this,” you grumble under your breath. “Stupid swamp.”

“It’s summer,” Yoongi says simply, as if that will placate you.

You throw him the dirtiest look you can muster, stalking toward the exit with your suitcase in tow. “Yes, and I hate it.” Stopping in front of the sliding glass doors, you take a deep breath and prepare to step out into the scorching heat again.

“You’re holding up traffic,” Yoongi prods, brushing past you. “Come on, it’s not even that bad.”

“Do you not feel the humidity?” you ask in disbelief. Still, you join him outside, standing on the curb to wait for a cab.

“It could be worse,” he replies. “Have you ever been to Hong Kong? Or Kuala Lumpur?”

“Kuala Lumpur, no. Hong Kong…” you trail off, lost in memories of your last trip to the sweltering Asian metropolis. “…yeah, okay. Point taken.”

A bright yellow cab pulls up, and Yoongi ushers you inside before climbing in after, leaving the middle seat open between you. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he gives the driver the address of the hotel you are staying at, settling more comfortably in the seat as the car begins to move.

It isn’t often that you get a chance to observe Min Yoongi. He’s always been one of the more elusive members of Bangtan—disappearing whenever there isn’t a mission—but you have the opportunity to watch him now so you take it, silently admiring the soft curve of his jaw and the sleepy slant of his dark eyes. His pale hair glows white hot in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the sleek black suit he’s wearing.

He’s handsome. All of your colleagues are, in their own ways, but there’s something about Yoongi that draws you in more than you like to admit. He’s icy without being callous, sarcastic without being condescending, and you’re certain that his hard exterior masks something warmer and more compassionate. You’ve seen it in subtle ways during your missions together, whether through brief words of reassurance or silent gestures that assure your safety. And maybe—just maybe—he makes your heart beat a little bit faster, but you’ve steadfastly ignored that detail and pushed it to the darkest recesses of your mind.

The car veers into an exit lane, the Washington Monument rising like a stone beacon on the right, and you finally avert your gaze from your quiet companion to focus on the mission at hand. Dropping off your luggage at the hotel takes no time at all, and within the hour you and Yoongi are sauntering down the street, playing the perfect part of tourists visiting the capital city. You’ve donned a light sundress, while Yoongi has abandoned his suit for a plain black t-shirt and a backwards snapback, his pale hair brushed off his forehead. Both of you agreed that it would be most inconspicuous to pose as a couple, so you aren’t surprised when his hand knocks against yours gently before enveloping it in a firm grip. Still, you can’t help the fluttering in your tummy as you lace your fingers with his.

“I don’t think we’ve ever worked together like this,” he remarks suddenly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever worked with anyone like this,” you reply, glancing down pointedly at your intertwined hands.

He snickers, his fingers tightening around yours almost imperceptibly. “Me either.”

///

[Seoul, present day]

As Jimin settles back into his seat, satisfied with Namjoon’s promise, Yoongi’s hand finds yours underneath the table. You give it a soft squeeze before asking, “So who are you thinking of sending to Rio this time, Joon?”

Namjoon props his elbows on the table, regarding the seven of you over his folded hands. “Since we’re just checking out the situation for now, I’d like you and Hoseok to fly out next week.”

The red-haired man sitting across from you shoots you a wink and a bright smile. “Sounds good to me!”

You grin back—his enthusiasm is positively infectious. “How long will we be out there?”

Namjoon shuffles through the papers spread before him, adjusting the glasses perched on his nose. “Not long. It’s just a reconnaissance mission for now, so two days should be enough.”

“Two days,” you repeat, smiling at Hoseok again. “This will be fun; we’ve never worked one-on-one before.”

“First time for everything, right?” Hoseok beams, and you nod.

“Absolutely.”

///

[Dubai, four years ago]

You will always remember Dubai as a city of firsts. Late summer has faded into a mild autumn when you and Yoongi find yourselves traipsing along the bustling strip leading to the Palm Jumeirah, tailing a wealthy government official who has suddenly developed some erratic tendencies, much to the South Korean government’s concern. The sky darkens steadily as night falls, but the neon lights flickering on in every window illuminate the street so brightly that you have no trouble staying on the target’s trail.

“Where to now, Mr. Choi?” you murmur under your breath, watching as the middle-aged man wavers in the middle of the sidewalk, glancing around furtively before ducking underneath an awning and holding his phone up to his ear. You and Yoongi quickly pretend that a nearby newspaper stand has drawn your attention, flipping through the pages idly while keeping an eye on the man talking rapidly into the receiver.

“I can barely hear him,” Yoongi complains after a few moments. “I’m going to move a little closer. Don’t come with me.”

You hum in acknowledgment and watch as your partner ambles closer to Mr. Choi, thumbing through his phone notifications with his free hand tucked casually in the pocket of his jeans. When he’s a few meters shy of the awning, Yoongi suddenly stops, his features scrunched in concern. He glances around in confusion for a few seconds, biding his time to eavesdrop, before returning his attention to his phone and beginning to type. Any onlooker would assume that he was simply lost and trying to look up directions, but you know better, especially when your own phone vibrates in your hand seconds later.

[7:52pm] MYG: Sounds like he’s being blackmailed

[7:52pm] MYG: Hotshot defense ministry official like him, bet whoever’s blackmailing him is after arms research

You don’t get a chance to respond to his texts. Mr. Choi ends his phone conversation abruptly, rubbing his temples. He eyes Yoongi suspiciously for a few seconds, but the pale-haired man has his baseball cap pulled low, hiding most of his face. With a scowl, the ministry worker turns on his heel and stalks away hastily, and you resist the urge to run to Yoongi immediately, instead strolling over leisurely and offering him a smile. “Where should we head next, babe?” The term of endearment sticks to your tongue and makes it feel too big for your mouth, but you swallow the odd feeling and continue, “That restaurant down the street has great reviews online.”

Yoongi takes your hand—a gesture that has become almost as natural as breathing when the two of you are partnered on missions. “Or,” he says, keeping on eye on Mr. Choi up ahead as the two of you begin walking, “we can grab a drink. I’m not that hungry.”

“Neither am I,” you reply, following his gaze and watching as your target’s coattails disappear through the doorway of what appears to be a nightclub across the street. “A drink sounds great. How about that place over there?”

Your platinum-haired partner nods, dark eyes narrowing under the brim of his cap. “Lead the way.”

As it turns out, the low building is indeed a nightclub, dark and pulsating with the rhythm of the bass. Neon lights strobe across the dance floor filled with grinding bodies, and the entire place reeks of cheap liquor, sweat, and sex.

“Nice place,” Yoongi remarks dryly as the two of you step inside, pulling off his cap and raking a hand through his hair. The flashing lights bathe the pale strands in a lurid glow—pink and green transforming into blue and yellow in the span of seconds—and you repress the laughter threatening to bubble up at the absurdity of the sight.

“You know, I never thought I’d find myself in a club with you,” you admit honestly as he replaces his cap and turns it backwards.

He huffs out a chuckle, mouth tilting into a crooked smile. “Oh? Did you think you’d be in a club with someone else, then?”

You shrug, tugging on his hand gently and leading the way through the throng of dancing bodies toward the bar on the far end of the room. “Maybe Hope? He likes to dance.”

“Do you?”

Confusion crinkles your features. “Do I… what?”

Yoongi jerks you to a halt in the center of the dance floor, his head tilted curiously. “Like to dance,” he clarifies, regarding you with unreadable eyes.

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “Um, yeah, I guess so. Not that I have much time for it these days…”

The words barely leave your mouth before Yoongi is releasing your hand, only to grip your waist loosely and pull you closer to his chest. A startled gasp escapes you at the sudden proximity. His nose is mere inches away from yours as he begins to move to the beat of the pounding music, and for a split second you swear that his tongue pokes out to swipe across his bottom lip.

And then he’s tugging you even closer, his mouth at your ear. “Target spotted at twelve o’clock,” he murmurs, hot breath washing across the column of your neck.

Oh. Your body deflates and you feebly allow him to maneuver you in a slow circle, chin still on your shoulder. Mr. Choi must be on the move. “Status update?” you mumble, staunchly ignoring the fact that if you crane your neck just a bit you can vaguely smell the scent of whatever cologne he uses.

A low chuckle sounds in your ear, and you suppress a shiver. “He’s chatting up a girl at the bar,” Yoongi drawls, amusement evident in his tone.

“Could be an accomplice,” you offer weakly, placing your hands gingerly on his shoulders when he shows no sign of letting you go.

He snickers. “Doubt it. She’s clearly not interested at all.”

You chance a quick glance at the bar and the girl in question. Everything about her body language screams blatant disgust, and a tiny smile crosses your face, unbidden. “Looks like our guy can’t take a hint.”

“You’d have him writhing on the ground by now, I bet,” Yoongi murmurs, a note of appreciation tingeing his voice as his warm breath ghosts across your nape again. The music morphs into something darker and sultrier, his hands sliding down to your hips. You wrap your arms around his neck, allowing him to tug you flush against his firm chest.

Maybe it’s the heated atmosphere of the nightclub, or maybe it’s the heat between your bodies. You can no longer be certain, because all you can focus on is the way his hips are moving against yours. He’s a surprisingly good dancer, and it takes an inordinate amount of effort to find your voice again. “Do you always dance with your partners on missions?” you joke breathlessly, trying to ignore the arousal pooling in your core.

Yoongi pulls away from your shoulder and straightens to his full height. A few strands of platinum hair have escaped the confines of his baseball cap, falling across his forehead and into darkened, indolent eyes. “Believe me, this is a first. And I don’t plan on making a habit of it,” he murmurs, lips tilting into a crooked smirk.

“So then why are you dancing with me?” you ask, almost afraid to hear his response.

“Because—“ he starts to say, before his hands suddenly tighten on your hips, gaze leaving yours momentarily to dart behind you. Then he’s burying his face in the crook of your neck again, words escaping his mouth in a voice that’s barely above a whisper. “He’s watching us.”

Your eyes widen before you remember to control your expression. Slowly, you wind your fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “He must be suspicious,” you breathe, gently urging him to straighten up. “We have to throw him off.”

Dark eyes bore into yours searchingly, brimming with an emotion you can’t quite place. For a moment, time seems to stand still. Your gaze zeroes in on his mouth, heart beating out an erratic rhythm against your ribcage. He’s so close that you can count every dark eyelash standing out against his pale cheeks. “And how do you propose we do that?” he finally asks softly.

You don’t give him a verbal answer. Tightening your fingers on his nape, you pull him down to your level and brush your lips against his. His response is immediate—hands curling more firmly around your hips as he presses urgently against you, mouth slanting across yours and pouring pure heat into the kiss.

By the time you pull apart, both of you are breathless, chests heaving as your lungs try to recover lost oxygen. “That was… uh, new,” you manage after a few seconds.

Yoongi glances furtively at the target out of the corner of his eye. “At least he’s not looking at us anymore,” he drawls, lazily reaching up and twirling a lock of your hair around his finger.

“That’s good,” you whisper, entranced by his lingering proximity.

“But,” he continues, a crooked smirk spreading slowly across his face, self-assured and indolent. “Just to make sure, why don’t we do that again?”

///

[Seoul, present day]

“It’ll be nice to visit Rio again,” you remark quietly to the platinum-haired man beside you. The warmth of Yoongi’s hand curled around yours is reassuring, even as Namjoon drones on about the more mundane details of the mounting terrorist threat in Brazil.

Yoongi glances over at you, mouth set in a straight line, before directing his gaze to Namjoon. “Are you sure it’ll be fine with just the two of them, Joon?” he asks. “Last time {Name} and I were there with Taehyung. It might be a good idea to send a third person.”

“Someone sounds jealous,” Jungkook laughs. “What, do you think Hobi’s going to try and steal your girlfriend?”

Yoongi’s hand leaves yours as he leans forward, eyes narrowing at the youngest member of Bangtan. “As if.”

Jungkook just cackles again, his entire face crinkling with mirth. From across the table, Hoseok shrugs at you helplessly—a gesture you return with an apologetic smile. “No one’s stealing anyone from anybody,” you begin, trying to placate the two men. Jungkook opens his mouth to retort, but you shoot him a withering glare and he hesitantly closes it again.

Namjoon regards the seven of you calmly from behind his glasses, watching over all the bickering with a slight smile. “I appreciate your concern, Yoongi. But since this is just a recon mission, I believe Hoseok and {Name} will be fine on their own.” He pushes two folders across the table toward you and Hoseok before continuing, “Everything you need is in there—background information, photos, travel documents, etcetera.”

“What about that list of restaurants I recommended?” Jin asks, perking up.

“Of course,” Namjoon says, inclining his head.

“The list you gave me and Jimin for Prague was awful,” Jungkook pipes up with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I think you’re losing your touch.”

Jin’s mouth falls open comically, one hand coming down to slap the table. “What did you just say to me?”

“Are you losing your hearing too? Jeez, you’re really getting old…”

You know from experience that arguments between the oldest and youngest member of Bangtan devolve into physical fights more often than not—a scene you’d rather avoid, if at all possible. “The list for Cape Town was excellent,” you interject quickly. A thought strikes you then, a smirk settling on your lips as you add, “And don’t even get me started on your recommendations in Budapest.”

Beside you, Yoongi lets out an appreciative hum. “Damn, I almost forgot about that. I’d go through it all again just to get a fresh lángos.”

“Really? I don’t know if a lángos would be worth everything that happened…”

He chuckles. “No?”

You shrug, distinctly aware of six pairs of curious eyes staring. A secretive smirk splits across Yoongi’s face, which he quickly hides behind a raised hand and a fake cough. It’s all you can do to feign concern, patting him soundly on the back as he tries to contain a snicker threatening to escape. Once he’s certain that the danger has passed, he reaches out and grabs your hand again, threading his fingers with yours.

Jungkook groans. “Ugh, get a room.”

Yoongi doesn’t even bother to respond as he turns back to Namjoon, his thumb rubbing idle circles along your palm.

///

[Paris, three years ago]

It is an undeniable fact that you and Yoongi don’t have time for romance. Candlelit dinners and rose petals strewn across sheets are just distant fantasies—ones you never really entertained for long or very ardently. But sometimes—just sometimes—you can forget about the dangerous work that the two of you are constantly embroiled in and pretend that you are just a regular couple, strolling hand-in-hand down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées on a balmy spring evening.

Except you aren’t a couple. No, Min Yoongi is just your colleague—one whose hand you hold more often than strictly necessary, and kiss on occasion, and have fallen into bed with every now and then. Your unconventional relationship isn’t something that you have ever discussed, and you aren’t about to start now. It works for you, and that’s all that matters.

“We’re here,” Yoongi murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, slowing down in front of the stately building rising up on your right.

“Fancy,” you remark, fiddling with the silky material of your gown. It’s long enough to conceal your weapons and the material has enough give to allow you freedom of movement, but you still wish you could have donned your usual pantsuit instead. Enviously, you glance over at your pale-haired companion in his tailored tuxedo. Yoongi looks crisp and immaculate with his hair parted neatly over his forehead, but most importantly he looks comfortable, and you have to suppress a wave of jealousy as you adjust your skirt for the umpteenth time.

Ascending the steps, you make it through security with no hassle and a silent, subtle nod of acknowledgement from Minho, the tall, uniformed man standing at the door. Minho is the head of the security detail for Mr. Kwon, the host of tonight’s gala and your mission for the week. As a top ministry official, Mr. Kwon required the best security that could be offered, and for the price that the South Korean government was willing to offer Bangtan, Namjoon was more than happy to accept the job. Two nights ago, you and Yoongi had flown into Paris to meet up with Minho and the rest of his team to secure the venue. Together, you’d agreed that it would be best for you and Yoongi to go undercover as gala attendees, which led to where you are now, entering the grand ballroom where people are milling around with champagne flutes in hand, chattering away beneath the glittering chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

“There’s Mr. Kwon.” You nod toward the buffet table, where the dark-haired ministry official is entertaining his guests with twinkling eyes and loud laughter.

Yoongi glances in the direction you had indicated, sharp eyes flitting across the crowd surrounding the man in silent scrutiny. “He’s surprisingly young.”

“Not bad to look at either,” you remark, tilting your head to get a better look and laughing when you spot one of Yoongi’s brows disappear into his hair. “Relax, it’s not like I’m actually interested.”

“But that doesn’t mean he’s not,” is Yoongi’s snappish response, his gaze darting up and over your shoulder. Surprised, you turn around to find yourself face-to-face with Mr. Kwon himself, his handsome, angular face lit up with a radiant smile.

“Hello,” he greets you, offering Yoongi a polite nod as well. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

You smile and introduce yourself, using the first alias that comes to mind. “It’s very nice to meet you, Minister.”

Mr. Kwon waves you off in embarrassment, a shy smile overtaking his elfin features. “Please, the pleasure’s all mine. And there’s no need to be so formal. Jiyong will suffice.”

“Jiyong, then,” you repeat, letting the name slide off your tongue like honey. Furtively, you glance over at Yoongi, whose jaw is clenched.

Mr. Kwon doesn’t seem to notice the irritation radiating off the platinum-haired man beside you—or if he does, he chooses to disregard it. “I believe the band is still setting up, but I would love it if you gave me the honor of a dance this evening,” he says as he takes your hand and raises it, brushing his lips across your knuckles.

“Nothing would make me happier, Jiyong,” you reply with a coy smile.

He returns the look, mischief glimmering in his dark gaze. “Then I’ll see you later,” he says, releasing your hand reluctantly and heading across the room to mingle with a group of important-looking people.

You hide a giggle behind your hand and open your mouth to say something to Yoongi, but before you can even process what’s happening, said man’s fingers are wrapped tightly around your wrist, dragging you out of the ballroom and into the deserted corridor. Marching around the corner, he doesn’t stop until you can no longer hear the hum of conversation and music from the gala. Only then does he turn around, backing you up against the wall with a swift step forward, his chest just inches from your own.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hisses, dark eyes boring into yours as his hands come up to rest on either side of your head.

“I’m keeping an eye on our target,” you reply, stubbornly refusing to look away from his piercing gaze.

“Like hell that’s all you were doing,” he growls, leaning closer. Hot anger radiates off of him, and you can hear every labored breath he takes as he tilts your chin up with a single finger.

“I don’t understand why you’re so angry, Yoongi,” you whisper, shaking him free. He flinches back at your use of his given name, but the fury simmering in his eyes doesn’t disappear. “It’s not like you’re my boyfriend. We’re just fucking, for god’s sake—“

His lips cut off the rest of your sentence, crashing against yours with almost bruising force. You respond immediately, hands flying up to tangle in his hair and tug him closer. He doesn’t waste any time in exploring your mouth, tongue mapping out every detail as his hands slide down your sides and stop at your hips. “Christ,” he grunts, pulling away from the searing kiss and grabbing at the tight silk of your gown. “I’ve wanted to rip this goddamn dress off you since I saw it this afternoon.”

“You can’t,” you whisper frantically, trying to bat his hands away. “We still have to go back to the gala!”

“Later, then,” he rasps, ignoring your attempts to stop him. “But for now…” A positively sinful smirk stretches his lips as he drops gracefully to his knees and raises the hem of your long skirt. “Tug this up for me, sweetheart.”

Your sarcastic retort dies on your lips at the dark promise in his voice. Almost automatically, your hands are reaching for your skirt, bunching the silk up around your hips and giving him full access to your lower half. Yoongi skims his fingers across the knives strapped to your right calf before eyeing the holster on your thigh appreciatively.

“Fuck, that’s hot.”

And then his warm hands are trailing up your thighs, rubbing patterns into the soft, sensitive skin. You let out a gasp when he cups your covered mound gently, the pad of his middle finger curling upward and dipping inside you through the lace of your underwear. “Oh, god.”

Yoongi gazes up at you, dark pupils blown wide with lust. “Oh, yes,” he purrs, digging his finger deeper and smirking when you keen out something that sounds suspiciously like his name.

When he peels back your panties, you blush and shy away from his wandering hands, suddenly realizing just how exposed you are, holding your skirt up as your partner kneels before you with wicked intent written all over his face. “Are you insane?” you hiss, glancing toward the end of the hallway where it merges with the main corridor. “Anyone could walk by and see us! And there could be cameras!”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he surges forward and presses a teasing kiss to your inner thigh, lips hovering dangerously close to where you need him most. Pulling away slightly, he meets your gaze again, one eyebrow arched in amusement. “Did you forget about our meeting with the security team the other day? We secured the entire building and checked all the cameras. This is the only blind spot. And I doubt anyone’s going to come down this way, but judging by how soaked you already are, I’d say that you’re enjoying the thrill of maybe getting caught.” Leaning forward, he licks a long, slow stripe along your entrance, ending with a teasing flick of his tongue against your swollen clit. “Am I wrong?”

Your knees practically buckle, your core already craving his tongue again. “Sh-shut up.”

Yoongi snickers but obliges. Grabbing one of your legs, he throws it over his shoulder, effectively spreading you open as he pulls your panties to the side again and settles between your thighs. His scorching mouth finds your clit, giving it a hard suck before he flattens his tongue and begins laving at you in earnest. A low, appreciative groan leaves him, the sound rumbling through his chest and sending sparks up your spine. The air fills with the wet, filthy sounds of his mouth against your drenched core, his questing tongue dipping inside you experimentally, and you groan as you try to anchor yourself, fingers tangling into his soft hair.

Your orgasm is building inside you rapidly, coiling in the pit of your stomach like a spring, and when Yoongi’s mouth latches onto your clit once more, you are pushed clean off the edge with a silent scream, chest heaving as you gasp for air. Weightless, your hips buck against him sporadically and Yoongi is kind enough to flatten his tongue, letting you grind against him and draw out every bit of white-hot pleasure.

By the time you return to your body, still feeling rather boneless, Yoongi is already on his feet and molding his mouth to yours. It’s wet and sloppy and you can taste your own tang on his tongue, but it’s perfect nonetheless. He doesn’t break the kiss even when his hands smooth down your back to the fleshy curve of your ass, scooping you up and pinning you firmly against the wall and wrapping your legs around his waist. You can feel his erection pressing up against your core, still covered by his slacks, and a jolt of pure heat shoots straight up your spine.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to stuff you full of my cock,” he groans in your ear and you moan, rutting shamelessly against him and pulling him in for another smoldering kiss.

You never did get that dance with Mr. Kwon.

///

[Seoul, present day]

Namjoon clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention back to the task at hand. “Let’s wrap this meeting up,” he says, a touch of irritation shining in his eyes at the constant flood of interruptions and tangents. “Are we clear on the mission to Rio?” he asks, giving you and Hoseok a pointed look.

“Yes, sir!” Hoseok proclaims cheerily, saluting.

“Clear as day,” you agree with a grin. “After all,” you continue, shooting Yoongi a mischievous glance and a flagrant wink, “it’ll be nothing compared to Budapest.”

///

[Budapest, two years ago]

It’s a brisk December day, the blue sky stretching out over the Danube as far as the eye can see. Sunlight turns the river into a glittering expanse of liquid diamonds, endlessly eddying and whirling underneath the bridge you are standing on. Yoongi leans against the railing beside you, as silent and expressionless as the stone lions guarding either end, and you reach out after a few moments, gently running your fingers across his knuckles.

Your touch seems to snap him out of whatever reverie he’d been immersed in. Dark, sleepy eyes flicker up to meet yours, the slightest of smiles curling his lips. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” you reply. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

You wait, knowing that he’ll continue when he’s ready. Staring out over the river, you watch as a ferry slows to a stop and docks. A flock of gulls soars overhead, occasionally diving down and skimming across the water. Beside you, Yoongi lets out a quiet sigh. And then he speaks.

“I haven’t been with anyone else.”

For a moment, you are confused, and it must have shown on your face because your platinum-haired companion is quick to clarify.

“Since we started… whatever it is that we have. I haven’t slept with anyone else, or dated, or anything.” Yoongi finally looks at you, still stone-faced, but after five years of working with him, you can see the hesitance shining in his eyes.

You can’t help the slow smile that spreads across your face. “I haven’t either,” you confess, warmth bubbling up in your chest when he reaches down and grasps your hand tightly. His expression melts into something softer, something that’s so radiant that he’s practically glowing, and though you can’t be certain if it’s due to your words or the bright afternoon sunlight, your instincts tell you that it’s the former and they have yet to prove wrong.

“Good.” His fingers twine with yours, warm and comfortable, and you realize that you never want to let go.

“So, uh,” you begin cautiously. “What does this mean?”

Yoongi’s lips stretch into a gummy smile—the first genuinely joyful expression you’ve ever seen grace his features. “Well, hopefully it means that you’ll be my girlfriend,” he says simply.

You grin. “Are you asking me out?”

“Depends,” he replies. “Are you saying yes?”

Unable to wait any longer, you close the distance between your bodies and push up to your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Of course, Yoongi,” you say when you pull away, his name leaving your lips in a reverent whisper. “Of course I’m saying yes.”

Somehow, his smile widens, lips chasing yours and meeting them in a sweet kiss, brimming with an underlying heat that promises much more sinful things to come.

And Yoongi makes good on those promises twenty minutes later, when the two of you stumble through the threshold of your hotel room, clothes dropping to the floor and disappearing, forgotten, in tangled sheets. And then again, a few hours after that.

You are still basking in the afterglow when your phones go off simultaneously, buzzing in a unique staccato that can only belong to one person. Pulling away from Yoongi’s addicting mouth, you grab the nefarious device off the nightstand and glare at the screen.

“Namjoon wants a status update on the bomb threat on the Hungarian Parliament building,” you read slowly, still a little breathless. Blinking, your gaze slides back to your platinum-haired boyfriend. “Should I tell him it was a false alarm?”

Yoongi smirks, plucking your phone from your hand and typing out a quick response before tossing it on the carpeted floor. Then he’s reaching for you again, tugging you flush against his bare chest and peppering lazy kisses along your jaw. “And have him order us back to Seoul early?” he drawls. “Nah. What Joon doesn’t know won’t hurt him. We deserve a vacation, anyway.”

You nestle comfortably against him, huffing out a soft laugh. “That, we do.”

And then Yoongi is dragging the blankets over you, arms settling firmly around your waist as the two of you settle down for a well-deserved nap.

⇢ a bit more.

also set in this universe:

[jjk] [jhs]

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mlmichaelharrison · 6 years

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Dark Secrets - Damien Nazario x MC (Kai)

Outline: gender-neutral MC (called Kai as it's the default name) and Damien start their traditional viewing of A Battle of Crowns together when Kai finds one of Damien’s deepest, darkest secrets… Warnings: swearing, slow burn relationship, mentions of alcoholism Word count: 2,681 (I'm so sorry haha) Hope you like it!

As Damien opened the door to his apartment, you’re greeted by a man you hardly recognized. “Whoa… who are you?” You asked with a slight laugh, and Damien looked at you, confused before he realized what you were referring to and took his thin-framed glasses off instantly. “You saw nothing.” He rushed and stepped aside for you to walk in. “Were those reading glasses?” You teased and pried and he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. “We don’t all have perfect eyesight like you.” “Aww, you said I’m perfect!” “That was absolutely not what I just said, but sure.” He said, shaking his head as he locked his door up. “You really are secure, aren’t you?” You said, watching him slide bolt after bolt over the door. He shrugged. “I’m a P.I, what more do you expect? People have wanted me dead before, I’m not taking any chances!” he chuckled as you slumped onto his couch, looking at the TV which wasn’t on. Odd, he almost always has the TV on. “I bet you’re hiding some really dark secrets in here…” You teased and he rolled his eyes. “Legal case files and documents lying around, handgun in my drawer, all of my personal details; my apartment is definitely not one for any random member of public.” He responded, sitting down next to you and turning the TV on, the channel currently on a radio station. “Oh, what station is that?” You asked excitedly and he smiled, unmuting it and letting You Really Got Me Going by The Kinks play through his sound system. He looked over at them, tapping his foot lightly as he recited the words to himself. You really got me going, you got me so I don’t know what I’m doing now. Yeah, you really got me now, you got me so I can’t sleep at night. “One of the only good stations out there. Rock classics. Mostly from the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s. I say rock, but they also play punk, punk rock, some metal-” “Wait.” You interrupted and he looked abruptly at you, cocking an eyebrow up. “You have a handgun?” You asked in shock. He shrugged and nodded. “Well, yeah. As I said, I’m a private investigator and I’ve had my life threatened more than once. Self-defence.” You looked at him a little longer and he rolled his eyes. “Of course I have a licence, Kai, I’m not an idiot.” He said as if reading your mind. You breathe out a sigh of relief, and then the curiosity crept back. “That’s so cool, can I see it?” “Of course not. I'm not an idiot, but you sure are.” He responded with a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, please, D. I just want to see it!” “If you can find it.” He said, turning back to the screen and starting to flick through channels. You took this as a challenge, jumping up and opening drawers frantically. Damien rolled his eyes at you but was still smiling. You rummaged through some drawers, finding pens, torches, paper clips and huge abundances of paper, but no gun. Feeling a little defeated and not wanting to invade his personal space more, you start to close the drawer, before your eye caught something. A small, biro drawing of some flowers. You smiled a little and reopened the drawer, scanning the slightly crumpled piece of paper.

Flowers of the fields What do they know? How many lovers have they seen Tumble through the snow?

Though they struggle through Winter They always make it through, And in Spring they are reborn Into something beautifully new.

You smile to yourself at the amazing discovery you had just made. Damien writes poetry. You can’t help yourself from moving that sheet aside and eagerly try to read the next piece.

Good people are a rare thing, So hold on while you can- They’ll be there for you through everything And they’ll be your biggest fans.

Good people are a rare thing, But you have somehow found them. This is me reminding: Don’t fuck this up, Damien!

You grinned more and looked at the small, printed photo of you, him and Nadia paper clipped to it. You took a look at the next one.

“The whiskey only speaks so loudly And it never says enough, But it’s the only comforter On nights that are too rough” - d.n.

You frown a little upon reading that one and turn cautiously towards Damien. You can’t help but feel a little guilty. Firstly, you were definitely invading his privacy, but then you remembered that that’s his job, so you shouldn’t feel guilty doing it back. He also managed to find all of your diaries and read everything from your teenage years, luckily narrowly avoiding the more recent ones, so this was payback! Secondly, this showed that he does have emotions, and he doesn’t have a great way of dealing with them. He bottles it all up and downs bottles of alcohol. Not exactly healthy. You stare at his face as it’s illuminated by the flickers of the TV. His dark brown eyes seem glued to the screen and his hair has started to overgrow a bit. He rested his head on his fist and had his legs curled up on the couch where you otherwise would have sat. He smiled a little and you heard canned laughter, smiling a little to yourself as his face changed. He was beautiful.

You turned back into the drawer and noticed that there were so many more- a huge clump of paper all with stanzas scattered across them. There must have been nearly 100 pieces there. As you skimmed your hand over one, a bit of wet ink smudged under your fingertip. You were surprised at how recently it was written, and couldn’t keep your curiosity at bay.

Insp: Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve) - The Buzzcocks

I’m trapped And you could never know. I’m wrapped Up in fantasies. Too slow.

You frowned again, assuming that this was about his ex-partner that he very rarely talks about. He’s only ever spoken about her when drunk or as a truth or dare question, never on his own accord.

I’m out of the picture, A dirty wreck living in reverse Because if I say, I risk losing you And that is far worse.

I’ve fallen in love with someone I shouldn’t have- I’m lost for words and -

“Oi! Out of there!” Damien snapped suddenly, making you jump and drop the papers. “Sorry, but those are strictly forbidden!”

“But D,” you whined softly.

He hadn’t realized how out of it he was. He hadn’t slept all night, instead working on a case, and he was going to catch up with sleep now. But, of course, he had planned to watch the new episode of A Battle of Crowns with Kai; it was their tradition. They always came early, though, so they could catch up or watch shitty comedies, but he hadn’t realized that during the shitty comedy he was watching that he forgot that Kai was even there. When he looked up at them from the TV screen, he was horrified to find that they were standing at the chest of drawers that he kept his work in. He didn’t mean to snap, he just panicked.

“No, Kai!” He whined back, his face growing redder. “I had no idea you wrote poetry!” He visibly cringed as they said it aloud. “Sh, keep your voice down, someone could hear you.” “Damien, what are you ashamed of? They’re beautiful!” He rolled his eyes, but actually felt a small sense of pride. No one had read any of his work before, so hearing that it was actually good from someone was really nice for him. But, of course, he’d never show that. He looked at the piece on top of the pile and his eyes widened. “Whoa! Not that one! That one is definitely off limits!” He said, panic setting in as his heart rate increased and palms started sweating. He reached to take it but Kai picked it up first and held it up high. “I thought that they were all ‘strictly forbidden’?” Kai said, smiling. They didn’t quite realize the weight of the work they held or why it was so important that they didn’t see it. Damien sighed. “Well, yes, they are, but that one in particular-” He cut himself off with a grunt as he reached for it. Kai laughed lightly and leaned further back, their back resting on top of the cabinet as they held it at arm's length upwards. Damien started to panic more, because if Kai doesn’t realize who the poem is about now, they’re damn going to know by the end of the poem when it says their name. He pushed Kai further against the cabinet and pressed his entire body against theirs, trying to reach the piece of paper. Every inch of their bodies were touching, and their faces only a tiny distance apart, and they could feel each other’s breaths on their skin. Damien took a moment to look down at Kai’s face as they tried to read the weirdly angled sheet of paper. He could stare at their face for hours, sometimes has. Every now and then, if they see a movie, he’ll spend most of the time watching their reactions and how their emotions change their face and- seriously, hours. He stared at them now, their smile wide as they squirmed. He imagined keeping them pinned down and catching their lips in his. He imagined wrapping his arms around them right now and kissing their lips over and over and over again. He licked his lips quickly and leaned a bit closer before gaining control over himself and reaching up higher, but to no avail. Kai snorted at him and he squinted his eyes in response. “I will win.” They mumbled and Damien shook his head. “Not on my watch.” He moved his body off of theirs and instead climbed on top of the cabinet, snatching the paper from their hands and sitting on top of the chest of drawers, leaning his back against the wall and sighing with relief. He let his legs dangled over the edge and he folded the paper up into a tiny size before putting it in his back pocket. Kai huffed and folded their arms and Damien, breathless, stuck his tongue out in response. He looked at them for a moment, seeing the disappointment in their face, and felt guilty. “Fine…” He said after a moment of silence. He rolled his eyes and jumped down, rummaging through the pieces of paper and handing his friend one of them. “That’s one I’m okay with you reading. But if you dare tell anyone about these…” He trailed off as Kai’s smile widened and made him love fall in love with them again. He felt the familiar warmth and tightness in his chest and his throat felt as though it had constricted. Heat started to rise to his cheeks and he quickly looked away. “Yeah, don’t tell anyone. Out of the two of us, I’m the one with a gun.” He said quickly, feeling a stabbing pain in his chest when they laughed. Just as he moved to close the drawer, Kai wrapped their arms around him tightly. He froze and clenched his jaw closed before wrapping one arm around them. They had no idea what they were doing to him. He closed his eyes and sighed before moving to shut the drawer. “I’m getting locks on this tomorrow. I’m not joking.” He said, whilst Kai’s eyes scanned the page he gave them.

He’ll never be okay again - Not by the Spring, When the flowers bloom, Nor by the Summer, [...]

Damien watched Kai’s eyebrows furrow as they read it through. He stared at their perfect features illuminated by the small amount of light in his apartment. He appreciated the silence they gave and how respectful they were of his work. He had to look away again and gave himself something to do as they continued to read. He changed the TV channel back to the radio station he was playing earlier when he wrote about Kai, Astro Zombies by The Misfits playing now. He played the radio station earlier for some nostalgia- and as he was dancing through his apartment, the Buzzcocks’ song stuck out to him as something he could relate to. Something… inspiring. He got his glasses and a biro and started scribbling out the poem.

Kai was still silently reading this one, one written about his partner from years ago, rewritten recently. He hardly related to it anymore, but was determined to make it better.

[...] When the radios boom, Nor by the Autumn, When the clouds loom, Nor by next Winter,

Never again.

Kai bit their lip as it quivered a bit. He’ll never be okay again. Kai wished they could make him okay. They wished they could just say it and for once he would actually believe it. They longed to be able to come home to him and be able to hug him and to be able to count his drinks and tell him to slow down and to be able to tell him when he’s overworking himself- “Shit, are you okay?” Damien asked, a little panicked by the tear that dripped down their face. They smiled a little and nodded, unconvincingly, dropping down onto the couch. “I’m sorry, perhaps I should have found a more uplifting one for you-” “It’s about you, right?” Kai asked, taking Damien by surprise. He looked down and simply shrugged. “He? He is you, right?” They asked again, more insistent. Damien sat up on the sofa, muting the TV. “Yes, but it’s okay now.” “Are you sure about that?” Kai turned to him and he looked around, avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, why not?” He said in a lighthearted tone. Kai just stared at him. “Okay, well I’m better about the subject, at least. It doesn’t weigh me down as much. I’m fine, honest, I’m fine.”

Kai stared at his face a little longer. They just wanted to lean into him, cup his face and kiss him to say I know you aren't alright but I want to help fix that. He wanted the same, and subconsciously leaned towards them in anticipation. He wondered if their lips would feel as soft as they looked. He wished he could find out, just lean a little closer… He moved back again. “Anyways, let’s never mention my… writing… ever again, and let’s watch this show.” He said, changing the channel back and unmuting it. The title credits were rolling and he rested his chin on his fist again, glancing over at Kai who wiped their eyes clean and settled down to watch. The words in his pocket felt burnt into him as the darn song repeated in his head.

I’m trapped And you could never know. I’m wrapped Up in fantasies. Too slow.

I’m out of the picture, A dirty wreck living in reverse Because if I say, I risk losing you And that is far worse.

I’ve fallen in love with someone I shouldn’t have- I’m lost for words and spend every night alone Thinking about how they smile And how their arms feel like home.

But if I were ever to say that, I’d break everything. And if I stay silent, I break myself. There really is no winning, So, I guess I’ll just stay stealth

About how I’ve fallen in love with you And I know that I shouldn’t have- But the way you say my name Makes me wish you’d feel it back.

And when I look into your eyes It makes me feel like dirt, Because you are everything perfect And there is so much more that you deserve.

You deserve this “perfect match” And you deserve to have a good friend. And though, holy fuck, Kai, it hurts, I’d never want it to end.

A/N: Hi! I've never ever publicly posted fanfiction before so I guess this is new? Anyways, I'm a writer and poet, so if you want to request anything just let me know and I'd be glad to write you something when I can! I've currently only played Perfect Match and The Freshman/Sophomore/Junior (what a disappointing start to the Junior am I right lmao), and I'm playing a few more (currently developing a love for Drake 😍). If you're interested in other writing/poetry let me know and I can link my wattpad???

Thanks for reading if you did! - Cj

#I'm sorry it's so long!!!#hope you like my nerdy gay ass poetry!#let me know what you think!#choices damien #damien nazario #pm damien #damien x mc #damien

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jetsnacks · 7 years

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Bulletproof (ch. 1)

OK SO REMEMBER WHEN I GOT PROMPTS AND THEN D IDNT DO THEM? this is why. this absolute frankensteins monster. I just. I had this human!au in my head, and… now it’s a thing. A very long thing. With a plot… help. @velocifoxy @idk-and-idc-and-idr

Descrip: Slow burn (not super slow to start w/ but it gets slower. Like. Really slow.) suuuper hurt comfort, probably gonna get nsfw in the future because. I hate writing easy things apparently. (There’s a one night stand implied that m i g h t not be the best decision the characters ever made. This does get addressed in another chapter, but not this one) really a lot of awful angsty metaphors that go on like 3 sentences too long I’m sORRY

Pairings: Logince (eventually lamp but… yknow. slow burn.)

TRIGGERS: Alcohol mention, emotional abuse, rebound, bad break up, poison/gun mention, v brief murder mention, gets a tiny bit nsfw at the end (they don’t even kiss, guys, Roman is just a big flirt who maybe makes bad decisions sometimes)

Prompt: From @killerfangirl3 “I’m bulletproof, just don’t shoot me”

They say if you take little bits of poison everyday for years, you could one day be immune, if those little bits didn’t kill you first. Unfortunately, the same isn’t true for love.

Roman staggered out of the party early, words ringing in his ears. “Convenient.” That’s all he had been. “Convenient.” A step up to bigger things. He was famous, but not famous enough. Rich, but they had wanted richer. Soft, when they wanted useful. The casual voice over champagne clinking. “You didn’t think it meant anything, did you? People like you. Now, they like me! It was convenient to-” Roman winced at the memory. He had to move. It was near midnight, and pouring rain, gold from the streetlights playing on every drop as they fell. His jacket and umbrella were inside, but his wallet and phone (dead, probably) still sat in his pocket, so he cut his losses, stepping out from under the porch of the grand, old house, still glowing with lights and people and noise. He though little bits of love would be okay. But it never worked like that. He couldn’t just do a little. It was less like saying to take small doses of poison everyday, than it was getting shot everyday. The only way to be really bulletproof was to never hand someone the gun …He didn’t know where he was going. His dress shoes didn’t have the same satisfying click on soaked pavement as they did on marble or hardwood. His hair was flat, and clinging to his skull. He didn’t feel anything. So he kept walking.

He wasn’t sure how long it took, but when sensation returned, it came in the form of being cold. Then his feet hurt. Looking around, the only light on was shining from a dusty looking store front. He doubted anyone would be open at that hour, but the crash of heavy rain was weighing on his senses, and his last stitch of self preservation pushed him to the door. It swung open with a halfhearted jingle from a rusted bell. At first, he couldn’t see anyone. Every wall seemed to be covered in books, as well as much of the floor. He could hardly see the ceiling, but the shelves went past where he thought a regular ceiling ought to be and then some. Stacks of ancient creaking leather bound tomes, dog eared paperbacks, and bent, stained hardcovers nearly covered every inch. It looked less like a store and more like a… hoard. Roman stood dripping on the doormat in utter awe, until something moved in the back of the shop. Sure enough, a face was poking out from around a bookshelf. The man had large black glasses pushed up onto his forehead, making his hair spike in every direction. He had red marks on the bridge of his nose from wearing them too long, and was blinking at Roman like he’d just woken up. “Oh, uh give me a moment.” He extracted himself clumsily from what must have been a desk at some point and unfolded from a leather chair he’d been sitting in, adjusting his tie and putting his glasses back on their perch. “Alright. My name is Logan, what are you looking for tonight?” He was still rubbing sleep out of his eyes, his clothes crumpled. Roman was so shellshocked by the sight he nearly forgot to answer. He felt his cheeks grow red from more that just the cold. “I- uh- I’m not looking for anything in particular, I’m just… Browsing.” He willed the man to leave it at that, he could pretend to look at books, warm up, call a taxi and go cry into his pillow without being recognized by a cute clerk at a weird bookshop. Logan squinted at him from behind the glasses, taking a step forward. Roman flinched instinctively back, shoulders bumping the glass door. /this is it, he’s going to recognize me, tell a some news site and get a picture as I run off or something. ‘Local star now local washed up wreck…’/ “Are you sure? We usually only get people looking for something specific… we only really have older, out of print books that people value as collectors… Sir? Are you alright?” The clerks voice had nothing but honest curiosity turned concern as he walked closer. Roman realized his eyes where still closed tight, waiting for when he’d have to run. He opened them to find Logan much closer too him, inspecting him with a worried face.

/he’s cuter up close… wait no don’t do that bad idea/

“uh. Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” “No, no you’re not. Your teeth are chattering. Follow me. Try not to get any books wet. If you have to, drip on the romance novels on the left. They never sell anyways.” The clerk turned on his heel and walked further into the shop. “You could also go back into the rain, if you want, but I would recommend accepting help. You look freezing and probably lost, and nothing else around runs this late.” Roman shrugged. 'Local star murdered by weird book seller’ sounded better than 'local star found frozen solid on side walk’ anyways. He followed Logan back into the shop. Two large bookshelves split the space in two, creating a doorway between them into the rest of the room. A rickety wooden staircase disappeared into shadows at the very back. To Romans right was what could almost be called a parlor, a large, deep leather sofa sat facing several cushy armchairs covered in fading fabric, separated by a low coffee table. On his left was a workshop of some sort, incredibly tidy in contrast to the rest of the store, a bright desk lamp shone on a thick, dusty book, which lay naked with its leather cover to one side. A number of tools stood like a row of soldiers to one side. Roman let himself be ushered onto the sofa, which reminded him exactly how sore his feet were. He let out a sigh. It might have been a terrible idea to crash at a random collectors book store because the sofa was comfy and the clerk was cute, but after a night like his it was danm tempting. Logan was mostly quiet as he moved about the space, up and down the stairs to fetch things, leaving Roman to his thoughts. He stared into space, trying not to think them, until something warm wrapped around his shoulders. He looked up to see Logan pulling a wool blanket around him, tutting under his breath. “It’s never a good idea to soak yourself to the bone like this. It’s going to take a while to warm you up.” Roman nodded dully, remembering how much of a mess he must look. /that’s probably why he doesn’t recognize you. The longer you stay the more you’re risking…/ he ignored himself, watching Logan move around the space. His shirt, already rumpled, was pushed up past his elbows, showing his arms. His hands and his slacks were covered in ink stains that Roman hadn’t noticed at first. The wool blanket smelled like peppermint. Maybe that’s what Logan smelled like.

He was too tired for attractive strangers, he decided. He was heart broken, metaphorically and literally lost, who cared if he wondered if attractive nerds smelled like peppermint or not. He settled further into the couch, wrapping himself in the blanket like a cloak. /you’re so screwed./ his brain whispered. /so very very screwed./ The stairs creaked, and Logan came reappeared carefully balancing two steaming mugs. He set one down in front of Roman, then lowered himself into the chair and blew on his mug. When Roman didn’t reach for his immediately, he held eye contact and raised an eyebrow pointedly. Roman sighed and sat up, peering into it suspiciously. “It’s hot chocolate. It’s not going to bite you.” “I know what it is! I was just-” the eyebrow again. “Fine, fine. I’m drinking it. Happy?” Logan hummed and Roman tried not to burn his tongue. It wasn’t good hot chocolate by any means, but it was hot. And vaguely chocolate. So it helped, at least a little. They sat for a while, until both cups sat below half, and Roman had a pleasant glow in his stomach. Logan set his mug down with a decisive clack. “So. Talk.” Roman immediately stiffened, and Logan backed up, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to tell me everything, or anything at all, really, but you clearly had a difficult night. I’m not sure what else you need right now, and some context would be appreciated. Besides.” Logan leaned back in the chair, eyeing him. “I don’t usually get that many mysterious customers on the nightshift, surprisingly. I’m curious.” Roman felt his cheeks heat up again, and scolded himself for being so happy for the attention. Most people assumed they knew everything about him. It was nice to feel… interesting, in a normal way. /whatever./ his brain muttered bitterly. /he’s probably just curious about the weird, wet idiot on his doorstep. You look horrible, anyways. Any chance at 'charming stranger’ was ruined ages ago./ he sighed, and cleared his throat. “I… bailed on a party.” That was true, technically. “I…” /say anything/ his brain urged. /you don’t need to tell him how pathetic your night was. You didn’t ask for his help/ “I had a pretty bad break up.” /really?/ his mind was screaming. But Logan just winced sympathetically. “That must have been difficult… do you… would you like to talk about it?” Every instinct in his head told him not to. But he felt… warm. Safe. “I… was seeing some one who… was after something specific. After …they got that, I was unnecessary.” His voice sounded small and broken in his own ears, despite him trying to keep it steady. When he found the courage to look up, there was no pity or disgust in the other mans eyes. “That sucks.” It was the most casual he’d been all night. Roman couldn’t help laughing.

The terror of telling things like that to strangers returned somewhat after that, and the conversation moved on to lighter things. Mostly about Logan. He found out Logan slept upstairs, for convenience sake, and that he worked part time as a substitute English teacher, when he wasn’t restoring books. Logan tapped his fingers on his chair like he was playing a piano when he was thinking. Logan snorted when he laughed, if you could get him to do it. Logan didn’t think he was very good with people. Romans eyes were raw from crying, but he felt like the full effect of the night hadn’t even started to hit him. It was terrifying. Almost everything was. Tomorrow morning felt like some kind of deadline. Some kind of cliff.

Fortunately, it wasn’t tomorrow morning yet. Logan coughed politely, bringing him out of his thoughts. “As nice as this is,” ('he thinks it’s nice!’ Part of him said. 'Shut. up.’ said a larger part) “my shift is about to end.” Romans heart sank. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?” Logans voice was soft, almost… nervous. Romans heart was on a danm rollercoaster. “I… technically, yes.” There was the eyebrow again. “Technically?” Bile rose in Romans throat. “I would… rather not go back in this state, but I do have somewhere to go. If you lend me your phone I could call a cab-” “No! -I mean.” Logan cleared his throat, less gracefully this time. “That’s not necessary. You can stay here. If you want, that is.” This was familiar ground. Roman could feel his feet under him as Logan got more and more flustered. “And who’s bed would I be sleeping in, exactly?” Roman knew he was grinning at this point. “Uh- t-there’s a spare couch upstairs, I suppose you could have my bed if you-” “Not quite what I meant, gorgeous.” Roman pulled himself up off the couch, and stalked over to the armchair Logan was sitting in. He was close enough to see the other man swallow nervously. Getting no signal to back off, he planted both hands on the arms of the chair, caging Logan in, and waited for him to make a move. Throw him out, or… One of Logans hands grabbed the back of his neck. “I suppose” he muttered, pulling Roman towards him “I wouldn’t mind sharing.”

#long post//#oooooooo it's a multi chapter fic boooooooys buckle up for dissapOOOOOINTMEEEEEENNNNT *air horns*#logince #sanders sides fic #jetwrites #.......it was rlly fun to write flawed characters again #don't?? do rebound one night stands probably #I mean idk yr life so #you do you.#bulletproof

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takokola · 7 years

Text

An Unbreakable Bond

A Splatoon OC Fanfiction written by yours truely

Dewey, Maye, and Marina belongs to me.

Coral (mentioned) belongs to @splattoomy

Olivia (mentioned) belongs to @sharkray24

((On April 20th, Maye and Dewey turns 18 years old. On a special day like this, Dewey has been turned down by his crush. But he won't be sad for long, because he'll be running into a close childhood friend of his.))

"Cheer up, Dew.. There's plenty of fish in the sea.." Maye placed a hand on her twin brother's shoulder. Today is their 18th birthday and Dewey was sitting on the bench, feeling empty inside. Maye was trying her best to comfort him.

If only it was that easy..." Dewey didn't bother to look, directly at Maye. He stared down at the ground, not wanting everyone to see him at this state. About a few hours ago, Dewey was feeling confident enough to confess his love to Coral. His crush. Once he approached to her, Dewey blurted out his confession to her. After what feels like an eternity, Coral just giggled at his attempt. That's the moment where Dewey's heart, sank to the ground. Coral just rejected him with a kind smile. It was perfectly clear that she's not interested in him. Dewey felt so helpless and foolish, right about now.

Dewey kept silent until he finally looked up at Maye. He could see the corncern in her eyes. "Maye.. I appreciate you, cheering me up.. But, it's not enough to fill the hole in my heart.." He said, weakly. "Can you give me some time, alone? I'll catch up with you, later.." He just needed some space and think about his rejection.

Maye frowned at her brother until she sighed. She removed her hand from his shoulder and backed away. "Okay.. Don't be late, mister. Otherwise, I'll have to carry you back to home." And with that, Maye left him alone to himself.

Today has been such a bad start for his 18th birthday. He'd have the urge to cry, but crying isn't going to solve anything. Dewey would think about his udder rejection, but he'd somehow remembered what Fynn said.

("Rejection can take a heavy turn. If I were you, I'd move on and learn from it.") Those were the exact words from Fynn when he mentioned about giving up on his crush on Marie. Dewey had taken his advice, but forgetten all about it for 5 months.

"Tch... This isn't like me at all.." Dewey got up from his seat. He was no longer heartbroken, but filled with determination. "I, Dewey Isaac Berri won't just mope on some silly rejection." Dewey happily, stood proud. Maybe, a little too proud. He can finally catch up to Maye at the train station. The party doesn't start until 8 pm and Fynn and Angela were bringing the food and drinks to his mother, June Berri. Not to mention Maye's girlfriend, Olivia coming over to present Maye with a fantastic portrait.

Before he could catch up to Dewey, he heard some loud footsteps. Followed by a loud shriek from behind.

"L-Look out!!" A female voice filled Dewey's ears and the footsteps were getting closer and closer until... SMACK! Dewey collided with the poor inkling and feel onto the concrete ground. Tons of papers were flying all over the place, when the girl had crashed into him.

Dewey winced a bit after the massive impact. He was about to get up, but there was something large and soft in the way. Dewey was having a hard time to figure out, but he realised what's in front of him. Dewey blushed when he was greeted by a slightly large pair of mammaries in his direction.

"O-Owie..." The tall inkling winced as well. She looked down to see the pink inkling under her. She panicked due to being a Giant Squid. "Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry!!!" She quickly got off of him. In her appearance, she has a pair of star-shaped contact lenses. And her tentacle was wavy and flowing down like a waterfall.

Dewey was able to get up. He stood on his feet and stared up at the tall inkling. He was a bit shorter than the young lady. If he would've guess her height, she is about 6'2 inches tall.

He'd soon notice the amount of papers that were scattered on the floor. The girl had dropped all of them, during the collision. "It's fine.. Let me help you with your papers." Dewey knelt down to gather up her papers.

"I was in a rush to catch my train.. Sorry, I bumped into you.." She knelt down as well. She was able to get the rest of her papers while Dewey gathered, a few.

Dewey was almost about to pick up the last paper, until he felt a hand. It was the blue inkling's hand. Dewey was startled, a bit by the touch. He stared into her eyes. There was something familiar about her and Dewey couldn't put his finger on it.

She had her hand on the last paper and she stared back at him with curiousness. She wouldn't mind the awkward silence between the two, but she could try to say something.

During their short staring contenst, he'd soon notice the shell earrings. Those were the same earrings that Dewey gave to his childhood best friend, 8 years ago. He let's out a small gas of shock and excitement. "Rinny...?! Is that really you..?!" Dewey's jaw went slack. The name, Rinny was a childhood pet name that Dewey came up with. His childhood friend's actual name is Marina Starling.

"Wait.. how..?" Marina squinted, a bit to get a closer look at him. She can recognize the birthmark under Dewey's right eye bu now. After several seconds of silence, Marina's eyes went as wide as pearls. She brought her other hand to her mouth in surprise. "N-No way..!! D-Dewey..?!" She cried.

Then, she squealed in joy and pounced on him. She wrapped her arms around Dewey in a tight and loving embracing. "I can't, it's you!! It's been ages!!" She cried out, loudly enough for the other citizens could hear.

Dewey can feel the warmth against Marina's body. He would hug back, but he could barely move. Or breathe.

"Nnng.. R-Rinny.. you're crushing me..." He was gasping for air due to Marina's vicegrip. Marina heard his plead and she lossed the hug, letting him breathe for sweet air.

"Oh cod, I'm so sorry..! I couldn't help it.." She is always apologetic towards people. It's in her nature to do so. "Are you alright? I didn't squish you too hard, did I?" She asked with a concern look on her face.

"No.. I'm fine." He said, gasping for more air. He knew, she was able to crush the life out of someone. Marina is a hugger, after all. "So, how are you today? I haven't heard from you, since we were kids." He straightened up his vest.

"Oh! I've been doing well! I've living in Inkopolis Square for almost a decade now. So, what about you?" Marina is eager to hear what Dewey's been up, lately.

"Just plain old high school. I'm still a senior and half-way there til' graduation." High school had been pretty rough on Dewey. He's one of the honor students and able to enroll in one of the finest colleges in Inkopolis. The senior projects were stressful, enough.

Marina got up on her feet, once again and helped Dewey up. "As long as you're hanging in there, champ~!" Marina smiled. She's so happy to see Dewey again, but hasn't noticed that she was running to catch the train.

"It was good meeting you, again. I was about to catch up with Maye.. Otherwise, she'll drag me to the train." Typical Maye. His twin sister would never take no for an answer.

Marina had realized that she was still running late. "Oh my gosh!! I'm still running late!!" She cried. She was about to hurry, until she saw a bunch a papers on the floor again. She dropped them again after she glomped on her childhood friend. She stared at Dewey and chuckled, nervously. "But first, we need to gather up my papers.. again."

Dewey lets out a sigh and got back to picking up her papers. "You are such a handful, y'know that?" Some things never change between the unbreakable bond.

Meanwhile, Maye was on her way to get Dewey. Dewey had been testing her patience, one too many times. Maye had taken the same path that she left Dewey behind for a few minutes. "Stuborn brother..." She mumbled to herself. Maye really meant her word about dragging him to the train station if he likes it or not.

Dewey scanned the rest of Marina's papers. It appears to be flyers for a junior singing competition. "Come on, come all to the 1st Annual Junior Singers Competition.." He read the flyer and looked at Marina with an intrigued look on his face. "So, that's you were in a rush?" He asked.

"Mmhm! I was running an errand from the owner of a music store in Inkopolis Square. I took the train to the printing shop to make copies. After I was done, I realized that I was going to miss my ride.. Well, that's when I crashed into you.." She smiled, sheepishly. "Anyway, what's going on with you?" She asked, moving closer to him.

Dewey's smile would soon disappear. He looked down on the ground, not meeting her gaze. "It's nothing.." He lied.

Marina looked concern. Something seemed very troubling for Dewey. "That doesn't look like nothing to me.. Now, tell me what's been troubling you?" They both slowed down their pace for a minute. Marina wouldn't mind listening to their problems during work hours. She's like the mother, they never had.

Dewey didn't know where to start, but he decided to get this off his chest. He explained about his crush, Coral and how she rejected him. His twin sister cheered him up, but it was enough. "I felt so stupid.. She doesn't like me, like I like her.." He self-loathed, thinking about what happened earlier.

"Oh, dear.. You poor thing.." She brought her hand to her mouth, even more concerned. Who would've thought that crush of his would be so cruel to him. Suddenly, she pulled him into a warm hug. She didn't crush him this time.

Surprised, he looked up into Marina's eyes. "Marina.. I..." He began to say, but Marina interrupted him with a silent "shhhhh..."

"It's going to be alright.. I'm always here for you..." Her soothing tone made Dewey relaxed. Despite of Dewey being shorter than her, he nuzzled against her chest.

"Thanks, Marina.. I'll be fine.." Dewey felt whole, again. The hug felt like an eternity between the two squids. By the time they let go, they turned to see Maye in their point-of-view. Maye had been standing there, motionless for 5 seconds.

"Oh, dear.." He sighed, waving a hand at Maye. "Hey, sis." And the concludes their heart-warming moment between the two.

After a few more minutes of trying to snap Maye back to reality, they were all walking to the train station. Maye had already recognized Marina, after their childhood. The girls were chatting, while Dewey is checking the time. They still have time before the birthday party.

"So, both of ya'll are turning 18 on your birthdays? That's great!" Marina wished, she had a special present for them. But it was too much to ask. "So, are you throwing a party?"

Maye nodded, enthusiastically. "Mom, Fynn, and Angie are hosting a little get-together. Nothing big or special. I'm also inviting my super-artsy girlfriend over, since she's living upstairs~!" Maye couldn't wait to see Oliva's birthday gift. Suddenly, Maye smirked at the two. "You should come, as well. Dewey needed some alone time with you, if you catch my drift~" She winked before giggling.

"M-Maye!!" He said, mortified. His blush increased when Maye mentioned something more intimate.

Marina blushed, slightly until she began to giggle. "Hehee~ I would go, but.." She trailed off her sentence. "I've got a busy night to help with my boss with the flyers." So much for spending plenty of time with Dewey.

"Awww..." Disappointed, Maye understood her priorities. It would've been a complete bummer for Dewey. Sooner or later, they made it to the train station. The trip to Flounder Heights was a 20-25 minute ride. Marina's train ride was longer than theirs.

"Well, we must be off. Mom would worry us if we don't make it." He said, spotting their only chance of getting back home. He turned to Marina and smiled. "It was nice meeting you, Marina. I hope, you'll see each other without bumping into one another."

Marina smiled. She's happy to see Dewey's usual self, once again. "Likewise!" Marina also handed out 2 flyers for the Berri Twins. Followed by Marina's phone number on Dewey's flyer. "If you want, come and visit the singers competition at the Starfish Mainstage! They've got free food and drinks~♪" She chimed, happily.

Dewey noticed the phone number on his flyer. He chuckled, a bit and nodded. "I'll be there." He gave her a thumbs up as a sign of grattitude.

"There's one more thing, before you go.." Marina walked closer to him. Her blush is awfully noticable. Then, she knelt down to Dewey's level and kissed him on the cheek. "Happy Birthday, Dewey.." She whispered into his ear, causing him to fluster a lot.

Maye seemed happily surprised by this. She knew, Dewey would find love at some point. And he doesn't mind, at all.

"Th-Thanks.. L-Let's go home, Maye.." He titled his classic boater down, not letting anyone see his adorbably flushed face.

"Bye-bye~! I'll save you some cake after this~!" Maye said her goodbyes and caught up with Dewey. She can't wait to tell her mom and teammates about this.

Marina waved back at them with a kind smile. Now that they left to catch the train, Marina was all to herself until her train arrives. No matter how bad their separation turned out to be, their bond remains unbreakable for years to come.

And finally, Marina's train arrived.

THE END

#maye #dewey #coral #marina #fanfic #splatoon

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