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brianmight · 5 years

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SAIL ACROSS THE SEA. // Maylor Titanic!AU (part 2/?)

- where to, mr? - to the stars.

[ also posted on AO3! ]

( @eternallystarlight )

10 april, 1912. Southampton. The ship of dreams is about to commence on its long-awaited journey — the voyage of a lifetime, if the papers are not mistaken. The grandiose sight of the vessel in the harbour is plenty to instil awe in all who parade around the harbour, either as future passengers or people who are about to bid their loved ones farewell. Two separate worlds mingle upon the crowded docks — the one of automobiles and the one of wooden carts; the one of many suitcases and the one of few; the one of riches and the one of rags. One belongs to an affluent heir, the other to a wandering street musician. Their backgrounds couldn’t clash more, but that won’t refrain fate from unifying them on the unsinkable RMS Titanic.

Crossing the gangway towards the first class entrance, Roger could already foretell that the irritated tension between him and his fiancée would only evolve into a more hostile form during the journey. If they weren't able to spend one week together on a ship without disagreement, then how on Earth were they supposed to establish a loving marriage? She promenaded alongside him, a baby blue parasol resting on her shoulder next to a luxurious hat, and emotionlessly peeked over the railing at the waves beneath her feet as if challenging the very ocean to a duel.

When he had offered his hand to help her exit the car, Margaret had stared at it like the gesture was the most offensive movement he could possibly have made, knowing he was only being polite because his father had urged him to. God, how he abhorred her! Flawless on the outside, with pearly skin, chocolate hair and gentle facial features, yet so rotten on the inside with vanity. The memory of meeting her for the first time was unfortunately imprinted on the back of his mind: an angelic appearance that'd almost made him reconsider his opinion on arranged marriage, but all was ruined when she parted her lips to give a smug remark on the length of his hair. Roger deliberately hadn't cut it since, purely to get more under her skin as that was the only way he could get at least a little bit of amusement from his engagement.

He cast a quick nod at the steward by the door, who welcomed the passengers onto the Titanic with a proud smile. Certainly, the vessel was something to be proud of, but Roger, having grown up amongst riches and lavish mansions, was not overly impressed. It was a ship, nothing more: a ferry to a new life that awaited him in America. Married life. A shudder ran across his spine at the mere thought of it.

The interior of the ship was majestic enough to match its grandiose exterior. White walls and tiles radiated the illusion that the entrance hall was even more spacious, and the extravagant patterns of art nouveau added a contemporary flair. Through modern lifts, they were guided to their quarters. Roger had one suite with his father and his younger sister Clare, while the neighbouring one was occupied by Margaret and her parents— unfortunately, their two quarters were directly connected through a shared living area. Smacking the door wide open with more force than necessary, Roger entered the suite along with his relatives, only to realize that its appearance completely mirrored that of the hallway, albeit a bit more old-fashioned: panels of the finest cherry wood, scarlet-draped curtains around the beds, their luggage already placed neatly on the carpet floor. Servants were rushing around, installing several paintings of the Taylors’ personal collection and adding some final ornaments in the shape of vibrant flowers.

The young man took the sight in with a hint of suspicion. They shouldn't be able to afford such luxury. Not according to his father's many sermons on their debts. The fact that he was now standing in a fully furnished suite could only mean that their final coins had been smashed into the assurance that their voyage would be just another facade to conceal the family's financial downfall. It wasn’t the lavishness that he loathed— it was the pretentious nature of his loving father, who first tumbled flat on his face and now sought to ascend again through his son, too self-satisfied to do as little as admitting his own fatal blunders. A glare was fired right into the patriarch's back, and Roger was about to deliver a snarky remark when the door opened brusquely.

The person he least wished to have around walked in as if she owned the entire place, followed by two maids and the same crew member that'd fulfilled the role of welcoming committee by his lone self. Margaret cast a quick glance around the suite, arriving at the conclusion that it looked precisely the same as hers apart from the personal decorations, and voiced her thoughts to no one in particular. “Did you see those poor beggars of third class enter? I do hope we won't get bothered by any of them.” None seemed to respond physically to the remark, but Roger noticed that one of the maids, who was carefully unpacking an oval mirror, slightly tensed up — if she hadn’t been here in service, third class would have been her only option to travel across the Atlantic. Certainly, the remark had been a harsh kick to her shins, which would leave an aching bruise at best.

He knew it would be best for all their sakes to leave Margaret’s comment for what it was, but the steward lacked the experience and immediately came to reassure her. “Oh, no miss. The upper decks cannot be accessed from below.” Something in his voice revealed that he wasn't referring to “below” in the spatial sense, but the social one. No way to work oneself up; no way to break the barriers. Margaret exhaled with relief, her attention suddenly engaged by an adorned vase full of amber chrysanthemums, which matched the golden piece of jewellery around her elegant neck. “Thank God— I would hate to have to walk among those folk all day long. Imagine the lice!” Her shrill voice rose with each syllable to the point where Roger was tempted to shush her with a finger to the lips. “Lice can jump rather far, can't they?” he muttered nonchalantly, completely unaware if the reply was factually correct in any way, and added the following upon seeing his fiancée’s wide eyes: “probably as far as two entire decks.” In the silence that followed, a dropped needle would have been more deafening than a gunshot. Clare intervened before a full quarrel was able to burst loose, noticing the obviously upset tinge upon Margaret's facial features. “Oh Rog, will you accompany me outside? I’d love to be there when the ship departs,” she admitted with a beam gracing her youthful face, eagerly clutching to her brother's arm while awaiting his reply in anticipation. Roger suppressed a roll of the eyes for the sake of his sister, whom he hated to disappoint, and gave her an affirmative nod. “Sure, Clare. I could use some fresh air.” Before anyone else grasped the opportunity to tag along, he buttoned his woollen overcoat and opened the door, the freedom of the hallway being a more than welcome shift in atmosphere.

—

Two bunk beds. Four suitcases. Four strangers who'd been fortunate enough to scrape enough money together to afford four individual boarding passes. The cabin was compact, unadorned and barely wide enough for two people to pass each other without backs touching. Brian wouldn't complain— not as long he had basic facilities such as a mattress and running water. It was preferable to sleeping on the streets of London during cold winter nights, which he had endured with great difficulty. Snow would stab his shivering limbs without a grain of mercy as the wind would rob what little warmth he could amass. Fingers would be too frozen for strumming, vocal folds too weak for singing. It was during those moments that Brian was fully convinced that hell was not built upon fire, but ice. The only consolation to his wretched condition would arrive when he glanced upwards and noticed celestial smiles of solace. Those immortal stars, their perpetual presence in combination with the light they omitted, brought hope like no mortal ever could. Miserable circumstances made one appreciate little, and right there, on the renowned RMS, Brian felt like a pampered duke.

The guitarist sat on his bed in relative peace as the three roommates had each left the cabin earlier, presumably to explore the enormous vessel or to get their hands on some fresh ocean air. On his lap lay a leather-bound notebook wide-open. Its old pages had turned a pale shade of yellow, its spine was cracked, and various loose sheets had been added as if they embodied several afterthoughts on the penned down words. The book was an extension of his mind; a fountain of lyrics, ideas, and experiences which value-wise could only be outranked by the wooden instrument that slept next to him on the sheets, still in its casket. A sigh escaped through his chapped lips as he casually browsed through the journal, allowing his eyes to relive all the memories that clung to the paper. Some words were concealed underneath dirt stains or had turned simply unreadable due to their pencil streaks being smudged. Among the randomly scribbled thoughts were several entries brimming with facts of mathematics and physics, which he'd overheard on the streets or read in some crumpled newspaper. A fascination for those sciences had emerged at the moment he'd learnt to read, and they'd never let him go since. There was the urge to explore and explain the inexplicable, to find any reasoning behind the unknown, to alleviate his own ignorance. Fingertips traced the syllables of songs that no one would hear, no one but the composer himself. Here the ship sailed out into the blue and sunny morn. The sweetest sight ever seen.

A long-haired head emerged from behind the cabin door — it belonged to a fellow named John who'd claimed the bed above his. “Heard we're about to leave any second now. You don't want to miss this,” was assumed with a promising twinkle in his eyes as he nodded upwards, indicating the outside decks and the unique view it would provide. Indeed, one final honk announced the vessel's long-awaited departure. After safely storing his guitar case underneath the bed, Brian followed his roommate through the narrow halls.

When they arrived on the Shelter Deck, many passengers had already gathered around the ship's railings to bid their loved ones farewell, who were situated on the docks below. Brian had no one to say goodbye to, yet joined in waving at the horde of people, suddenly so full of elation that he couldn't help but bare his teeth into a wide grin. This was truly happening. He was at the gates of a brand new tale of which the famous voyage was only the prologue. The heads among the crowd below, with their handkerchiefs and shouts of adieu, were but ants gazing at a gigantic ark that would redeem past lives and deliver its passengers to a continent of unlimited opportunities. Brian felt the vessel beneath his feet stir, and then slowly come to life. Cheers became louder, resembling a tidal wave of noise that appeared to push the ship further into the ocean. A free seagull hovered by.

That was when his attention was completely absorbed by one particular figure on the upper promenade deck. A young man, staring almost melancholically at the shrinking harbour. Even with the vast distance between them, Brian could notice the air of frustration around the stranger. He thought nothing of it, assuming the guy might simply suffer from early seasickness, and was about to turn away when the other shifted his head slightly, causing their gazes to interlock for the briefest of moments. Brian couldn't blink. Neither could the other man. They were left in a clandestine staring dance, trying to figure out why either of them was unable to look away. Had he been standing any closer, the guitarist would have perceived the vanishing of the deep frown on the stranger's forehead the instant their eyes were introduced to each other. In reality, the moment could only have survived for mere seconds, but amidst the mass of cheering passengers that were solely focused on their ever-shortening connection with the mainland, the brief interval seemed to last an eternity.

“Do you think they're nobles?” John interrupted after following his roommate’s stare at the first class passengers, perceptive enough to see that Brian was glancing at one in particular yet not well enough acquainted with him to provide a teasing remark. “They look posh enough,” he further commented, warming his hands inside the pockets of his tweed jacket. Brian answered absently, now forced to blink and break eye contact with the faraway guy. “I haven't the faintest idea. Not exactly my sort of people.” “Because if they were you'd be up there too?” A shrug. “Perhaps, yeah.” The ends of John's lips turned upwards into an amused smile, not requiring words to convey a clear message: dream on. Fair enough, dreams were the only place where such a reality could ever exist. Maybe the moment Brian had shared with the first class stranger had indeed been mere imagination — a mirage of the most treacherous kind — but it certainly had been more than a king looking down upon a peasant.

#queen fanfic #sailacross #my fics

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thekidultlife · 7 years

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Mr. & Mrs. Yoon | Spy!Jeonghan

((btw, gif is my work also so yeah))

Part 1 | Part 2

Words: 1473

Genre: Angsty??? (Im not sure)

((Cold War AU, anybody? Hahaha I’m such a sucker for history))

Plaisir d’Amour…

The turntable was turned on early in the morning. Yes…I think that’s the title.

You scuffled through the incomprehensible labyrinth of bed sheets and pillows even though you were still in a blank daze. The mornings had begun to get colder and days were growing shorter as summer transitions to autumn in late August.

Where was I again?

Surveying the room, it finally dawned to you that you were already a married woman. Yet it was not out of love that you got married to a man who wasn’t even there when you wake up. Even so, I still cannot forget that night we first met.

“I’m Yoon Jeonghan, your soon-to-be husband,”

You hugged your knees closer to your body and touched the ring which was held by the necklace on your neck.

“I can do this…”

You can do this, Yoon...Y/N.

You eventually got the strength to remove yourself from the bed and exited the bedroom, robe in tow. The hallway greeted you with the great scent of an American breakfast—bacon, eggs, hot coffee. Despite being raised in China; you had already grown accustomed to the high cholesterol breakfast after several years in the US.

Yawning and rubbing your tired eyes as you lazily crept downstairs, you almost lost your balance among the art nouveau sculptures whilst entering the kitchen. The large circular cherry table which was their dining table was already set and the food was pretty much fresh from the stove.

The Yoon home was not grandiose but, definitely not mundane either. It was a simple traditional two-story American home with a spacious foyer and decorated with various artworks and crafts collected as a hobby by the head curator of the Smithsonian Museum, Yoon Jeonghan. Though it certainly is marvelous to some, but it may actually be an empty home for those living in it.

“Good morning, dear. You have drool on your cheek,” a familiar voice whispered from behind you and you immediately jumped in surprise.

You turned around and saw him all dressed for work—a brown vest with his shirt tucked neatly inside and matching brown pants. His coat was hanging loosely on his arms as he was holding today’s Washington Post. His hair which had gotten longer was still remarkably auburn but his locks fell softly on his forehead and together with all of that was his signature smirk which doesn’t seem to leave him. Yes, he is my husband, Yoon Jeonghan...unfortunately though.

Frowning, you replied to him curtly, “I’d rather not die here in the kitchen doorway, so stop frightening me, please.”

Yet no matter how many times you expressed your disdain towards him, he would simply laugh it off and he did just that as he sat on his place in front of the table.

“You seem to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed today,” he remarked, opening the newspaper which was on his hands.

“I did not, for your information. It was because I had to see your face so early in the morning,” you took a sip from the warm cup of coffee but then jerked after it burnt your tongue.

“Be careful, dear. I don’t want my precious wife getting hurt,” Jeonghan was glancing at you from the side of the newspaper with a smug smile, much to your chagrin. He just knew how to push your buttons—you weren’t even sure how he did—yet you knew he was simply doing it just to entertain his rather boring espionage life.

You rolled your eyes at his sarcasm and he simply chuckled. Why did I even agree to this?

“I’m quite the ‘show’, am I not? Teasing me, torturing me…every single day.” In frustration, you finally asked as you angrily feasted upon the bacon and soft-boiled eggs. “If this is your definition of fun, then there is something clearly wrong inside that damn head of yours.”

Jeonghan folded the newspaper neatly after he heard your remark and propped his head with his arm on the table as he grinned. You were totally unaware that he was enjoying how you despised him, loathed him to the bone. Nonetheless, Jeonghan was still convinced that you were capable of forgiving him in the end and that was not what he hoped for.

“Have you ever realized how adorable your reactions are?” His unrelenting gaze was glued to you and it seemed impossible to escape those stares which had the talent of making your heart beat fast. You couldn’t pinpoint if it was because you were intimidated by him or because of the way he was looking at you.

“See? You’re making an adorable expression again,” Jeonghan laughed once more and pinched your left cheek, making you sneer and push his hand away before you could do any harm.

“Adorable, my ass,” you snapped at him, waving your fork with a piece of bacon at the end which eventually landed into your mouth. “You’re definitely psycho.”

Jeonghan simply raised his eyebrows at you in amusement, not offended at all by your harsh remark. He picked up his newspaper once more and continued reading the business section. You thought he would simply let your snide taunt slide, but you were hugely mistaken.

“Oh and so you know, I’m a sociopath. Find a better insult, darling.”

Jeonghan smiled at you but returned to his reading before he could enjoy seeing you puffing up imaginary steam from your nose in fury.

The only reason why this person irritates you so much is due to the fact that everything he does is an act.

The marriage is a front, a disguise, a disgusting lie.

Several months ago, Jeonghan was activated as a courier for the Soviet agents in Washington while you relay the information he collects to the GRU. In order to camouflage the illegal things you both were doing, the GRU arranged that you and Jeonghan must be married—in that way, you can easily give them the already encoded documents. However, unlike the other Soviet spy rings present in the US, the two of you were not fans of the Communist Party and are doing all these for your own reasons.

“Can you get me Shakespeare’s ‘Twelfth Night’ later?” You switched the topic and turned on your business mode. That was your coded exchange that meant Jeonghan must collect the documents from the agents and that Moscow needed to have new information regarding the activities here. The Korean War is still waging till now after all. The USSR surely wants to have the war plans of US and Britain.

“Sure, anything you want,” Jeonghan gave you one of his benevolent smiles again which was obviously fake. He then patted your head and messed your already chaotic bed hair before standing up.

“You’re going now? Will you have dinner here tonight?” You suddenly asked as you stood beside Jeonghan who was putting on his brown coat.

“Oh my, did I just hear my dear wife saying you’ll miss me?” he replied while grinning victoriously. You immediately pursed your lips and harshly tightened his necktie until he choked. You knew it was a bad move to fuel his already overblown ego and someday, you hoped to burst this bubble of his.

“Shut up, Jeonghan. I’m trying to be nice here,” shooting daggers at him with your eyes, his immovable smirk seemed to have grown wider instead.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be home by the usual time,” he walked towards the door yet as he was half-way out of the house, Jeonghan suddenly returned. “Seems like I forgot something.”

By the time he returned, you were already clearing the table of the empty dishes and was surprised to see him back with a concerned look on his face. You thought it must be some urgent matter but when it suddenly dawned to you, you rolled your eyes at him in irritation.

“Damn it, Jeonghan. If this is some joke again, I swear I’ll—”

What took you by surprise was when he suddenly seized your arm and pulled you closer for a kiss. It was simple and chaste yet it still rocked your being back and forth and when he finally let you go, you saw that there was a glint of playfulness in his almond eyes.

“I forgot my goodbye kiss,” Jeonghan murmured while grinning as your eyes were still wide with shock. “Wouldn’t that make us a convincing couple?”

And with that, you finally snapped.

“You…!” Your shoulders trembled in rage as you gave him a hateful glare. “Get your ass out of here already!”

“I will, I will! Well, see you tonight, dear!” he finally left the house while giving a winning snicker and you frowned.

And that ends the usual morning inside the Yoon residence.

Admin Hyeri

#seventeen #seventeen scenarios #seventeen fanfic #yoon jeonghan #jeonghan

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