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eoieopda · 6 months

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FORCE QUIT // EPISODE I: SCRAPS

you didn't have "anti-capitalist revolution" on this year's bingo card, but you never turn down a good time.

pairing: lee felix x reader | series masterlist (1/4) | next episode series summary: it's 2077, and life's a fucking nightmare. corporate titans ate the state and shat it back out, leaving citizens of the new republic to fall in line, or fall to their knees. a reckoning is coming — where will you fall? au: series — dystopian, cyberpunk; episode — childhood friends to strangers to something ➢insp. by: cyberpunk 2077 + the true lives of the fabulous killjoys genre: smut + angst + some fluff word count: 15.4k rating: 18+— minors do not have my consent to interact. series warnings: violence (hand-to-hand, firearms, explosives), depictions of injuries (blood/bruising/burns), some characters have cybernetic modifications, class conflict + poverty, surprise - corporations are bad!, unethical medical/tech experimentation, self-indulgent references to non-skz idols, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns. episode warnings: above + trainer!felix, edgerunner!reader, pov switches, time skips, reference to food insecurity + reader living check to check, reader has cybernetic retinal mods + one in her hand, reader experiences temporary vision loss after being knocked out, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v penetration. a/n: each episode features a different member x reader pairing, but the plot is linear, so you'd need to read them (in order) to get the full picture! you can sign up for the taglist to be notified of the next uploads. thank you to my beloved @sailoryooons for beta'ing this and @jihopesjoint for being my emotional support internet wife even though she doesn't stan skz. ily both endlessly!

You don’t deal in absolutes, but you know two things for sure: vending-machine burritos are a crime against humanity; and Han Jisung is a dirty, rotten bastard.

The firm stance you’ve taken on the latter may or may not have something to do with the former, but you can’t draw that conclusion now — not with the abuse your taste buds are currently suffering, anyway.

“Who the fuck —”

You cut yourself off to spit a mouthful at the ground. Notably, the remnants of that half-chewed abomination look just as awful on the way out as they did on the way in.

“— Replaced this queso with battery acid?”

Chipmunk cheeks stuffed to bursting, Jisung blinks back at you. He says nothing — suddenly too polite to speak with his mouth full — and shrugs, unbothered. That’s when the realization hits you like a boot to the skull. Drenched in disbelief, your muttering comes out in slow-motion:

“You spent the last of our cash on these.”

He swallows, though you don’t know how he could bring himself to do it. That act alone makes the rage you’re simmering in bubble over.

You repeat yourself through gritted teeth, pausing emphatically between every word, “The — last — of — our — cash!”

“My bad?” He eventually offers. Tongue flicking out, he tries to gather the unidentified sauce that clings to the corner of his mouth. He fails. “Not sure what else I was supposed to find with that little money in this part of town, but go off, I guess.”

You bite your lips together to hold back the guttural yell you’re seconds from releasing. At your sides, your empty hands clench tightly. Instead of snapping — with your words or your fists — you close your eyes, inhaling slowly through your nose. Deep breaths won’t do you any fucking good in this smog, but your brain tends to work a little bit better without visual interference.

I can go another twenty-four hours, you think. Maybe.

It’s been a while since you’ve last eaten and even longer since your last job. This isn’t out of the ordinary; gaps are to be expected when you live on the fringe, jumping from thread to thread. Still, it isn’t like Changbin to leave you hanging the way he has been lately. It sure as shit isn’t like him to dodge your calls, either.

So, you figure, if you make an unsolicited visit to his office — the stock room of a bar you know better than to frequent — he won’t have a choice. He’ll have to look you in the eye and explain the dry spell, personally. He owes you at least that much.

With your plan finalized, you hold out your left hand to Jisung. In the few moments you’d taken your eyes off him, he’d apparently gone from sitting on the hood of your car to reclining fully with his own eyes closed. Basking like a little lizard in the sunlight, it’s a miracle the hot metal hasn’t burned a hole in his shirt.

“Come on.” You nudge his bent knee with your knuckles to no avail.

As Jisung is wont to do, he pouts. “But it’s so nice out — and your car still reeks, by the way.”

The absolute, rakish audacity.

If you didn’t love him, you’d probably kill him.

Strike that.

Love is irrelevant. You wouldn’t kill him unless and until there was a price on his head. After all, your mother taught you better than to do the things you’re good at for free.

“Do we want to talk about whose fault that is?” You ask with a roll of your eyes. The affection’s still there; you know he sees it. “If I recall correctly — and I think I do, having been the only sober person present — you were the one who got blasted and barfed on everything I love in this world.”

“I got blasted and barfed exclusively on the floor of your car.”

It’s your turn to shrug. “Exactly. End of list.”

Groaning, Jisung rolls his eyes as far back as they’ll go, but he still takes your hand. He always does, always has. With your help, he scoots his ass down the hood and lands with both boots — precisely where your ejected burrito bite did, not five minutes earlier. You can’t stop the satisfied grin from spreading when he whines again, this time louder and with twice as much despair.

After playfully shoving your passenger towards his door, you unlock your own. You don’t dump yourself into the seat, however; not yet. A wall of horrible heat is waiting for you the second the door opens, and you know better than to run into it, headlong.

Jisung is less patient. He’s also more regretful, face twisting in self-imposed anguish when he drops down onto the sun-scorched leather seat. And, to your delight, the hits keep coming. You watch with a smile when the consequences of last weekend’s actions hit his nostrils. The look he gives you falls somewhere between humbled, apologetic, and absolutely dead inside.

“Not one of my finer moments, I’ll admit it.” He acknowledges with a wave of his hand. Resigned, he sighs, “I’ll scrub the shit out of the floor mats the next time we can afford a wash.”

Satisfied, you finally climb behind the wheel. Pushing through the slightly-muted sting of the seat against the backs of your bare thighs, you put your foot on the brake and lift your right hand to press your thumb to the ignition port. The roar of the engine covers the way your breath hitches, but Jisung doesn’t have to hear it to notice the grimace that accompanies it.

“Still sore?” He asks.

To his credit, he looks genuinely concerned as he reaches across the center console and takes your hand in his. It’s gentle, the way he tilts your palm up, but the movement burns in every single one of your tendons. This time, you know you have a captive audience, so you don’t flinch.

Despite the trouble it’s giving you, you have to admit that the new enhancement looks beautiful in the sunlight. In the center of your palm, two rectangular, silver brackets refract iridescence. Their shine contrasts sharply with the matte, midnight black cybernetic plating that now covers the majority of your palm, spreading to the first knuckle of your fingers but coating the length of your thumb in its entirety.

More than beautiful, it’s deadly — and it aches like a motherfucker.

“I read a study about these ballistic co-processors last night while you were knocked out,” he hums.

Classic Jisung.

He has no medical or academic background whatsoever but wastes his time reading crank doctors’ research for fun. And, of course, he makes sure to mention it — casually and apropos of mostly nothing — in order to impress.

Gingerly, he runs his finger along the edge of the cyberware, mumbling, “It usually takes five days from installation for the musculoskeletal inflammation to chill.”

Your fingers twitch of their own volition, which prompts him to look up at you curiously.

“Yeah, well…” You grunt.

Less carefully than you should, you pull your hand from his, tap the gear shift, and throw the car into reverse. Peeling out of the lot, you scoff without even bothering to look his way:

“It’s been ten.”

When the War came and went, it took the old way of life with it on its way out. You might’ve been late to the party by fifty or so years, but you’ve got the gist now. It goes something like this:

Korea, as it was once known, crumpled like a beer can in the face of a corporate uprising and was quickly kicked curbside with the trash. In its place came the New Republic — in all its stolen, neon glory — promising technological revolution, profit in excess. Although the world’s eyes were trained on the peninsula then, not everyone stuck around to watch democracy die in real time.

Not up close, anyway.

Some people had enough cash to run but not enough to make staying worthwhile. With their tails between their legs and their life savings in hand, they left before the capitalist rot could set in fully; chose willful blindness and headed for countries where corporations rule from the shadows rather than broad daylight.

Most people, however, didn’t leave. People like your grandparents, who hadn’t looked up long enough to notice things going to hell in a hurry. And if they did — well, maybe they saw things for what they were: shitty, same as anywhere else.

Five decades later, that fact hasn’t changed much.

Regardless of why a person opts to stay in the New Republic, their options for survival are effectively limited to two. Simply put, a person can sell their soul to the very corporations that strangled the state, or they can starve.

Nobody ever chooses the latter.

You can safely assume everything you need to know about a person based on where their next steps take them.

For example, those who crave both chic, penthouse apartments and blood-soaked streets are most likely to fall in line with WraithCo.. The name suggests that it’s a criminal enterprise run by fucking ghouls because that’s essentially what it is. More than that, it’s the arms manufacturer monopoly that out-manned and out-gunned the national military without breaking a sweat.

The high-powered, highly-paid WraithCo. executives find joy in three things and three things only: designer suits; missiles that explode into clouds of fiberglass upon impact; and testing said missiles out on non-violent nomad encampments outside city limits.

Fucking ghouls.

Despite being the most openly violent of the major players, you find WraithCo. to be the most boring. They lack nuance, don’t bother with a false front or a positive PR spin — it’s all a little too predictable. Thanotech, on the other hand, is subtle; the perfect cover for those who like to convince themselves they’re doing more good than harm.

In furtherance of that delusion, Thanotech replaced all public hospitals with state-of-the-art, for-profit rejuvenation centers. Worse, their lobbyists ensured that medical licensure was limited to employees of those centers, outlawing the provision and receipt of medical care outside of authorized Thanotech facilities.

In short, those who can’t afford Thanotech’s astronomical rates — specifically, poor fucks like you — are left to fend for themselves in back alley clinics; to pray that they don’t wind up worse-off than they started, that the police don’t sniff them out, and that their new modifications aren’t just garbage-tier knock-offs.

Of course, some people give more of a shit about these designer mods than the patients who may or may not wind up with them. In that case, the last of the three titans has them covered.

It’s no fucking surprise that the Ulsan Corporation is the crown-jewel of the New Republic — it’s primarily responsible for killing the old one. As the world’s premier technology and cybernetics conglomerate, Ulsan is also primarily responsible for the research, development, and distribution of cybernetic enhancements.

Like the one your body is currently acclimating to.

No such thing as ethical consumption under capitalism, right?

Ulsan may be less obvious with its bastardry than its counterparts, but as far as you can tell, it’s not good guy behavior to eat an established state and shit it back out. Even if you can’t tie any specific, ongoing atrocities back to them, you have no qualms about adding the desperate state of the union to their indictment.

You can blame them for the desperate measures they’ve necessitated, although you won’t give them an ounce of credit for the spark of resistance they so recklessly lit.

Despite it all, there are still people out there who refuse to accept things for what they are. They find an alternative to the comply or die ultimatum — run along the razor’s edge, taking what they can get, whenever they can get it.

Like Changbin, one of Seoul’s best-connected fixers.

Like you, a gun for hire.

Like Jisung, sitting in your passenger seat as you drive across town, who’s just happy to be included.

Generally speaking, piss and vinegar don’t mix well with club security.

If you were anyone else, rolling up to The Crypt like you own the place would be ill-advised. More than that, it would be asking to get your teeth kicked in faster than you could say, “I’m on the list.”

Thankfully, as it often does, your reputation precedes you. Nobody in the block-long line bats an eye when you cut right to the front, a fact that has Jisung smirking in a way that might otherwise get him killed. Still, the bouncer shoots you a look that says you’re more trouble than you’re worth; and you agree.

Before your friend can change the muscle’s mind, you grab Jisung by the wrist and tug him through the front entrance. You don’t let go when the door shuts behind you, although it’s more for convenience than concern for his safety. He has a tendency to wander, and you don’t have the patience.

“Haven’t been here in a while,” he muses as you drag him towards the main bar, head turning to look in every direction except the one you’re moving in.

You don’t slow down.

Winding your way through the drunks at the counter, you inch closer to the large booths along the far wall. Inside, draped nonchalantly over the plush benches, sit the big guns — mercenaries with far more sway than you, far fatter wallets. They’re living the high life you’ve always dreamed of, and they don’t even notice you staring as you pass.

“Oh, shit!” Jisung waves overhead to one of them, reminding you without trying that he — unlike you — has other friends.“S.Coups, where have the fuck have you been, man?”

You still don’t slow down.

Not when you reach the stairwell at the far side of the main floor. Not when you shuffle down the steps to the employees only section. Not even when the security camera overhead silently demands that you do.

There’s only one locked door amongst the few; you fly to it like a homing pigeon and beat against the metal with your free hand. It isn’t until the burning ache sets in that you realize you chose your right.

“Goddamn it.” You growl down at it, as if your hand will apologize for hurting. Turning your vitriol towards the door, you kick it hard, steel-toed boot forcing out a thud. “Changbin, open this shit up!”

Jisung glares as he scolds you, “Manners, maybe?”

You roll your eyes, but his expectant expression doesn’t budge.

“Fucking — fine, okay? Fine.” Hands thrown up in defeat, you take a deep breath. Your next words come out saccharine, accompanied by fluttering lashes that can’t even be seen. “Changbin, darling, could you please open this shit up?”

The two of you wait in dead silence for several seconds before Jisung’s hands fly up to your hair, unprompted. Your surprised yelp doesn’t faze him. He grabs the bobby-pin from where you’ve stashed it under your ponytail, drops to his knees, and starts to work.

You snort, “Well, damn. Look at you!”

Truly, you’re impressed. Jisung normally leaves the dirty work to you, yet here he is — breaking and entering.

They grow up so fast.

He tries not to look proud of himself, but his cheeks blush a shade of sakura and rat him right out. Though you’re sure he’d love to, he can’t even lift a hand to wave you off before the lock clicks. With a quick twist of the knob, he pushes the door open.

Changbin’s office looks close to normal, with a few notable exceptions. For starters, he’s not in it. The man you’re dealing with never sees the light of day if he can help it.

Jisung pipes up first: “Okay, what the fuck?”

The office chair Changbin normally occupies is spun to the side, as if his ass left it in a hurry. Even odder than that is the small, green light which indicates that he didn’t shut off his computer before leaving it unattended. It’s not a decision someone like Changbin — neurotic and paranoid to a borderline clinical degree — makes on his own.

That, you know outright, is a problem.

Cautiously, you slip past Jisung and walk on eggshells towards Changbin’s desk. You know it’s stupid, that no one would bother rigging the floor tiles to blow under the weight of your boots, but you can’t ignore the way your gut twists with every step. That dread only gets worse, the closer you get.

To the right of his primary screen, there’s a half-eaten vending-machine burrito that’s so covered with ants, you almost mistake them for pepper flakes. That sight makes bile rise in your throat, in and of itself, but it’s the untouched cup of coffee that sends a tingle of panic down your spine. Around the base of the glass, hardly visible on the sheet of paper underneath, is a water ring.

That coffee — at one point, however long ago — was iced.

Changbin would kill you for it if he were here, but he isn’t, so you drop down into his chair. You pause as soon as your ass settles onto the leather, still not convinced that one wrong move won’t set off some sort of trap. The breath you’ve been holding leaks out slowly when your actions go without consequences.

A quick glance up at Jisung confirms that he looks exactly as spooked as you feel. You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows hard.

He knows the answer before he asks, but that doesn’t stop him. It comes out scratchy, riddled with hesitation that says he doesn’t really want to hear the response. “He hasn’t been here in days, has he?”

You shake your head, just barely, then turn to the desk. Bottom lip pinched between worried teeth, you scan the surface for anything you missed on your first pass.

Give me a hint, you motherfucker. All I need is a breadcrumb.

It’s the absence of something that grabs your attention. Eyes narrowing, you lean forward in your seat to get as close as possible to his monitors.

“Does that…?” You start to ask but your voice trails off before you finish; thoughts moving too quickly to inventory before the next one arrives.

Though black, the screens in front of you aren’t lifeless. If anything, they’re still backlit, glitching subtly in a way they shouldn’t — not if the system had been locked, powered off, or otherwise put to sleep. You don’t have to be a netrunner to know that someone is running an opp, fucking up the computer’s processing and leaving it brain dead.

It’s so small that you almost miss the minimized window at the bottom left-hand corner of his secondary monitor, screen otherwise barren. Hesitantly, you reach out your hand and press a trembling finger to it.

Jisung is hovering so closely over your shoulder that you can practically taste that burrito on his breath. You elbow him once in the chest, hard.

He coughs, pointing to the screen as he sputters, “What the hell are those?”

“Numbers, Jisung.” You deadpan. “They’re called numbers.”

Ignoring the way he grumbles in response, you grab your mobile from your pocket. It springs to life at your sudden touch and broadcasts a holographic home screen in the air just centimeters above the glass. Just as fast, it tracks the movement of your eyes flicking through the list of applications. With the faintest shudder, the GPS navigation consumes the screen.

You repeat what you hope are coordinates:

35.2029, 128.6001.

As the map loads, you and Jisung exchange glances that are underscored by tense swallows. He knows it, and so do you:

No matter where that pin ends up dropping, you have no choice but to go.

It takes three hours to drive from Seoul to Changwon. Although it’s not a route you’ve taken in years, or one you ever expected to take again, you still know it like the back of your hand. You can still navigate every turn — every crater and curve — with your eyes closed, even now.

Despite that fact, your decision to race to the southeast this time has nothing to do with sentimentality for the hometown you left five years ago.

This is just for Changbin, you repeat like a mantra, pressing harder on the accelerator.

With every stoplight and thought you race through, the background grows blurrier but the big picture gets clearer. Changbin himself has nothing to do with it; and you’re not as selfless as your inner monologue keeps claiming. You correct yourself:

This is for me and my empty bank account.

Really — who could blame you?

You need steady contracts in order to eat. Without Changbin, those get fewer and farther between. It’s the transitive property, or whatever; basic math. You might starve without him, and that is the one thing in this life that you’re unwilling to do.

In the passenger seat, Jisung stirs. When he speaks, his voice isn’t weighted down with exhaustion in the way it usually is, halfway through a car trip. For some reason, it makes your stomach turn to consider that — for what is probably the first time ever — he isn’t sleeping through a drive.

“He left in a hurry,” he quietly notes.

Out of the corner of your eye, you glance at him and confirm the presence of that worried crease between his eyebrows. It’s not accompanied by the usual, furiously-bouncing knee. That makes your stomach turn, too. Clearly, he’s vaulted over mere anxiety and landed somewhere close to shutting down.

You nod. “He did.”

It spooks him when you take your right hand off the steering wheel and give his elbow a brief squeeze. You’re not the affectionate type; you both know this. It always makes your rare touches more ominous than comforting.

“Do you think he was running to something, or running away from something?”

Leave it to Jisung to say the quiet part out loud.

Normally, you have an answer for his constant questions; and if you don’t, you resort to lying or guessing. This time, however, you don’t bother with either of those tactics because it doesn’t matter. Whatever the correct answer is, it’ll still feel wrong because Changbin doesn’t run.

Period.

Full stop.

So, the conclusion your brain keeps trying to come to is that he didn’t — he wouldn’t — if it came down to choice. The only reason Changbin would’ve disappeared like this, suddenly and wordlessly, is if he was taken.

Pulse hammering loudly in your ears, you don’t hear Jisung announce that your destination is only a few hundred meters down the road. Without his emphatic pointing out the windshield ahead, you simply would’ve continued racing forward, taking the speed limit as a suggestion to be ignored. Thankfully, your lead foot switches to the brake with enough time to make your turn. Tires hit dirt; your car fishtails as it transitions from the road to the worn-out path to your right.

“The fuck is this place?” You mutter, more to yourself than to Jisung.

It’s obsolete, you know that much.

Something akin to an industrial park, but one that clearly hasn’t been used since before the War. There are electrical towers dotting a perimeter around the space, none of which are operational; the grid system was replaced by wind power, then by solar energy no fewer than fifty years ago. The driveway below is so cracked that patches of weeds have overtaken most of what remained of the pavement. All the rest is weathered, reduced to broken bits of cement and dirt.

Your car slows to a stop halfway down the parkway, surrounded on both sides by empty storage units with doors either broken or missing entirely. Hair raising on the back of your neck, you park but don’t kill the engine. Slowly, you rest your right hand over top of the holster strapped to your thigh and open your car door with your left.

The sun set a few hours into your drive. Its absence hasn’t done a damn thing to break the thick heat waiting for you outside. Humid air settles on your skin and leaves a sheen of sweat behind like a handprint, sticky.

“These were the coordinates,” Jisung affirms with a sigh. He stays seated inside the vehicle, leaving you to wonder why. He’s either too panicked to move, or correct in assuming you’d tell him to sit his unarmed ass back down before you made him.

You don’t respond.

Instead, your eyes continue to scan the property for signs of — well, anything. Movement, a heat signature, whatever might register on your optical mods. There’s nothing, save for the stray tumbleweed somersaulting across the empty lot. You narrow your eyes to zoom in, heart pounding with anticipation.

You almost scream when you see it, but you swallow the urge. Fear won’t do you any good, but the semi-automatic strapped to your thigh might. It’s in your palm before you can blink, cocked and aimed at the figure ahead. At the bottom of your field of vision, your ammo count glows in translucent, block letters.

So, the ballistic co-processor is worth the pain.

Their posture is casual, legs dangling from the metal catwalk they sit on. Their elbows rest against the railing in front of them, as if they’re leaning on a counter in a bar and not spying on you from a scaffold four meters overhead. The way they’re watching in silence is unsettling enough; the wooden tal obscuring their face is fucking nightmare fuel, if you’ve ever seen it.

Head tilted curiously to the side, the stranger stares down at you through small eye holes, wooden mouth frozen in a hand-carved smile. Whoever they are, they’re immersed in the bit. They exaggerate every slow movement for their audience of two.

Good for them, you scoff to yourself.

Gloved hands come up to pantomime “don’t shoot” mere seconds before they grab hold of the railing in front of them. Just as quickly, they swing themselves underneath with a kick of their legs until they’re falling, falling, falling towards the ground below. They land easily on their feet without so much as a grunt. All the while, dust swirls in pirouettes around their ankles, spot-lit by your car’s headlamps.

“What — what the fuck?” Jisung squeaks.

You don’t answer, but that doesn’t stop him from repeating his question, over and over.

Hands still raised, the stranger slowly closes the distance between you. Their fingers wiggle slightly in some demented version of a wave; they’re taunting you. The unhealed part of you wants to shoot those fingers off, one by one.

You’ve never been fond of clowns.

“If you like having kneecaps without bullets in them, I suggest you stay still, chingu,” you scoff, now more annoyed than alarmed.

To your surprise, they listen. Their feet still, side by side; and their hands stay where you can see them. That is, until they curl all of their fingers into their palm, except for their right index finger. With it, they point silently over your shoulder.

As soon as you can whip your neck around, a gloved fist collides with your temple. The last thing you see before your vision goes black is a second, wooden smile looming over you.

A hushed tone manages to nudge you awake.

“You really can’t keep doing this. Seriously, your people skills are awful.”

The whole world’s blurry, and you can’t make out the source of the sound, but you’re coherent enough to know it when a second voice chimes in. It’s much less gentle than the first, higher in pitch and twice as exasperated. It snaps, “She was armed.”

“I had it under control,” the first voice huffs.

The two seem to be too lost in their argument to notice your eyelids fluttering or your fingers twitching. Your wrists aren’t bound, you realize, but that fact doesn’t help you much in your current state. Back resting heavily against the thin nylon cloth of a cot, it’d take more energy than you have to spare in order to get to your feet. Worse, your eyes don’t seem interested in cooperating.

They should be by now.

They’re open, you’re conscious, and —

Motherfucker.

The more awake you become, the more the ache in your temple reverberates down your jaw. You know without looking that the right side of your face is bruised to hell and back. Scraped up, too, if you had to guess; you hit the gravel like a bag of bricks.

They must’ve done it on purpose, hitting you exactly where they needed to in order to scramble your visual input. The most you get is shapes, black and white static. It wasn’t the hardest knock you’d ever taken to the head — not by a long shot — but it was perfectly targeted and timed.

Clearly, they’re no amateurs.

One such shadow kneels down next to you. Gentle fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear while their other hand tilts your drooping head to the side.

They tut, “Just look at what you did to her face.”

“From what I’ve heard, she’s been through worse,” the second voice scoffs. You watch the shadow’s shoulders as they shrug, wishing you could focus on their face well enough to bash it in.

The retort comes quickly, but it doesn’t come in Korean.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t do better.”

The hands that gently cradle your face pull away, leaving you cold. The action itself isn’t as jarring as the sudden use of English, though — especially the accent it’s spoken with. You may not be fluent, but you can sense what’s missing: the consonant on the end of that last word.

You sense something else, too, but you’re still too disoriented to follow that thought from start to finish. It’s on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.

Who — ?

The bastard that broke your brain must notice your face scrunching in confusion because their next words seem to be aimed at you. Clipped and unapologetic, they mutter, “Should be fine within the hour. Already been out for —”

They suck in a breath through their teeth. You can’t tell if they’re stalling in order to toy with you, or if they’re genuinely doing the math.

“— Seven hours or so, now.”

Fuck!

One of the two snorts out a laugh; it’s the only reason you piece it together that you spoke out loud. Emboldened by the confirmed functionality of your voice, you speak again without thinking it through first.

You don’t care where you are or who you’re with. You only have one question:

“Is Changbin still alive? Because if he is, I’ll kill him myself.”

The man kneeling next to your cot chuckles, soft and low, but he doesn’t acknowledge your question beyond that. Instead, he addresses his hamfisted friend. “Can you please get her some water?”

“Am I a waiter now, Yongbok-ah?” The other snips, though his tone is devoid of any real heat. If his face wasn’t blurred out of existence, you’d likely find a sneer on it. “Should I roll some gimbap for her, too?”

“Actually, you should,” counters this Yongbok. His response is buried so deeply under his breath that his back talk may as well be a secret for your ears only. “Punched her clean into the next weekday — so, yeah. It’s the least you could do.”

It grows silent enough that you can hear every incredulous footstep as the waiter storms off.

The remainder says, “Sorry about him,” and for whatever little it’s worth, he sounds like he means it. You say nothing, simply marinating in your resentment.

Meanwhile, he shifts from his knees in order to sit fully on the ground next to your cot. Elbows extended, he leans back onto his palms and sighs gently, “Minho’s not as bad as the first impressions he makes.”

You scoff so forcefully that you feel it in your sinuses. “This is the second. His first is the reason I can’t see who’s holding me hostage.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” The shape beside you sits up suddenly. He sputters, “You’re not a hostage, and this isn’t a kidnapping —”

“Then what the fuck is it?” You snap, “Huh, Yongbok?”

Blindly, you throw out a half-balled fist in a half-baked attempt to even the score. It misses by a mile, nearly knocking you off balance in the process. Your wrist is encircled by the same warm fingers you felt before, doubling over but exerting no force.

“We were scouting you. You know, like, soccer?” He chuckles sheepishly. “Changbin mentioned that you were a free agent, so to speak, and we thought you might wanna join the team.”

What the fuck?

“And — it wasn’t supposed to wind up like this.” His shadow’s hands gesture vaguely at the room you can’t see. “I did try to warn you. You just didn’t turn around in time.”

There are too many questions swirling around in your skull to choose from. One of them must break free and nudge your retinal chip back into place because something turns the lights back on. Glitching wildly, your vision flickers from low contrast to high definition. It doesn’t hurt, but the surprised gasp you choke out could easily be interpreted that way.

The man next to you is back on his knees in a second, both hands finding your shoulders to either comfort you or immobilize you — and you aren’t sure which. Against your better judgment, you ignore the reflex that tells you to fight or flee. Instead, you reach out and touch his cheekbone to confirm that the faint spots you see are freckles and not lingering sensory damage on your part.

He doesn’t even blink, much less say a word. There’s no jerk to get away, and there’s not a single question asked about what the fuck you’re doing — just tolerance. Far more than you’d be extending if the roles were reversed.

Freckles.

You aren’t embarrassed, but you drop your hand quickly and scowl at him until he does the same. Once again, he raises them as he leans back. Notably, he doesn’t wiggle his fingers like the first time you crossed paths.

That reminds me —

Abruptly, you draw your arm back to deck him in earnest.

Just like the last time, he catches you before you can strike him; however, instead of capturing your wrist, it’s the entirety of your fist. His palm absorbs the shock, fingers closing around your hand. It’s the gentlest trap you’ve ever been ensnared in, which you hate.

Smart of you to prevent another attempt.

“Can I finish explaining myself?” He asks, voice soft.

Bright doe eyes scan over your face cautiously as he contemplates letting your hand go. It’s disarming, sure, but you’d rather die than admit it.

You give him absolutely nothing to work with, so he adds, “You can hit me when I’m done, if you still want to.”

All you give him in return is a glare, which he somehow correctly interprets as permission to keep going. The grip on your fist loosens, although it wasn’t constricting to begin with. Like nothing happened, you pull it away and cross your arms.

As if nonchalance has ever been your strong suit.

He stares at you, deep in thought, for longer than you know what to do with. Eyes sweeping over your features like he’ll be quizzed later, taking in every detail. It’s unsettling — what about you is even worth gawking at?

When he frowns, that spark of light in his eyes stays put. “You don’t remember me.”

It’s not a question because he isn’t asking; he’s telling. And you have no goddamn clue what he means, no matter how loudly the voice in your head screams that you should. The familiarity buzzing through your brain can’t place him — not the button of his nose, not even those fucking freckles.

“I don’t know anyone named Yongbok,” you counter, frustration evident.

You wouldn’t be this harsh if you know how not to be. Part of you feels guilty when you see the hurt flicker across his face, but both emotions — his and yours — are gone as quickly as they appear. Consequently, the walls stay up, refusing to give. Despite you, the corner of his mouth hitches up in a lopsided version of a smile.

That’s familiar, too.

“Never really went by it,” he chuckles. As he does, he tilts his head quizzically.

Another bell rings, yet you can’t name the note.

Shyly, he takes his half-smile with him and looks anywhere else. The anticipation is spinning cartwheels in your stomach, tingling down the back of your neck, and you’re seconds away from trying to smack the trapped words right out of him.

Who are you to me?

After a deep breath in and out, he glances back at you from the corner of his eye. His hesitation does nothing to prepare you for his response, which isn’t his name at all. It’s yours — a nickname, more specifically. One no one has used in damn near a decade.

“Been a while, Scraps. Hasn’t it?”

Felix has never seen anyone freeze the way you do when the realization finally hits. For a minute, he worries that Minho did more damage to your poor brain than either of them initially diagnosed; it wouldn’t be the first time. Minho’s never been known to be careful or tactful.

Your silence — and your total lack of physical response — doesn’t last, though. He nudges your kneecap with his knuckles just to make sure you can feel it. You blink rapidly, as if you’re just now remembering how.

He starts to ask, “Are you ok—?”, but your fist flies out, pops him right in the jaw, and he chokes on the rest of that question. Hands flying up to cover his face, he collapses back onto the floor with a groan. When the initial shock wears off, it dissolves into laughter that shakes his shoulders.

Honestly, what did he expect?

In a flash, you shove yourself off your cot. You’re on top of him before he can blink, pinning him down. You grip his shirt in one fist and raise the other. He braces himself for impact but doesn’t flinch, too taken aback by the fury you’re capable of communicating without a single word.

“You’re fucking with me,” you spit, breaking the silence.

Your glare is borderline feral — burning — and that makes him laugh even harder.

“You haven’t changed a bit, you know that?”

To both of your surprise, you don’t hit him again; you don’t even try. You freeze, but unlike the last time, your eyes are shaking. Your raised arm is, too, like it’s taking all you have to keep whatever you’re feeling to yourself.

Classic Scraps.

You mutter, “You’re dead,” and it’s not a threat.

Not even close, really. It’s a declaration, one accompanied by an expression that’s as close to vulnerable as he’s ever seen from you. All at once, you lower your arm; the rest of you slumps, too. Whispering, you repeat, “You’re dead.”

Something about your tone hurts worse than the burgeoning bruise near his mouth. It aches, even more so when he frowns. You deserve an explanation — an apology, too — but Felix doesn’t know where the fuck to start.

Maybe he should cash that reality check first.

“Is that what people are saying?” He asks.

He’s not sure what about that trips him up. It makes perfect sense that this is the conclusion people wound up jumping to. After all, he left without a word and never came back — didn’t leave a trace, either.

Felix wasn’t the first teenager to slip through the cracks, so he’d figured that his would be another run-of-the-mill disappearance. Sure, people tend to notice when kids go missing; but that doesn’t stop the world from turning. Sooner or later, people stop looking, either too busy or too hopeless to keep holding a torch.

Eventually, they forget.

At least, that was the reality Felix had subscribed to — that, after a while, he’d slipped through the cracks of collective consciousness. It was easier to tell himself that he wasn’t missed. His guilt couldn’t keep him up at night if nobody remembered that he existed in the first place; especially when a decade slipped past in his absence.

But you did remember.

You missed him.

You lift your knee so that you’re no longer straddling him and drop onto your back at his side.

It’s funny, he thinks as he stares up at the ceiling. The two of you spent years just like this, albeit on the hood of some junkyard sedan. Two pairs of wide eyes were always fixed on constellations, dreaming of something bigger than both of you. Of some future where you weren’t still stuck in the gutter.

“There was no trace of you anywhere.” You speak so softly that Felix is left to wonder whether you’re talking to him or yourself. “No records that you fled, no word from you, no hits on CCTV — nothing. The cops said there’d be a trail if…”

Your voice fades out before you can finish that thought, so Felix picks up where you left off: “If I was alive to leave one.”

There’s a long pause before you speak again.

“This is where you disappeared to?”

He feels a shift beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way you’ve tilted your head to gaze at him. By the time he does the same, the moment is gone, and you’re taking in the room around you.

It’s not much, but it’s all he has: A small room in a decommissioned factory, smelling faintly of sawdust despite not containing any. The cot you just sprang from is where he’s spent most nights since he was fifteen.

The floor underneath it — underneath you — is more dirt than concrete now, no matter how many times he’s scrubbed it; and the few iron shelves that hang along each wall are just as gross. So are the knickknacks he’s set on them, but he doesn’t mind.

The site itself is long forgotten. It’d be an eyesore if anyone ever looked, but no one bothers.

Even satellites have stopped paying it any attention, leaving it to fade into dirt and obscurity, not even a shadow of what it used to be. Once plush and inviting, the surrounding forest was leveled in a firefight that ended with ninety-percent of the nearby buildings getting blown to shit.

The New Republic could’ve easily organized a relief team to dig through the shattered city. At any point in the last fifty years, they could’ve rebuilt what burned in that failed uprising, but they didn’t; and Felix knows they never will because that rubble has a function. Apart from burying one of the country’s most impoverished districts, it serves as a cautionary tale. A threat left behind to the masses: this is what happens when people pose risk to profits.

Still, flowers can grow within cracks in concrete. After all, his life with you started just a few kilometers away.

“Are we still in Changwon, or did you and that asshole drag me out of the province?”

That edge of yours is ever present, and Felix is glad. It’s one of the million things he’s missed about you; a feature on the long list of reasons he wishes he could’ve called — messaged, sent a smoke signal, anything — to keep you around in whatever capacity he could.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Felix feels the weight of a lost decade sitting heavy on his chest, so he does what he always does: he chooses light. Smiling brightly, he asks, “D’you remember that junkyard we used to run away to after curfew?”

You roll your eyes. You don’t have to say it out loud; he knows you do. The two of you spent more time there than you did in your own homes, lining glass bottles along the wooden fence posts and firing stones at them with a homemade slingshot.

“We’re a few kilometers up the road, actually.”

At this, you sit up so that no part of your body stays pressed against his. Dead silence settles in the space between you like a brick wall. You bristle, then you snap, “All that time you were dead, you were still within spitting distance?”

Felix opens his mouth to respond, but your rigid posture makes it clear that you have no desire to listen. He closes it again without saying a word. It’s what he deserves, isn’t it?

“Traded in your family, your home, your — Me.” You clear your throat to hide the fact that your voice breaks. It’s too late. “And for what, Felix? To haunt some abandoned building like a ghost?”

You clench your fists, like a grip tight enough might keep you together. That part of you hasn’t changed either, it seems. Neither has the extremely unsettling way you get quieter, the more upset you are. Just like that, he’s reminded of what you used to say: the more it hurts, the less it shows.

“I couldn’t pick you out of a fucking lineup despite all of that history,” you whisper, deflated. “And you were here the whole time.”

Talking won’t do him much good, so Felix opts to show you. Palms pressed to the ground, he pushes himself to his feet, and he doesn’t bother dusting off the back of his pants once he stands. It won’t make a difference, anyway, when the whole damn city is covered in it.

Once he steadies himself, he extends his hand to you, half-expecting you to slap it away. You don’t budge. You never do, he recalls fondly.

“One chance?” His eyes are pleading, even though you don’t look up to meet them. “It’s hard to explain, but it’ll make more sense if you see it.”

Without looking, you lift your arm and slap your hand into his. A small concession, but it’s enough to make his smile reappear. He’s practically beaming when he hauls you to your feet, and you grip his forearms to keep steady.

“Fine,” you concede with a huff.

Then, you round on him with one pointed finger, jabbing him in the center of his chest with force. It’ll bruise, but he supposes that’s the whole point.

“This better be worth all the fucking theatrics, or I swear to god —”

“You’ll make me swallow my own teeth?” He rolls his eyes with a low chuckle and tugs you along after him on his way to the door. “Yeah, yeah, yeah — Heard that threat a thousand times, Scraps, and you’ve never once made good on it.”

Just to emphasize his point, he looks over his shoulder at you and grins with all thirty-two of them.

All things considered, you take everything in stride. You don’t react much at all when you discover that the abandoned building is anything but; refuse to bat an eye when the two people you woke up to are revealed to be a tiny fraction of the whole.

You even keep your hand in his as he ushers you from room to room — through the clinic, the makeshift and woefully under-equipped armory, the Hub — and introduces you to whoever you come across. He might even go so far as to call you friendly, which is a first. Receiving any kind of warmth from you typically requires high-level security clearance.

Or, at least, it used to. Felix has to remind himself more than once that, small echoes aside, there are parts of you he doesn’t know anymore. This could very well be one of them.

Halfway through the tour, you finally offer up more than a lukewarm greeting and your name. It’s just the two of you now; you don’t have to make yourself palatable anymore. Blunt as ever, you throw out, “This is a cult, right? You ran away from home to join a cult?”

There she is, he thinks.

Felix pulls a face in disapproval, which you either don’t catch or don’t care about. Instead, you turn your head in the opposite direction and let your gaze sweep over the loading dock you currently stand upon.

It’s the closest thing they’ve got to a sitting room, filled with the only comfortable furniture they could get their hands on — half-busted arm chairs, ratty old couches, tables held together with duct tape and a prayer. You drop suddenly onto one such couch, jerking him back until his ass winds up next to yours on a tattered cushion.

Felix can’t tell if you pulled him down on purpose, or if you simply forgot that you were holding onto him. Either way, he doesn’t mind, but part of him hopes it was the former.

“It’s a collective,” he corrects you, lips flattening into a firm, straight line.

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it. If it’s a sex cult, just say so.”

He tries not to laugh — really, he does — because the last thing you need is an enabler, but your deadpan delivery has always hit him where he’s weakest. He tries again while swallowing a chuckle: “It’s the Black Screen, home to the most talented and ungovernable motherfuckers on the peninsula.”

You don’t look impressed. Felix doesn’t take it to heart.

“We’ve got a reconnaissance team, netrunners —”

As if he’s doing a roll call, he points to nearby stragglers with every position he names.

“— corporate defectors, combat vets, medics, ex-fixers —”

He nudges you with his elbow, wiggles his eyebrows and murmurs, “— Edge runners —”

If that look in your eye is any indication, you still hate it when he does that.

“And a couple of wayward drunks who — well…” Felix pauses for a moment to think. It doesn’t help, so he shrugs, snickering, “I dunno how they got here, and they don’t contribute much, but they’re fun to have around!”

The corner of your mouth twitches, ever so slightly. He grins down at you, as if to say gotcha.

“So, it is a sex cult,” you repeat flatly after a beat.

Felix can’t beat your bit, so he may as well join you in it. Bested, he sighs, “Yeah, pretty much.”

You hum in acceptance of his defeat, clearly amused by how easily he still gives in to you.

With pursed lips, you continue to take in your surroundings. Your brow furrows while you process the information you’ve been bombarded with so far, but you don’t offer up any further questions or snide comments. Thankfully, the silence that falls over you both feels a lot less like lead than the previous one.

Felix’s gaze stays fixed on you, though you’re too busy looking elsewhere to notice. Maybe you couldn’t recognize him, but shit — he’d know you anywhere, anytime. You’ve gotten older, of course, finally grew into those features of yours. Still, there are hints of the kid he used to know hidden all over your face.

Original traits aside, the new additions — the tattoos, for starters — all read like you. In fact, Felix is fairly confident that he’d know who they belonged to, even if the other context was removed. After all, the cyberware installed into your hand can’t undermine the familiarity of it resting against his palm.

And it sure as shit still hits like it used to.

He considers it a blessing, really, that so much of you survived the years that flew by without him. That the scrawny girl next door — ready and willing to fight God over a single slight — still rolls her eyes the same way, still speaks in that satoori his non-native tongue could never mimic.

“Maybe I’m missing something,” you announce suddenly. The unexpected sound of your voice startles Felix so much that he jumps, knocking his shoulder into yours in the process. You ignore his reaction and continue, “This just looks like someone is collecting people as a hobby. What are you all doing here?”

Oh.

Yeah, that’s a fair question.

“We’re… starting a fire,” Felix muses.

You arch an eyebrow expectantly, although the rest of your face remains impassive. It’s less of a demand for him to continue than it is permission for him not to stop.

“And we’re going to burn it all down.” He hits you with a devilish grin, drops his voice low in a way that makes you shiver involuntarily. “The corpo-rats, the lies they sell — all of it.”

“Sounds like anarchy,” you say, tilting your head to the side. There’s a beat, then you grin to match his. “Sign me up.”

Felix stands at the far side of the dining area with his arms crossed and his head leaning back against the cinder blocks behind him. His legs are crossed at the ankles, knees aching from the sheer amount of time he’s been holding the wall up.

As much as his body wants to sit, the rest of him is out of options. The only table that isn’t full is the one you’re occupying with Changbin and Jisung. After the day you’ve had, you deserve time alone with something familiar. He recognizes that he isn’t that.

Not anymore — and not yet, either.

He finds it hard to stray too far, though. You’ve always been able to fend for yourself — that black-and-blue jaw of his is proof enough — but it’s a role he can’t help falling into, looking out for you. Muscle memory.

Although Felix can’t quite make out anything that the three of you are saying, it’s clear as a damn bell when you slam your palms down on the table. Just as obvious is the split second in which your anger gives way — when the pain in your right hand finally registers in your brain.

“That one going to be a problem?”

Hyunjin, as usual, seems to appear out of thin air. He sidles up to Felix and takes up the spot next to him along the wall. All it takes is one quick glance to confirm it — he’s exhausted. Dark half-moons sit in the wells beneath his eyes like ink, silently informing Felix of yet another all-nighter; still keeping secrets as to where he goes at night when everyone else is sleeping.

But Hyunjin isn’t a mystery Felix will ever be able to solve, so he looks back in your direction and asks, “Who, Scraps?” Then, with a shake of his head, he sighs, “No. She’s a cherry bomb, but she’s reliable. Far more than most, actually.”

It’s odd, Felix thinks, that Hyunjin didn’t already know the answer to that question. As the reconnaissance leader of the Black Screen, there isn’t much Hyunjin isn’t aware of. Felix doesn’t comment on that piece, however. Instead, he does his best to interpret your reaction.

“If I had to guess, Changbin just told her about the fake kidnapping.”

And Hyunjin doesn’t do a damn thing to conceal his smirk. That was his plan, after all.

Two weeks ago, Seo Changbin stumbled upon a lead by accident. While Felix isn’t privy to the details of what Changbin dug up, he knows it must’ve been significant. That’s the only explanation Felix can come up with as to how Changbin wound up at the rendezvous point. Nobody — not the corporate ghouls, their war dogs, or any other sorry soul — finds the Black Screen unless they want to be found.

Felix is privy to what happened next because it’s the only reason he wound up involved in this at all:

Whatever intel Changbin had was groundbreaking enough to score an invitation to the revolution, but he had more to offer the higher-ups than that. He dropped the name of someone who could be an asset, under the right circumstances. Someone who wouldn’t follow a breadcrumb trail for free but would tear the peninsula apart to find whoever owed them.

For what it’s worth, Felix disagreed with that characterization the second he heard it. Despite the mask you like to wear, you’re incapable of being self-centered. You’ve never been profit-driven, heartless, or attachment-avoidant. Just hellbent on survival for you and the people you feel responsible for, even as a kid.

The only reason Felix hasn’t asked you about your motive outright is because he knows you’d lie. The truth is simple: Unless it was for someone you care deeply about, you wouldn’t waste gasoline on speeding back to a place you hate.

Hyunjin clears his throat, pulling Felix out of the daze he’d fallen into. Given the pointed look on his face, Hyunjin must be repeating himself when he says, “She got you bad, huh?”

Confusion forces Felix’s brow to furrow.

“This?” He takes a wild guess and gestures to the bruise on his jaw before waving dismissively. “Nah, her form is terrible. Truly garbage-tier follow-through. I can teach her, though.”

Hyunjin pushes himself off the wall and moves to exit the dining area. As he passes by, he gives Felix a patronizing pat on his shoulder. “Not what I meant, Yongbokie.”

Felix frowns, unsure how to take what he’s being given.

The fuck?

“Not even close,” Hyunjin calls over his shoulder.

He shoots Felix a wink, and then he’s gone, disappearing out the door the same way he entered it — like a goddamn apparition.

“Wow. Recruited? That’s — wow.”

Jisung is doing a terrible job of pretending he isn’t blushing. He clears his throat to keep his voice even, but it’s useless. He’s not fooling anyone.

“I didn’t realize we were so sought after.”

“You’re not,” Changbin responds bluntly. He gestures across the table to you but maintains his eyes on Jisung. “She is. You just happened to be present, and they couldn’t leave a witness behind.”

Jisung doesn’t bother to hide the way his face falls. When he opens his mouth to whine, you raise your hand and silently demand that he spare you the earache. It seems to work; he slumps dejectedly and leans with his elbows against the tabletop. You proceed to ignore him.

Affect flat, you stare straight ahead at the source of all your fucking problems. The half of you that wants to hug Changbin for being alive and well is significantly quieter than the half of you that wants to grab him by the nape of his neck and shove his face into his yukgaejang.

Bastard.

“I no longer give a shit how I ended up here,” you state coolly. Liar. “That ship has sailed, and to keep it a buck with you, Binnie —”

He cringes at the nickname, which is exactly the reaction you sought.

“— I’m not interested in stroking your ego for getting one over on me. It won’t happen again. What I’m still waiting on —”

The only reason you leave that clause hanging in mid-air is to see the anticipation stir in his eyes. From where you’re sitting, it’s what he deserves: a little bit of unnecessary suspense. Really, it’s a form of reparations for the giant fucking inconvenience he’s been lately. His balance is way past due.

Jisung, perpetually along for the ride, shovels shrimp chips into his mouth while his eyes dart back and forth between your face and Changbin’s.

You shoot Changbin a sly smile and grab his beer, tilting the can his way in lieu of a bow. His eyes narrow, visibly annoyed with your stalling, but he doesn’t audibly complain when you down the rest of his drink. Resigned, he accepts the empty can that you hand it back to him

At long last, you clear your throat.

“— is an explanation for why you’re here,” you finally sigh.

Changbin rolls his eyes so hard that they go all-white for a moment. Then, to your surprise, he glares across the table at Jisung.

“You know, my life was way more pleasant before you dragged this one,” he huffs, gesturing to you with his chopsticks, “Into my bar.”

Just for a moment, Changbin sits with his annoyance. He’s entitled to some of it, you’ll concede. You’re not easy to love — you never have been — and you’re occasionally even harder to like. Despite that, he’s been known to look out for you in his own, mostly useless way; even in moments like this, when you’re being a fucking gash simply because you can.

But the fact remains that you dragged your ass across a peninsula for him. He knows damn well that you accept payment in the form of secrets when cash is too hard to come by, so….

“Spill,” you demand.

That tough exterior of his collapses like wet cardboard, just like you knew it would. He glances around the room quickly to confirm that no one is listening in, then he pushes his empty bowl out of the way. With the threat of staining his white t-shirt neutralized, Changbin leans in and asks, “Do either of you know Jung Wooyoung?”

Simultaneously, you and Jisung respond:

“The boxer?”

“The biter.”

Just the same, your friends turn to you with identical looks of bewilderment. You shrug, declining to elaborate because Changbin asked if you knew him, not how or how intimately. Truth be told, you’re not sure that he’s prepared for that answer.

“Anyways,” Changbin segues after clearing his throat. “He’s not up to either of those tasks these days.”

Genuinely curious, Jisung asks with a frown, “Did someone finally kill him?”

Fair question, you think.

With the way Wooyoung runs his mouth, it’s a wonder he’s lived as long as he has — assuming, of course, that he’s still alive. Beyond picking fights with people three times’ his size, his specialties include fixing matches and swiping other fighters’ significant others. If he’s not dead yet, you figure, it’s only a matter of time until the consequences of his antics come calling.

Changbin shakes his head, and the look on his face seems weirdly solemn, like the answer is even worse than that. It’s sobering; it knocks the smirk right off your face.

“He was short on cash, so he signed up for some clinical trial promising a million won for participants.”

Jisung, the resident non-doctor, sits up at this development. “Thanotech?”

You’re in the middle of rolling your eyes when Changbin intercepts, grimacing: “No, that’s the fucked up part. Well, one of the fucked up parts.”

Two pairs of expectant eyes lock on him.

“It’s Ulsan running the trial.”

You don’t pretend to be well-versed in any of the biomedical, cybernetic shit going on around you, but you do know that this particular corporation never leaks details of its research and development — not ever. Doing so would run the risk of a lesser titan swooping in to try and to dupe it.

But that’s not the only revelation that smacks you upside the head.

“Ulsan pays for lab rats now?” You scoff, surprised by your own interest. “Here I was, thinking they used ex-employees for that shit.”

It sounds callous when you say it out loud, but it’s a universal assumption. Part of the New Republic’s mythology, so to speak.

In your lifetime, you’ve never come across a single person who used to work for the Ulsan Corporation — not one. Just the same, you’ve never heard about anyone leaving; no one you’ve ever met has. It’s beyond the realm of possibility that a corporation like that has no turnover, so where do people go when their turn is over?

The dumpster out back, some say. According to others, they wind up in a secret mass grave in the oil fields.

“When he came back, I didn’t know where he’d been or why; I just saw him wandering around like a fucking zombie.” Changbin shivers. “He’s empty now, all sucked dry.”

Jisung looks pointedly at you, shit-eatin grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is that what happened when you —?”

An elbow to the center of his chest stops his question before he can finish asking it. He yelps instead, scooting his chair further down the table to get away from you, your sharp edges, and your even sharper glare.

“It freaked me the fuck out, and I didn’t have any answers, so I started poking around for something — anything — that might make sense of it.”

“So, that’s how you got pulled into the web.”

The voice from nowhere makes all three of you jump. You whip around to find yet another stranger.

How many fucking people do I have to meet today?

This particular wild card sits on top of the table directly behind yours with arms gently crossed over her chest; not closed off but cold, judging by the goosebumps making themselves known across her bare arms. Her boots rest on the chair in front of her, one chrome leg shining next to flesh-and-blood.

Whoever she is, she’s beaming. That fact confuses the shit out of you because you’re not often met with friendliness, especially from unknowns. Or maybe, you think, it’s a well-concealed effort to disarm you. Whatever it is, it’s working; the urge to snap at her for intruding is dead on arrival.

You open your mouth to ask what she means, but you can’t get the words out before someone else interjects.

Minho, that bastard, shouts from across the room, “Spider! Got a minute?”

Her eyes light up in a way that says she has several, so long as he’s the one asking. Without another word, she hops to her feet and pushes the chair that held them back under the table. As she heads his way, she sends you an apologetic smile, like she somehow owes you anything.

“I don’t know what they unraveled by pulling that thread,” Changbin sighs, nodding towards the pair exiting the room. “But this place has been buzzing since I got here.”

You need something to chew on that isn’t this, so you reach over and grab the bag of shrimp chips from Jisung’s unsuspecting hands. The frown he gives you is cartoonish, but as usual, he doesn’t put up a fight. Your version of an apology is holding a spare chip out to him, which he happily accepts.

After shoveling a handful into your mouth, you mumble, “So now what?”

“I don’t know about you, but if these guys —” Changbin gestures vaguely around the room with his index finger pointed. “— Give me a target to point at, I’ll pull the trigger.”

You snort, “That’s a lot of trust.”

It doesn’t mean much, coming from you. Your metric is beyond fucked, and you know it. That word is foreign, though; so far out of your grasp that you can’t wrap your brain around it.

“Maybe it is,” Changbin mutters while he looks down at the empty can in his grip.

For a moment, that’s all he says. All he does is stare into the black hole of its opening, as if there’s some answer lurking in the emptiness below it. He must not find it, though, because he crumples the aluminum like a piece of scrap paper.

When he glances back up at you, you see the uncertainty in his eyes. It reads like fear, which manages to unsettle you.

“I just — I can’t see what I saw and do nothing.”

Your second month in the compound starts with a bang — no, a thud.

With your body being forcibly ejected from your cot, crashing onto the ground, and your jaw clenching shut quickly with a click of gritted teeth.

“How many fucking times are we doing this?” You growl, less than half-awake.

Already past today’s quota for rage, you form a fist and swing your arm back violently against the capsized cot; it scrapes along the cement floor and skitters further away from you. The sudden burst of movement doesn’t do anything to make you feel better, but it was worth a shot, you suppose.

Felix, whose sunshine smile is too goddamn bright for this hour, crouches down in front of you. He at least has the decency to look apologetic when he lilts, “Until you learn to wake up to an alarm, I fear.”

He pauses, eyes scanning for any genuine distress beyond your shitty mood.

“Does that hurt?” He frowns.

Bleary eyes follow his pointed finger to your elbow, now prickling with blood where you skinned it against the floor. It doesn’t; and you’re not even remotely concerned about it, so you swat his hand away without answering his question and shove yourself to your feet. Once standing, you wander over to your steamer trunk to grab something clean enough to wear.

The shadowy one, Hyunjin, brought your shit to you a week ago — thank god. He provided no explanation whatsoever for how he knew where you lived or how he managed to get inside your building, but you’re a beggar, not a chooser. You’d rather enable his burglary than keep wearing the same, re-washed clothes you came here with or borrowing from people you still don’t know well.

As you peel yesterday’s tank-top up and over your head, your gravelly voice flies out to Felix, who stands and moves to lean against the wall. “You at least going to feed me breakfast before you bore me with more target practice?”

That’s most of what your time together has been so far, anyway. The chain of command is sorting out details above your pay grade; and you condition yourself to jump as high as they may eventually ask you to.

Felix doesn’t answer you, which isn’t like him. You look at him out of the corner of your eye and find him staring up at the ceiling, like his life depends on it.

“What are you —?”

Oh.

You glance down, cutting your question off midway through. He’s giving you and your semi-exposed body privacy, that’s what.

Sensing blood in the water, you swim in to scoff, “You have no problem flipping my bed when I’m in it, but bras are where you draw the line? What kind of gentleman are you?”

Still averting his eyes, he rolls them. You do him the favor of tugging on a different, slightly wrinkled tank-top; but you don’t give him the courtesy of letting up.

“Where do you stand on ass, Felix?”

“Are you always this annoying, first thing in the morning?”

Amusement slips through the cracks despite his efforts to conceal it. You slip out of the cotton shorts you slept in, dip your toes under the fabric pooled around your ankles, and flick them at him. He concedes his staring contest to the panels overhead in order to catch them.

Impressive reflexes.

“I’m this annoying at all hours of the day.” You grin impishly for just a second, then shrug. “You’re just less able to handle it, first thing in the morning.”

Bending back over your trunk, you dig through for something denim. You land on black, high-waisted shorts with a triumphant, “Aha!”, and make a big show of raising your trophy overhead. Once again, you glance at Felix to see if your attempt to get a rise out of him was successful. In a way, yes, it was — just not in the way you expected.

Based on the way his gaze lingers on your thighs and the curve of your ass, you don’t think Felix even noticed your theatrics. You don’t think he means to stare, either. As far as you can see, it’s the perfect opportunity to fuck with him further.

“Admiring the tattoos?” You arch an eyebrow and wait for him to blush out of panic at being caught. “I can recommend the artist, if you want to hit them up.”

To your surprise, you don’t rattle him. Dark eyes flick up from your body to your face, and they don’t seem ashamed of where they’ve been. Your plan backfires. More than that, it blows up right in your face, which is starting to heat up.

“The cantine closes in five minutes. Training starts in ten,” he states matter-of-factly, holding your gaze. “So, you can either eat, or you can keep pretending you’re not trying to flirt with me.”

Your mouth drops open, but you can’t even snap back at him before he chirps, “The choice is yours, Scraps,” with a playful smile.

With nothing more to say, Felix leans away from the wall. On his way out the door, he gives you a lazy, two-finger salute. Dumbstruck, you stand there, watching him leave; wondering where the hell your bumbling, sweetly shy friend from back home managed to disappear to.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Felix waggles his finger at you. A smug smile toys at his lips when you let out a frustrated grunt. “That’s the problem.”

He takes a step away from you, raises his fists to mimic your posture, and throws a right jab out into the air ahead of him. When he draws it back, he pauses with his shoulders even.

“D’you see the issue with this?” He asks, loosening one fist so that he can gesture from shoulder to shoulder.

You roll your eyes. “Is it that nobody’s currently hitting you?”

Felix, to his credit, is completely unbothered by the attitude you keep giving him. He’s far more patient than he should be with you. You, however, do not take criticism well.

“You square yourself off instead of retriggering an attack,” he gently corrects you. “By not turning and leading with your shoulder —” He twists slightly backwards, so that his body is angled similarly to the way it was when he struck in the first place. “— you leave all this surface area open.”

Okay, fine.

You’ll concede that this makes sense, but you will not admit to poor blocking. In fact, deflecting is what you’re best at, so that’s precisely what you do.

“And how exactly am I supposed to block hits that aren’t coming?”

Felix relaxes his stance with confusion scribbled all over his face. You don’t wait for him to ask what you mean, plunging right into your notes for him:

“This sparring shit doesn’t feel real because you refuse to hit me. It’s been weeks, and there still aren’t any stakes. If you’re going to insist that I learn this — which, by the way, feels pointless when I’m already armed —”

You gesture down to your thigh, where your pistol is normally strapped.

“— then you have to make me care.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, opting instead to quietly chew on the challenge you’ve raised. For a split second, you think you’ve finally grasped the straw that’ll break his back. He turns towards the door and walks away, seemingly giving up on trying to teach a rabid dog new tricks.

But Felix defies your expectations yet again, grabs your gear off the counter at the far side of the room, and heads back to you. As he walks, he pulls back the slide to fish out the round that waits in its chamber. Bullet still in hand, his focus shifts to the magazine, which he easily removes from the base of your pistol’s grip. After tucking your ammunition into the back pocket of his jeans for safekeeping, he holds your now-empty firearm and thigh strap out to you.

“Gear up.”

Now, it’s your turn to be confused. You accept the items he pushes into your hands with both eyebrows raised.

“Are we giving up on hand-to-hand, then?”

“Absolutely not,” Felix snorts with a shake of his head. “I’m just going to prove the necessity.” When you don’t budge, he waves his hand to hurry you along. “C’mon, Scraps. Strap in.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, you slip the vertical strap over your belt loop and fasten it before doing the same to the horizontal piece around your thigh. Once it’s nestled snugly against your skin, you slide your weapon into its resting place.

Holding your hands up, you fire off a saccharine smile like the brat you are. “All done,” you chirp.

The smirk that appears on his face makes your stomach flip for two reasons, the least of which is the anticipation of his next move.

“You want it to feel real, right?” His voice drops so low that you feel it deep in your abdomen. “Fine by me.”

Like before, Felix steps slightly backwards. With a nod of his head towards your firearm, he challenges you, “Draw.”

It’s unfamiliar, seeing him counter you like this. Growing up, he was content to go in whichever direction you nudged him in. The version of Felix you knew back then was passive, agreeable to fault. You may not know what the fuck he’s planning now, but he radiates newfound authority that you almost want to respect, so you listen.

“Fine,” you demur while your fingertips trail over the cool, metal grip. “Make your point and move onto something useful.”

The next sequence of events flashes by so quickly that your brain can hardly keep up.

Just as soon as you pull the gun from its holster, Felix turns in his spot, channeling the momentum into a strong push off the ground. He’s in the air before you can even level the barrel; and in the blink of an eye, the side of his boot collides with your hand, forcefully ejecting the gun from your grip. The power behind his kick sends the weapon flying several meters away, where it clatters to the floor with a smack amidst the quiet.

Gasping more so out of surprise than pain, you recoil your stinging fist and clutch it to your chest. He reads your expression incorrectly, if his widened eyes are any indication. Immediately, Felix breaks his stance to step across the distance in between you.

Worried hands come to rest on your biceps, squeezing gently. He urgently asks, “You alright?”

You blink back at him, throughly stunned by how fucking fast his reflexes are, and he misinterprets that, too.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he sputters. His next words come out so frantically that they bleed together over the course of one breath. “I really didn’t want to hurt you; I just needed you to understand that your gun can’t always save you. Sometimes, you have to —”

“That was insane,” you blurt out.

Felix’s eyes widen, caught completely off-guard by your interruption. It’s understandable, you think. After all, it’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve given him over the past few weeks.

He peeps, “Oh?”

You nod vigorously — and there’s that sweetly shy boy from down the block, blushing slightly under the weight of your attention.

Somehow, seeing him this way feels like home; the one you knew before he disappeared, that you might actually admit to missing. Acting solely on instinct, you unfurl your right hand and seek out the warmth of his cheek, like it’ll flip a switch and turn the clock back.

It doesn’t. Of course, it doesn’t — but you can’t help feeling like this is fine, too.

Until you realize what the fuck you’re doing, and you see the starry-eyed look he’s giving you. Then, you do what you always do.

You dodge.

Patting his cheek patronizingly, you breeze, “I guess I’ll let you train me, then,” before turning to retrieve your gun.

“Oh, really now?” He laughs, like he’s already forgotten the way your mask just cracked. You can’t tell if you’re grateful for this, or disappointed. “Is violence all it takes to win you over?”

Disappointed.

You wish he’d called your bluff again, like he did so long ago in that closet you’re currently calling a bedroom. Once wasn’t enough; you want to be caught out, to have someone refuse to let you get away with the bullshit you’re always trying to pull. For some proof that you’re not the bulldozer you pretend to be.

Felix raises an eyebrow as he tilts his head teasingly to the side. “Are you actually going to shut up and take instruction this time?”

Like that.

“Maybe.” You crouch down to grab your discarded pistol off the ground, lips pursed to keep the satisfied smile off your face. “Are you going to stop pulling punches?”

Three weeks of sparring tick by before you manage to clean his fucking clock.

It came as a surprise to both of you; not just that Felix slipped up in the first place, but that you were fast enough to capitalize on an opening he’s otherwise never created. You might’ve gasped even louder than he did when you managed to seize the opportunity — but that memory is fuzzy already. It doesn’t matter, anyway, not to him. Either way, the point stands:

You actually learned from the shit he’s been trying to instill in you.

Having hobbled from the training room to his bedroom, Felix now sits on top of the old, metal counter that once served as a workbench. It’s not comfortable by any means, but he’d rather die than move from his current position. Between his knees, you stand close to him, holding a frozen sponge to his left eye with your right hand.

Funnily enough, that particular hand is the reason he needs an ice pack in the first place.

For a while, the pair of you exist in comfortable quiet. It’s nice, he thinks, just being present. He would’ve been happy to carry on that way for as long as possible, but the shitty voice in the back of his brain keeps yelling that he’s letting more moments slip by than he has to spare. Wasting time that he should be making up.

He clears his throat to shake off the rust, prompting you to glance down from his forehead to his eyes. Your expression is hard to read, but there’s anxiety in there, somewhere. Felix worries that you’re worried; you’re searching for a sign that you’ve somehow injured him further.

“You’re a quick study — if and when you want to be.” His teasing sounds pathetic because his voice is barely more than a groan. Still, he smirks, “Those corporate mercenaries won’t stand a chance.”

With his good eye, Felix watches as your mask cracks a little further in the shape of a smile.

For once, you simply nod in acknowledgement and let the compliment slip through your defenses without trying to deflect it. He wants to compliment you for that progress, too, but he’s hesitant to push his luck when he’s already flying half-blind by the seat of his pants.

Then again, it might be worth the risk to push the envelope — even if you succeed in punching his goddamn lights out for good. He doubts that he’d complain, if that were the case. You��d be an incredible last sight to ever see, wouldn’t you?

His internal monologue pipes up again, demanding that he gamble.

Every single muscle he has aches after spending hours sparring with you, but that’s not at all what he’s talking about when he says, “You’re a knockout, Scraps.”

It’s a cop out, but it’s something.

Just for a second, Felix wonders if you heard what he meant, and not just what he said. All his doubt disappears when that shy smile tugs even harder at the corners of your mouth.

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, chuckling quietly. “If you want to get technical, you didn’t even lose consciousness —”

Carefully, you bring your free hand up to his forehead and brush flyaway strands of hair out of the way of the makeshift ice pack. By contrast, your fingertips are warm enough to simmer on his skin.

“— so you’ll have to try that joke again when you actually do.”

Although you could, you don’t take your hand back after unsticking his hair from the condensation on his skin. You lower it gently, let it rest on his shoulder, and leave Felix to wonder if it’s a choice, a convenience, or a reflex.

This eats at him.

A long time ago, this little gesture wouldn’t be something he’d have to guess at. He used to just understand, never once needed to be told. So far out of practice, he’s no longer fluent in your body language — and he hates it.

Unwilling to leave anything else up to interpretation, Felix looks up at you with one, unobstructed eye. “Wasn’t joking,” he murmurs.

You freeze without meeting his eyes.

If he didn’t know better, he might think your retinal mods had been knocked loose again. You don’t seem to see him, and that’s all he wants. All he gets is quiet, so he tries again: “And I’m not bullshitting you, either.”

It’s his low voice speaking your real name that finally draws you out of hiding. Surprised for just a moment, your expression softens when you notice the way he’s studying your reactions. You don’t speak at first, but your bottom lip is pinched between your teeth; a telltale sign that you’re trying to.

“Since this is apparently honesty hour,” you start with an exhale.

Felix braces himself for whatever evasive maneuver you’re going to throw next.

Shockingly, you don’t throw out a joke to change the subject. You take the ice pack off his eye so he can see you properly, set it down next to his thigh on the counter, and scrub your hands sheepishly over your face.

“You freak me the fuck out.”

You laugh despite yourself, and then you pause just like that; like you’re waiting on him to laugh at you, too. When he doesn’t, you take it as your cue to keep going: “Am I insane, or does this feel easy?

“I think both things can be true.” You shoot him a look that could — and might — kill him. He holds his hands up in surrender, but he keeps his eyes locked on you. “And I know you’re not used to easy.”

Felix doesn’t know what he expects you to do next, but your next move isn’t one he would’ve guessed. In the end, it’s your still-chilled palms reaching up to meet him, and your fingers filling the empty spaces between his. Brow furrowed, you study the way you fit together, like the words you’re searching for are hidden somewhere in the gaps of your chain-linked knuckles.

“I’m not used to it because I avoid it,” you correct him, frowning. “Easy scares the shit out of me. It just feels like a trap, you know? Like, the second you stop looking out for it, the other shoe will drop and knock your unsuspecting ass to the dirt.”

Keeping his fingers interlaced with yours, he lowers your joined hands until they rest against the tops of his thighs. You watch them go; he watches you, and he can’t help thinking that he’s the reason you armored up in the first place. That him leaving was the blow to the head that taught you to wear a helmet.

“I’ve got good reflexes,” Felix whispers, squeezing your hand.

At this, your eyes flick upwards. A microscopic crease forms between your eyebrows, and he knows exactly what’s coming next, so he says it first: “Excluding today, obviously.”

When you smile, it hits him even harder than your right hook did.

“What are you saying, exactly?” You ask, head tilting to the side as you narrow your eyes.

“Fuck the shoe.”

The look on your face suggests that he can’t possibly be serious, but he’s never been more so. Maybe he can’t promise you easy in a world like this one; and he can’t keep that fucking shoe from dropping, but he swears he’ll catch it when it does.

Felix has to let go of your hands to hold you properly. You lean into his touch when he snakes his arms around your waist; and you rest your forehead against his, careful not to press into the bruise that borders his eyebrow.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he whispers. You hum in reply, confirming your willingness to trade. “Kiss me now, and we’ll batten down the hatches later.”

Felix may have called you a quick learner, but you have to wonder what his basis for comparison is. From your vantage point, it’s him that catches on in a heartbeat, like nothing unexperienced is truly new to him.

Coincidentally, it’s also him that’s kneeling between your thighs, bearing the weight of your hinged knees over his shoulders and making you shake with his tongue alone.

“Fuck, fuck — nngh — fuck!”

It’s all you can say because it’s the best you can do.

Over and over, too drunk on the sensation of his mouth, you let profanity spill out of yours. He has you dripping in more ways than one, pooling on that godforsaken counter, and you can’t spare a single thought about the mess you’re making.

Every neuron fixates on him, the cotton-candy blue strands gripped tight between your fingers, and the way he devours you, like he’s making up for skipped meals.

“F-Felix,” you beg, breathless.

Looking up at you from under his lashes, he feigns innocence. It’s bullshit — he knows you’re on the brink of death, knows your whole damn body is buzzing — and his sweet smile doesn’t match his actions. You jolt, wailing, when another kitten lick trails over your clit.

“Hmm?” That low timbre of his vibrates through you when he pulls back, panting.

God, you’re spent already, but you can’t collapse until you know what he feels like, buried to the hilt in you. Something about that need makes you shiver; has your bottom lip quivering when you manage to squeak, “Please.”

Absolutely boneless, you slump against the wall behind you. With far more grace than you, Felix maneuvers his way out from under the tangle of your legs. He ensures that they fall gently back into place on the countertop.

“Gotta work on that stamina if you’re gonna help wage a war,” he teases.

The half-powered glare you shoot at him doesn’t stop him from leaning in and pressing a kiss to your forehead. It doesn’t keep his fingertips from tracing languid lines down the lengths of your bare thighs, either.

Your voice is fucked out and weightless, far softer than you’ve ever heard yourself sound. “Is that what this is? Conditioning?”

The hand not caressing your thigh comes up to cradle your jaw, like it’s something fragile. It’s the first time anyone’s touched you as if you’re breakable, worth protecting — and motherfucker, you’re one soft smile away from crying.

“No.”

He states it much more firmly than he kisses you. So gentle that you can’t believe it’s real until you taste yourself on him, so warm that you dissolve like a sugar cube on his tongue.

Fuck any other person that’s ever pressed their lips to yours and called it a kiss. They’re liars, all of them. One by one, their names disappear with every passing second in which you know better.

“Need you,” you moan into his mouth.

Fistfuls of his shirt can’t bring him close enough. Even when his head dips down and his lips are at your throat, the ache wins out. You crave him anywhere — everywhere — all over you.

“Going crazy —” You gasp when his teeth nip at your collarbone. “— waiting on you.”

Greedy hands drop to the button of his jeans, fumbling to no avail. Apparently, your dexterity flew out the window two orgasms ago. A frustrated whine jumps out after it, pushing your head back as it goes.

Felix’s low chuckle soothes you, but it’s nothing compared to the relief you feel when his hands nudge yours out of the way. That, too, is a drop in the bucket; bliss crashes in waves when there’s no denim left to separate you. His hands land on your hips, fingertips pressing into your flesh as he guides you further down his length.

Never — not fucking ever — have you made a sound quite as pathetic as the one you bury into the crook of his neck. You can’t classify it, not as a moan or a whimper. It’s desperate — loud. It’s an air raid siren; every fucking barricade you’ve built over the years being blown to smithereens.

This is it, you think.

Fuck your bank account.

Fuck staring at the sky and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Fuck your contracts, your shithole apartment, and the million different ways you were set up to lose in this life.

This isn’t about you at all. It’s about you and him; all the space and time you’re dead set on reclaiming.

This is for us.

a/n: thank you so much for reading! i’ve been working on this since JUNE, and it’s a much bigger undertaking (creatively and….. mentally) than anything else i’ve done before, so i’m scared and also excited to start sharing it with y’all.

while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.

tagging: @saintriots, @mal-lunar-28, @dabiscrustyfeet

wanna be tagged for future uploads? sign up here.

#stray kids #skz #felix #felix x reader #felix smut #felix angst #felix fic #lf #stray kids fic #skz fic #stray kids smut #stray kids angst #skz smut #skz angst #stray kids series #skz series #jade writes #re: force quit #kvanity

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voiceoffenrisulfr · 2 months

Text

Silver & Gold - Chapter Seven

CW: Sudden personality changes, verbal abuse, distress, subconscious self-harm (mild), references to past self-harm and abuse, unrealism, fat shaming. Prompts fulfilled; ‘The Glomp’, ‘Touche’ and ‘Youthful Freckles’ - @multifandom-flash (Dozen); ‘Sharing Clothes’ - Winter Wonderland Bingo (@seasonaldelightsbingo); ‘Rolling on Snow’ - Winter Wonderland Bingo; ‘Carried to Bed’ – Bug’s First Bingo (@unfortunate-beetle-and-friends); ‘Schrodinger’s Butterfly’ and ‘Dream Tells You to Wake Up’ – Multifandom Flash (Beehive) Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between reality and darkness.

Cards below! Check it out on AO3 here, or below the KR! Divider by our own Tiny Spider.

My feet found my ballet shoes automatically as I sat upright, shivering at the surprisingly cold room. It was the first morning since we’d moved in that I’d woken without Yoshitsune by my side, and I couldn’t help but frown, casting my eyes around uncertainly.

“…Yoshitsune?” I called out as I padded into the hall, my arms wrapped about myself, anxiety sparking when I received no response. I couldn’t help but prick my fingernails against the old rivulets on the back of my biceps, seeking out the residual chasms unconsciously.

I can still remember the last time I tore at myself in anger.

It took significant effort to unlatch my nails from my flesh, but my hands were balled by my sides by the time I’d searched the cabin. There’d been no sign of my lover, and my heart was racing, breath coming ragged as I turned on the spot in front of the dead fire, my mind whirring frantically.

The door opened without warning, and I whirled around at the sound, letting out a sharp exhale at my soldier stood in the entrance with snow dusting his shoulders.

“Silver!” I yelped, darting over and throwing myself at him desperately, burying my face against his chest. I frowned when his arms didn’t wrap around me, no apology or explanation whispered into my hair. Drawing back, I tried to meet his gaze, but he busied himself with tapping snow from his boots.

Something isn’t right.

“I, uh… I didn’t know where you were. I was worried…” I tried to make my voice light and carefree, but the strain was evident in my tone, my concern deepening when he only grunted in response. “…Yoshitsune?”

“What?” he snapped, grey eyes flashing as he glanced at me briefly. I stumbled back automatically, blinking back my hurt, my lungs seizing in my chest as I struggled to comprehend his sharpness.

He’s never spoken to me like that before…

“I… I just…”

“Spit it out,” he muttered, rolling his eyes, and I winced.

“I was worried about you. I woke up and you weren’t here…” I mumbled, scuffing my feet uncertainly.

He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose before replying. “I was checking the trails. I’m going hunting. You do realise we don’t need to spend every second of the day together, right?” My mouth moved wordlessly and he huffed, crossing to the fireplace and picking up the shotgun leaning against the brick. “There’s some good elk out there. I’m not going to let it go to waste.”

“I-I… I could come with you?” I offered weakly, earning another sigh.

“Fine. Hurry up, before the trail goes cold.”

Normally he’d tell me how cute I look...

I stared at his back uncertainly, fingers twisted in front of me, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth as I fought to find the words to break the tension; no matter what I tried, I couldn’t convince my voice to come, tears pricking in my eyes as I wondered what I could have done.

We crested a slope, and I gasped in surprise at the hill trailing away before us, steep and coated in fresh, deep powder. With a giggle, I dropped to the ground, tucking my hands against my chest and rolling over and over, the snow accumulating in my loose hair as I hurtled toward the foot of the decline.

When I sat up at the bottom, panting and laughing, my cheeks iced, I turned my eyes to him, hoping my frozen delight would’ve thawed his mood. But he simply scowled at me, grasping my wrist to drag me to my feet with a soul-withering glare.

“Are you done? You’re going to scare away all the elk with that goddamn racket.” I flinched, pulling my hood over my snow-crusted waves, hiding beneath the fur lining to escape his wrath. “What the hell’s wrong with you now? You’re always in a mood.”

“Says you? You’re miserable today! Did you get out the wrong side of bed or something?” I snapped, then winced, curling closer in on myself as his eyes turned to me once more.

“Touche,” he grunted, gaze narrowing. “Maybe I’m just tired. I never thought making you happy would mean you’d start getting fat again.”

My feet faltered, and I stopped, recoiling as if he’d slapped me – though I think I’d rather that. “I… I-I… I…”

He groaned, pushing a hand through his hair as he faced me fully. “Here we go again. Do you ever stop? Nothing’s ever good enough for you, is it?” My lips parted in shock, but he shook his head, glaring at me in disgust. “Just don’t. Why are you even here? I wanted to get away from you for a while, but you won’t leave me alone!” I whimpered softly, and he stepped closer, a growl rumbling in his chest. “Just get out of here, will you? God, no wonder you got beat…”

My legs shook as I backed up, head jerking in disbelief. “No. Why… Why are you saying these things? This isn’t you – you’re not… You’re not like this…”

He snorted, turning away from me, not even sparing a glance over his shoulder as he continued to walk. “This is exactly what I’m like. I’m tired of pretending that you’re not the worst thing in my life. Get the hell away from me, Lia.”

The trees and snow blurred as I ran, everything smudged by my tears and the breath hitching in my throat.

Wake up.

My feet slowed, and I looked around at the voice echoing from the forest, my palms sweating uncertainly.

The last time I heard a voice in my head…

Wake up.

My eyes fluttered forcefully, nails digging into my hands, nausea churning in my stomach. The sight before me swam, flickering between red and white, and I whimpered, grasping at my hair desperately.

“No, no, no…” I whispered frantically, fear overwhelming my brain. “No…”

Wake up. Swan, wake up.

Swan? My head snapped around as the voice became identifiable, a flicker of hope breaking through my terror. “Yoshitsune…”

It’s okay, sweet girl. I’m here. I’ve got you. You’ve just gotta wake-

“-up…”

The white dissolved, replaced with flickering red, flames dancing before my vision and heating my skin as I gasped for breath.

Strong hands dragged me close, bundling me against a familiar chest while I whimpered, my fingers knotting in the fabric by my face desperately. “I’m sorry- I don’t know what I did but I’ll be better, I promise, I-I-”

Metal fingers smoothed the tears from my cheeks, silver eyes swimming into focus as my lungs heaved. “Hey, hey… It’s okay, Swan. I’m here. I’ve got you…” The space between his brows furrowed in concern, cupping my jaw gently. “It was just a dream, sweet girl. Everything’s okay…”

I looked around as reality flickered to life, taking in the living room and the soldier clinging to me nervously. “I… You…” I sniffed, holding him tighter, burying my face once more to inhale the intoxicating aroma of him.

“It’s okay, baby. I’m so sorry; I know you don’t sleep well in the cold… I fell asleep before I got you to bed…” I shook my head hard, and he sighed, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” His hand slipped beneath my legs, lifting me easily, and I curled closer, fingers aching from the force of my grasp on him.

By the time he settled into bed beside me, my shaking had mostly subsided, but that didn’t stop me from wriggling closer needily the second his back hit the mattress. “Do you want to tell me about it?” he murmured, fingers smoothing my hair gently. I shrugged, glancing about myself once more, unable to shake the realism of the nightmare and the feeling of being ill-at-ease.

“You were so mean to me. You didn’t want me…” My eyes darted nervously, and he frowned, holding my chin to meet my gaze.

“That could never be true, little one. …What is it?” he pressed, holding me a little closer.

“How do I know this isn’t the dream?” I whispered, barely forcing the words past my lips before I sobbed softly. “What if this is a good dream, and life is the nightmare? What if you don’t want me anymore?”

He held me tighter, his lips finding mine as he kissed me fiercely. “My sweet, gorgeous Swan. This is a dream, but it’s also our life. I could never not want you, do you hear me? You’re everything to me. I’m going to spend every day of my life with you – you are my life.” His fingers gripped at my back, pressing a little hard but very needed. “I’m never letting go of you, my Golden Swan. My perfect girl.”

I curled into him with a soft purr, still struggling to shake the disquiet in my soul, but the hands holding me together soothed my mind. “I love you, Silver…”

He hummed under his breath, an old song that he’d hummed for years, the familiar lullaby lulling me under despite the adrenaline still flitting through my system. “I love you too, Aurelia. Always.”

Stamp image for Bug's First Bingo found here!

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thedogsled · 2 years

Text

Marvel Trumps Hate! About me, and some auction blurb!

Hi Tumblr!

So as I mentioned before, I’m involved in the Marvel Trumps Hate fan auction this year and it’s looking to be a fantastic year for raising money for charity. If you’d like to get involved, there’s loads of really awesome auctions, and still things you can bid on that are under $20 in the golden needle auctions, which you can check out here.

I’m here to talk to you about my auctions, though, since I’ve learned a little more about the auction since signing up and I wanted to expand on my offers a little bit. Before I do that, though I want to thank the folks who have bid on my auctions so far and everyone in the Discord who have made me feel super welcome I really didn’t expect anyone to be interested in my stuff since I’m a bit of a fandom phantom and only briefly reappear to post the occasional thing. You’ve been amazing, and it’s a warm glowy feeling to know I’ll be able to do something to help out some great charities working on these projects for my winners.

So let’s get started on this, shall we?

P.S. this is a super huge post so I'm putting it all under the Read More link. PLEASE click on it and check out each of my auctions linked inside, and if you aren't interested but you know people who might be then please reblog as I don't know many people in fandom myself and it would help an awful lot!

Hi, I’m Dogsled :) I have been in one fandom or another for 25 years now, though my longest stints were in Harry Potter and Supernatural. I was very “general audience” with Marvel for the longest time, and only really started opening up to the possibility of making content for it over the last year and a half. Firmly a Stucky fan in spirit, I got hooked on Winterbaron this year and wrote Freedom Paid for in Acts of Submission back in February.

In terms of the MCU it’s easier to tell you things I haven’t watched than things I have, and basically it’s just Netflix shows that aren’t the first two seasons of Daredevil or the first season of Jessica Jones (though I am planning on working on resolving this gap). I’ve read several big Steve and Bucky story runs (Brubaker’s Winter Soldier run, Civil War I and II and Secret Empire) but haven’t dived in beyond that yet. I’m eager and willing to read any comic or watch any movie necessary to understand a story prompt. You want an AU of a specific romcom? I can do that. Need me to read Planet Hulk? Sure, no problem. Just something to keep in mind :3

So what am I doing in terms of content right now? I worked on a piece for the Coloring for a Marvelous Cause book (which I can share with you guys on the 15th!) and I’m now working on a comic and a NSFW art piece for the Winteriron Zine which will be coming to preorders soon, and I can’t wait for you guys to see the great work everyone is doing for that project because it all looking amazing. Re. writing, I have cards for Stucky Bingo, Steve Rogers Bingo, Bucky Barnes Bingo and the Winterfalcon Bingo, which have been keeping me motivated, and maybe one day I’ll get back to my long distance pining WIP which is Bucky centric with a touch of mutual unrequited Stucky love because I Like Suffering.

But none of this wall of text is actually helpful so far, right, so let’s jump into specifics:

Hi, I am a dirty multishipper. I like rarepairs. I will write threesomes and moresomes. I will write m/m, m/f or f/f without hesitation. I like the challenge of making things happen inside canon, but I also like time travel and multiverse shenanigans and have been known to eat up an AU or two.

You’re wondering if I will write or draw your ship or your character or your kink and the answer is… Very probably? I mean seriously, I don’t need much encouragement here. I’d give it a try. Obviously there are things I think I may be better at over others, but I mean if you want to outbid everyone else to throw something completely unexpected at me I’m going to take it as a challenge, not a threat. Like. If you want HYDRA!Daredevil/Cap!Bucky/Jen Walters fic I might scratch my head for a few hours over the idea but I would find a way, that’s all I’m saying.

So here’s the deal, let’s go over each auction, then I’ll throw some ideas at you, too.

Auction 1: Fic auction - currently $300 (!!!)

So we’ve unlocked the full scope of this auction already, and that means a minimum of 20k words from me, but seeing as that was already unlocked a while back, I’ve decided to add a couple of extra things to this auction for the winner.

The winner of this auction will receive:

Minimum 20k words of fic AND An illustrated banner for that fic Themed dividers A full color illustration of something in the story

Here’s an example of all three from a Dean/Cas Reverse Bang project I worked on 4 years ago!

If bids hit $500 (I don’t imagine it’s going that high but I never imagined it was going to go to $300 either) I’d also like to include a 5-10k ‘extra’ fic for the winner. Can be a snapshot from the same story/verse, a different story or pairing entirely, or you can gift the extra fic to a friend.

Listed yes: canon divergent 'what if' and canon based, dark, angsty, fluffy, intimate, kinkfilled, consensual BDSM, action, rarepairs, threesomes and moresomes, established relationships, first times, dub/non con, aftercare, pining, dark versions of characters, multiversal/time travel shenanigans, (insert bad guy) wins scenarios, villain/hero

Listed no:

kidfic*, animal transformation*, fluff AUs*, vanilla domesticity*, hardcore kinks (i.e. gore, scat, ageplay etc.), own voices for which the voice is not my own*, underage, incest, amputation, vore, scat, somnophilia.

That said! I am flexible on some of my ‘no’ answers and my ‘yes’ answers are by no means comprehensive. These are just the things I like to write most, and in the case of the starred 'no's are just things that don't usually show up in my fics.

Listed pairings:

Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers - Any Universe Bucky Barnes/Helmut Zemo - MCU Bucky Barnes/Brock Rumlow - MCU Bucky Barnes/John Walker - MCU Bucky Barnes/Sam Wilson - MCU Steve Rogers/Brock Rumlow - MCU Bucky Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov - MCU Bucky Barnes/Matt Murdock - MCU Bucky Barnes/Marc Spector - MCU Steve Rogers/Helmut Zemo - Any Universe

So. FUNNY STORY. Because this is my first auction I kinda thought if people wanted different pairings they’d send me a message and we could chat about it, but I forgot that we all are mostly very shy, so I want to clarify: these are just the ships that I have the most enthusiasm about writing! These are the pairings I motivate myself to write, but that’s really not the point of this at all. I want to write a fic FOR YOU. So tell me, what are your pairings?

You want Bucky/Peggy? Bucky/Frank? Bucky/Wade? Bucky/Yelena? Bucky/a recast Thunderbolts movie of your choice where it’s just everyone trying to get in his pants and him being very picky? Clint/Yelena? Hell, polyam Clint and his wife in a Winterwidow sandwich? I’ll do it. Steve/Tony? With Bucky too? Steve/Matt? Bucky/Matt/Foggy? Stephen/Steve/Steven? Peggy/Nat? Carol/Sam? Loki/Steve? Loki/Mobius? Loki/Kang? Loki/Gamora? Brock/that one guy who was in only one scene in Winter Soldier and was never seen again? Uh Thor/Steve? Thor/Peter/Gamora? Bucky/Kate? Zemo/Fury? I could go on and on with all the combinations and never run out, but I am trying to make a point here. LET ME WRITE YOUR RAREPAIRS.

Okay, so I said I was going to make some suggestions, and I’ve already done a few already in all of that…craziness. So here are a few things I’ve thought about writing but never had the time to:

I’d love to write a Bucky/Zemo fic set in WW2 where Zemo is a POW being held in the same facility Bucky’s taken to after his fall. He helps keep him sane through the torture and watches him slip away to the brainwashing, then escapes, rescues him and nurses him back to health, helping him to remember his name

I’d love to write just about anyone adopting Bucky and taking care of him after Endgame. If that’s Stephen Strange with them both helping each other over their mutual heartbrokenness, Matt Murdock being his lawyer working with him to secure fair terms for his parole, Marc and Steven helping him learn to accept the Winter Soldier part of himself, or Clint and his wife adopting him as a mutual third partner in their marriage and buying him chickens and a cat and a goat. I just want to write people healing Bucky and Bucky healing them.

Steve/Zemo. I want to write more of this pairing, simple as that, but I especially would love to write something set in some variety of their Secret Empire relationship where they were childhood friends. Could be an AU, could be some sort of pining where Secret Empire Zemo comes to meddle in the MCU after the end of that arc takes his friend away I haven’t thought too hard about it.

A Stucky AU where Steve becomes the Sorceror Supreme instead of a super soldier and rescues Bucky with magic.

Loki/Steve set as an alternate to canon where Loki is jealous of Thor’s relationship with Steve and abducts him (on a space adventure? Why not?) or a Loki/Bucky set in present day canon after the Disney serieses where Loki and Bucky are teaming up as good guys and discover they have a lot in common (while assassinating alternate universe versions of Kang like some mad Man On The Wall crossover?

(CW abuse) A Steve/Brock and Bucky/Brock fic which is Steve being in this borderline abusive relationship with Brock, whom he’s desperate to please, not really understanding that what he’s been asked to put up with is unacceptable, while Brock as the Winter Soldier’s handler is abusive to Bucky and tells him all about it, maybe shows him the pictures he gets Steve to send etc. Stucky happy ending and canon just deserts.

Again all of these are just ideas, and just grab bagged out of nowhere, basically. If any of that inspires you and you want to encourage me to write it, that’s awesome, but I would be JUST as excited to write your fic for you.

If that excites you too, then go here and put down a bid.

Auction 2: art auction (currently $130)

This auction is for a full page illustration of up to three characters (already unlocked)

Here’s the blurb:

I'm offering a full comic style cover for a character of your choice from the fandoms mentioned, though I'm up for discussion if you have some other character or fandom in mind. That means a color illustration made to look just like a comic book cover depicting a favorite scene, event or relationship from the content (or a scene you completely make up!). It can be realistic or a little bit exaggerated and surreal, but no matter what we'll plan and draft out the idea together until you're happy with it first.

And here are the fandoms: Bucky Barnes-centric - Any Universe Steve Rogers-centric - Any Universe Captain America fandom any gen - Any Universe The Falcon and the Winter Soldier fandom any gen - MCU Avengers fandom any gen - MCU X-Men fandom any gen - MCU Loki fandom any gen - MCU Moon Knight fandom any gen - MCU Daredevil fandom any gen - MCU She-Hulk fandom any gen - MCU

But here’s the thing! That’s by no means an exhaustive list, because again, those are just the things I love the most in this giant enormous fandom and I’ll draw just about anything you like. You have Werewolf by Night characters you want drawn together? Go for it. I’ll do shippy entanglements too (though please note of the two this is my explicitly Gen, Teen, Mature auction. If you want explicit art check out my other art auction. You want Clint/Bucky/Nat? Sure, I can do that. Jake/Steven/Marc? I can do that too. Sam and Bucky and Zemo? I can do that.

I’ll draw whoever you like, just throw it at me, and if this art auction zips up super high from here (say $300?) I’m happy to draw, say, up to six people, like a proper Avengers cover or movie poster. Whatever you want.

If that sounds cool to you, you can jump into the bidding war for this item here.

Auction 3: art auction ($50!)

Auction three is also offering a full page illustration (or a single page comic) but I offered to make it explicit and I guess appeared to limit it to specific characters and ships, which was a mistake I think.

You see I listed it like this:

Bucky Barnes/Helmut Zemo - MCU Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers - Any Universe Bucky Barnes/Sam Wilson - Any Universe, MCU Bucky Barnes/Brock Rumlow - MCU Steve Rogers/Brock Rumlow - MCU Loki/Steve Rogers - MCU Bucky Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov - Any Universe Bucky Barnes/John Walker - MCU Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark - MCU Steve Rogers/Helmut Zemo - Any Universe

When what I really mean is: I’ll draw anything, as mentioned before, but I’ll also draw it porny or in comic book form.

At this point this auction would be a great bargain if you wanted to add some extra art to a fic auction you were buying, but I just want to be clear that it doesn’t have to be explicit, and I’m happy to offer all the same fandoms as my other art auction, and unlock all the same character options if that means drawing in more bids. I will happily draw a nice gen comic of She-Hulk and and her lawyer friends drinking together or Alpine visiting the other Avengers for petting if that’s what you want. But also if you really want just filthy Stuckony for an entire page I’ll happily draw that too, and what’s more if this auction somehow goes up over $200 I’m offering to include a 2k-5k ficlet backing up the art in some way, shape or form. Maybe writing. Maybe poetry. I just don’t know, but y’all will have to bid on this auction to find out.

I accept podbids, am happy to have my auction given as a gift to a friend (completed or from the very beginning) and donations can go to any charity of your choice from the list of approved organizations. Plus if you really want it as a gift for Christmas, I’ve left a space open in my schedule to make that possible for you (though if you don’t mind waiting that’s also awesome too!).

In any case I want to wish you all a happy bidding, whether you’re bidding on my auctions or on someone else’s, and thank you so much for reading this wall of text!

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startanewdream · 3 years

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Divination

It was not a prompt on my Bingo Card for @harryandginuary, but I couldn't help myself this time:

______

‘I hate being a Weasley,’ Ginny declares ruefully, sitting next to Harry on the couch of the Common Room. Harry reacts at once, placing his arm around her waist and drawing her closer so Ginny can rest her head on his shoulder.

After weeks of dating, he is getting good at this.

‘You love being a Weasley,’ he says softly, putting strands of her hair over her ear. It’s soothing and very effective in somehow lifting her tiredness.

‘Yeah, I do,’ she admits, exhaling. ‘I just wish we weren’t called alphabetically, I am tired of being the last one ever…’ She turns her head to stare at him, and Harry gladly loses himself in the warmth of her eyes. He is not complaining out loud, but he misses her so much in the last few days. ‘Imagine what we could do if I were called… Anderson.’

Harry doesn’t need to imagine. All his free period while Ginny is taking her OWLs has only brought him dreams… and memories. Especially memories from the days before.

‘Ginny Anderson,’ he teases, making her grimace exaggeratedly. ‘Doesn’t sound good.’

‘You favour Ginny Weasley better?’

‘I definitely favour Ginny Weasley,’ he agrees, and then she moves her head closer, their lips brushing tantalizingly, and Harry can feel her soft breath—

There is a cough nearby, followed by a fit of giggles, and Harry remembers they are not alone in the Common Room. Ginny looks mutinous as he breaks apart, but Harry smiles and pulls her closer again; maybe he can wait for her after her Astronomy exam that night, only the two of them in that Common Room, and then they can revive one of Harry’s favourite memories…

‘How was your exam today?’ he asks, hoping to drift his mind away from this particular memoriy—the Common Room is far too crowded for it.

‘Astronomy was okay,’ she replies distractedly. ‘I know all the planets and moons, my problem is just keeping my eyes open at night… Well, I did better than in Divination, I hope.’

‘If it helps, I told my examiner she should have died three days before.’

Ginny laughs. ‘I told my examiner he would have a long happy life, which will be true if he approves me in the exams.’

‘It’s Divination, nobody takes it seriously.’

‘I beg your pardon!’ she cries, looking indignantly, though Harry knows she is just playing; he recognizes the smirk at the corner of her lips—he has kissed that smirk too many times now. ‘Divination is the noblest magic art!’

‘Don’t let Hermione hear you saying this.’

‘Oh, I won’t, I can foresee exactly what she would tell me,’ she replies, winking at him. ‘Here, let me read your hand.’

Harry rolls his eyes, but he offers his hand anyway, placing it upon Ginny’s open palm.

‘Trelawney has already told me I have the shortest lifeline she ever saw,’ he mumbles, but she is not listening and after a while, Harry forgets about lifelines too.

Ginny is sliding the tip of her finger over his hand, her fingernail soft over his skin; it is almost ticklish, but Harry won’t ever confound what she causes him with tickles. Tickles don’t make him want to pull her closer, forgetting all crowd around them, and kiss her until she is moaning into his arms, his hands exploring her skin—

‘You have a very interesting hand, Harry,’ she replies, a teasing in her voice that makes him realize she knows exactly what she is doing to him.

‘I can make it interesting,’ he promises, though he isn’t sure what he is saying. Every nerve of his body is busy relying on the feelings her fingernail is causing; his brain is all mushy now. ‘What can you read?’

She smiles, intertwining their hands together. ‘Unless I screw this up, I'm going to marry you,’ she says playfully.

‘Well, you better not mess this up,’ replies Harry without thinking. ‘I really want it.’

Ginny turns to him, her surprise evident on her face, and it takes Harry two seconds to understand what he just said. The blood returns to his brain with violence, all his face reddening instantly.

‘I don’t—this is not—I didn’t just propose—’

‘Harry,’ she interrupts him, her face pink too. ‘We were just playing. Don’t worry.’

He opens and closes his mouth a few times before nodding. There is a moment of silence, the first awkward silence he has experienced with Ginny ever since they started dating, and he wonders how he is going to fix this—

‘Hey,’ she calls him, smiling valiantly. ‘I mean it, don’t worry.’ She winks at him, more like herself, and lowers her voice as if sharing a secret: ‘I suck at Divination.’

Harry gives a half-laugh. Ginny seems content with this sound; she approaches him again, kissing him softly on the lips before standing up.

‘I need to check a few star charts before dinner. See you later?’

‘I will be waiting,’ he promises, grinning at her.

When Ginny is gone, he looks back at the palm of his hand, resting his back on the couch. He enjoys her prediction much more than any other he has ever heard.

#hinny #hinny fanfiction #hbp missing moment

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stusbunker · 2 years

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Barstools and Backrooms 1

A Supernatural A/B/O Fanfic in Two Parts

Featuring: Omega!Dean Winchester x Alpha!Jo Harvelle

Written for: @spnabobingo

Square filled: Dean/Jo

Rating: Teen

Word Count: ~1250

Summary: Jo still doesn’t know what to do about the very pretty hunter that keeps showing up at her mom’s bar. Dean doesn’t know how to do anything other than overcompensate and ignore his omega status. Nothing is ever easy, for either of them.

SPN ABO BINGO Card

This isn’t the first time she’s sensed him, felt his inner omega hide from her very presence. It is the first time she’s certain it’s not from repulsion, but from fear. A guy like Dean, doesn’t seem likely he hasn’t taken a knot; the hunting life is never that simple. So it probably isn’t a sexual insecurity, but that still doesn’t ease the tension between them, the silent truce each time they see each other thickening whenever she invades his space.

She kicks herself for the gnawing curiosity. She sets the fresh bottle down next to his empty and looks expectantly at Sam. He shakes his head at her unspoken offer. She shrugs and wipes off the counter.

“How’d the hunt go?” She asks them both, eyes on her task.

Dean knows she wants details. Can feel the pull the life has on her. It’s almost as potent as her alpha on the air. He kicks himself for wanting to be part of the draw. To know he has something she wants besides what’s in his pants. He cocks his head to the side and pouts.

“Good.”

Sam chuckles at his answer, but Dean couldn’t resist the urge to tease.

“How’s it been here?” Sam asks, very diplomatically.

“Good,” Jo quips.

“Well, guess we’re all good then,” Dean says like he expects her to leave, like she’s just some waitress. Jo rolls her eyes.

"I heard it turned out to be a poltergeist."

"Who said that?" Dean asks defensively, looking to his brother out of paranoia.

"So it was, huh?" Jo took his reaction for further proof of her hunch.

"Maybe. Doesn't matter, things put down now." Dean takes a long pull off his beer, trying to end the 20 Questions.

"Thanks for the tip, it definitely sped things up." Sam thanks Jo and tattles on them both in the process.

"Oh I see how it is! You butting in on our hunts now?! And you? Getting your intel behind my back." Dean's hackles are now well and truly raised.

Jo and Sam try to hold back their amusement, but it erupts out of their mouths like traitorous chimes. Dean doesn't know why he's so upset, but he's digging his heels in all the same.

“It was the right call, she found the article that established the pattern. Don’t gotta be down my throat about it,” Sam adds calmly.

“Don’t see why she’s calling you at all,” Dean grumbles before taking another drink.

Sam freezes as realization dawns on his brow.

“Maybe if you’d answer my calls I wouldn’t have to,” Jo sasses back.

Dean feels the heat of shame wrap up the side of his neck, Jo’s voice softer than it should have been.

Sam sighs loudly. “I’m going to see if I can find Ash. Think you can behave yourself—selves?” He asks his brother before looking at Jo with equal emphasis.

“Can’t make any promises.” Dean’s back to breezy, like a deflated balloon his ego sags as his posturing returns.

Jo stacks clean glasses behind the bar, keeping busy to avoid her mother’s ire. They look around each other, their aloneness more a stage than a haven.

“I didn’t know it was you—- calling. I didn’t recognize the number. And when I got around to checking my voicemail—- Sam had already followed up on what you had. We had to finish it fast.” Dean isn’t sheepish, but he’s not apologizing either.

“You’re welcome,” Jo says plainly. “I figure if I can’t be out there, might as well—”

“Trust me, Jo. You don’t want to be out there. It’s long hours of getting your ass kicked, nobody thanks you and the pay’s crap. Might as well keep hustlin’ Big Buck Hunter, you’re making out like a bandit anyhow.”

“You don’t think I could do it?” Jo asks like a trap.

Dean looks her dead in the eye. “I don’t want to think about you out there. Not that you can’t, just that you shouldn’t. A hunt’s the last place you should be. I’ve been doing this so long— I don’t know anything else. You can do anything—- and you should.”

“I’ve got enough people telling me what I should do, thanks,” Jo’s rebellion rages in her words.

Dean doesn’t back down. “I’m not stupid enough to think I could boss you around, Jo. Just trust me—- you deserve better.”

She bleats out a single, humorless note. “Life isn’t about what anybody deserves.”

They sit with that heavy truth, Dean a fresh orphan and Jo the alpha daughter of a hunter’s widow. Dean peels the label off his beer. The door opens, a cool breeze whips through the bar, spreading the stale stench of a road worn alpha. Dean’s back straightens and Jo’s hand goes to her back pocket for her dad’s knife. They both hold their breath as the fortysomething hunter makes a beeline for the bathroom.

“You can go out the side door. I’ll tell Sam where you went,” Jo whispers, outwardly acknowledging Dean’s presentation for the first time.

“I’m just having a drink, Jo. He’s not gonna try anything. Probably thinks it’s you anyway,” Dean says out of the side of his mouth, even as his eyes dart for the exits and for his brother.

“But it’s not me. They all—- they’ve pretty much figured it out by now, Dean. Hell some of them placed bets on me before I presented. Mom took the whole pot once she found out, gave half of them lifetime bans,” Jo muses, knife clutched tight in her palm.

“Man, I’d hate to be on her bad side,” Dean huffs.

“Dean, I’m serious. You should leave. Save us all some hassle,” Jo presses.

“No. I am allowed to exist, Jo. And you of all people shouldn’t be so fucking skiddish about it. Look, I’ve had to fend off asshole alphas since I was sixteen. I’m just here having a beer, if he starts something—- I’ll put ‘em down. But, it’s not even gonna come to that, okay sweetheart?” Dean lays on the charm, pleading with his eyes, unable to hide the icy chill of sweat dripping down his back.

Jo looks at him, jaw stiff with her alpha need to protect. She knows he’s right, he’s disarmed her before, but suddenly his strength doesn’t feel like enough. She nods, not trusting herself to speak as the unwelcome alpha approaches the opposite corner of the bar. Ellen glances over and Dean watches as the mother and daughter have a silent conversation. Ellen takes the guy’s order while Jo leans back on the meat of her hands, essentially blocking Dean from sight with the petulant stance.

Dean doesn’t know what to do with their collective, unspoken shield. It’s a safety he doesn’t expect from anyone besides Sam or Bobby. He detests that he needs it in the first place. Jo flinches at the change in his mood, hair whipping over her shoulder to look him over.

He sighs, unwilling to cause these women any more grief. “You still got a spare room?”

She smiles, the smallest hitch to the side of her mouth. But her relief fills his chest with something warm, like approval. “Yeah, two down from Ash’s room. I’ll go grab the key.”

Dean nods his appreciation and watches her walk away, tight ass and tiny waist made all the more prominent by the bow of her apron strings.

He finishes his beer and contemplates the impossibility of Ellen being okay with Jo spending the night with him.

Part 2

#spnabobingo #dean/jo #omega!dean x alpha!jo #spn abo #spn fanfic #a/b/o dynamics

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holylulusworld · 3 years

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Single Parent

Title: Single parent

Square Filled: Relationship break-up

Ship: Mobster!Dean Winchester x fem!Reader

Characters: Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Benny LaFitte

Rating: Mature

Summary: Your arranged bond with Dean grows fruits but you can’t be happy as you should.

Warnings: angst, language, arranged marriage, unrequited feelings, sad reader, abandonment, Dean being a douche, giving birth (no description), shitty relationship, pregnant reader

A/N: I already outlined the story before I got the request. I changed the ending and a few scenes to make it fit.

Word Count: 3.5 k

Written/Created for: @spnmixedbingo

Divider by @firefly-graphics

2021 SPN Mixed BINGO Masterlist

Now…

“No John, I’m done,” you cry, running your hand over your baby bump. “You could force me to marry your son, to stay with him and have his heir,” you sniff, looking around the guest room you chose over your comfortable bedroom. “But you can’t force me to play the obedient housewife. I tried, John—I really tried but Dean doesn’t even like me.”

“He’s just a little stubborn and rough on the outside like me, doll,” John tries to reason with you. “Show him the latest ultrasound and he’ll change.”

“No, he won’t,” voice bitter you sit on the bed, shaking your head lightly. “That’s the problem. I-I’m nothing more than a breeder to your son. I know he doesn’t reciprocate my feelings, but I had hoped he’ll be kinder to me when he sees me swollen with his child. I know he cares for the baby, but sadly I’m not sure it’s because he loves them or as you want an heir.”

“Y/N,” sitting next to you John watches you tear up. Months of rejection and coldness took a toll on you. “I didn’t know it’s that bad.”

“He told Sam I’m nothing but a vessel for his child, John. I could be dead, and he wouldn’t care,” choking out a sob you give John a sad smile. “Did you know he never came to the doctor with me? He never showed and my gynecologist believes I am a single parent – and maybe I am.”

“What happened last week? Why did you suddenly move out of your shared bedroom, doll? Did Dean hurt you?”

“Not physically-“ you huff, looking at the wedding band around your finger. “I was at my doctor’s practice for the next check-up, as usual, Dean didn’t show, even though, he promised to be there,” sniffling you take the wedding band off, dropping it onto the bed, not wanting to feel it on your skin right now.

“We had a meeting, I’m sorry for keeping Dean away from you,” John lies, you can see it in his eyes and his voice is a little too low. He doesn’t realize you know him too well to not see through his lies. “Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt you, Y/N.”

“I saw all those happy couples and excited dad’s pacing around the waiting room and realized, Dean gives a shit on me and his child. I can’t leave, but at the same time I won’t pretend Dean is not the cold-hearted man he is,” sadly you can’t hide you are still in love with his son, but your try your hardest.

“What happened, Y/N? I heard you fought with your husband. Did he hurt you?” John presses. “I need to know…”

“You really want to know? Fine, I’ll tell you everything happening that day-“

One week earlier…

“Mrs. Winchester,” the nurse chirps, leading you into the room. “Where’s your husband? Didn’t he want to join us today?”

“He wanted but as always, business comes first,” you grumble, handing the young woman a business card. “That’s my brothers-in-law’s number. If I ever need help, please call him.”

“What about your husband?” confused the nurse looks at you, blinking a few times before she recognizes your teary eyes. “Ah, got it. I will call Sam Winchester if it’s necessary. We will add it to your medical record.”

“Thank you,” giving the nurse a sad smile you try to push the tears away. “As I said, my husband is always busy, and Sam offered his help. If not, call the second number, that’s my father-in-law.”

“No problem, Mrs. Winchester. Now let’s turn our attention toward your baby. Are you excited to find out about the gender?” nodding you swallow the lump in your throat, hiding you wished Dean would’ve come to find out with you.

“All done, Cher?” watching you walk out of the practice, a soft smile on his lips Benny offers his hand to you. “So, did they tell you the gender today?”

“It’s a boy,” you choke out, done fighting the tears. “You’re the first one I told, Benny-“ ignoring people watch you cry outside of your doctor’s practice you hide your face in Benny’s chest.

“He should’ve been here, Y/N. I’m sorry.”

“Everyone is always sorry; everyone but Dean,” angrily fisting Benny’s jacket you look up at your bodyguard. “I’m done trying, Benny. This is ridiculous. He’s not interested in me or the baby.”

“Dean cares about the baby, Cher,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “It’s true.”

“Dean only cares about my son as he needs an heir. There is no love in him. I-I wanted to share this with him. Dean, he should’ve been here with me, experience every step but he refuses to even give me that. My first pregnancy should’ve been something special but now, it only makes me sad.”

“How’s the baby?” Dean asks, awaiting your report as usual.

“Still alive. Benny got the ultrasound if you want to see them. If you want to know about the gender, ask your friend too,” you quip, walking toward the walk-in-wardrobe to get your favorite pajamas, you ignore Dean follows you. “Unlike other people he was there.”

“I had a meeting, Y/N,” arguing Dean watches you gather more clothes, frowning as you didn’t jump on him to tell him every single detail about your appointment.

Usually, you would excitedly tell him about the baby, forcing him to look at the ultrasound picture and demand his attention. Today, you barely said two words, not even tried to talk to him.

“A meeting, sex with one of your girls – I don’t care Dean. I’m tired of this, of you. To give you the space you need, I’ll go and have lunch with Charlie. Don’t wait for me–“ you chuckle, humorlessly. “Ah, yeah I forgot. You wouldn’t care if I never return.” walking out of the room, leaving a speechless Dean behind, you slam the door shut, making him flinch.

“Benny, my wife is gone; just like all of her belongings, we need to find her! She’s pregnant with my child.”

“You only care about the baby, huh? Do you even know it’s a boy, Dean?” Benny sneers, placing the ultrasound picture into Dean’s hand. “Y/N is not gone, she simply moved into the guestroom next to John’s room. I helped her while you were out, doing god knows.”

“Wait – she moved into the guestroom? Why?”

“Seriously, Dean? You promised to be there, at least to get to know about the gender, and yet, you didn’t come to the practice. I think Y/N gave up trying,” huffing Dean watches you step out of the guestroom, ignoring he glares at you.

“Y/N, you can’t just move out of our bedroom!” muttering the words Dean watches you walk past him.

“Oh, you meant me. I thought I’m only a vessel, a breeder to carry your heir,” whipping your head toward Dean you give him a cold glare. Your heart races and you can feel fresh tears well-up to your eyes, but you need to get this out before you can return to your room and cry some more.

“I’m talking to you, Y/N. What if you go into labor and I’m not close by?” Dean mutters.

“I think it’s for the best you keep on ignoring me and give your whores all of your attention,” brushing past Dean you slap his hand away when he tries to touch you.

“Y/N!”

“Don’t Winchester-“ you growl. “I fulfilled my duty and got pregnant. Now you can stick your dick into any pussy and stay the fuck away from me and don’t worry about my labor. I will, just like anything else since I got pregnant, handle this on my own. If I should need help at any point of my pregnancy, Sam and John offered to be there for me.”

Now …

“Dean messed up epically, huh?” John carefully tries when you get up to walk toward the nursery next to the guestroom. “What are you going to do?“

"Nothing, John. Just like the first four months of my pregnancy, I will try to do what’s best for my son,“ John’s eyes light up when you tell him he’s going to have a grandson. “Today I’ll focus on finishing the nursery. Benny and Sam helped me with the wallpaper and cradle. I must check on the bears I painted and will make a list of what I will need.”

“I can help,“ offering you a cracked smile John holds out his hand. “I got you into this shitshow, let me at least try to make things easier for you, doll.”

“You could check on the shelves and cradle,” you sniff. “I just wish I had a man like you or Sam by my side. I see the way Sam cares about his wife and children. I know Dean is a little closed-off, like you but he’s kind to everyone he likes. Must be me.”

“Oh, Y/N,” slinging one arm around your shoulders John leads you out of your chosen bedroom. “You still got people caring about you. Sammy and I will be there and help you.”

“I know…”

“You’re talented,” looking at the bears you painted John smiles. “Mommy bear and baby bear,” he hums, admiring your painting. “Where’s the dad?”

“I’m a single parent, John. Why should I paint a daddy bear if he gives a shit on me and his son?” Dean stands in the doorframe, watching his father help you fix one of the shelves, swallowing thickly. “You know, every single woman at my doctor’s practice looks so happy, they glow and I just-“

“I get it, Y/N. You wanted your pregnancy to be special,” nodding you look at the bears. “You could draw an Uncle Sammy and Granddad John bear.”

“I’ll think about it, John,” with a small smile on your lips you watch John place the plushies onto one of the shelves. “You know, he didn’t even care about my morning sickness or cravings. I had this image in my mind. Dean the devoted soon-to-be dad helping me during my pregnancy. I know he doesn’t love me, I’m not delusional. But a bit more attention would’ve been nice.”

Two months later…

Used to being on your own you walk into your doctor’s practice. This time you don’t look at all the happy couples wishing it were you and Dean. Over the last weeks, you made up your mind.

Only as you don’t get to leave Dean doesn’t mean you must bear his behavior. So, you decided to keep your distance and only ask John, Sam, or Benny for help with the nursery.

You no longer tell Dean about your check-ups or try to include him in your pregnancy.

“Morning, Mrs. Winchester,” you flinch when the nurse calls your name. “How are you feeling today? Will the baby daddy be here today too?”

“No,” you breathe out. “Let’s be honest, Sally.” giving the young nurse a sad smile, you point toward the other pairs. “I know you are only trying to be friendly but anytime you are asking about my non-present husband it stings. Why don’t you treat me like a single parent? Cause that’s what I am.”

“How’s the baby?” Dean asks again, following you toward the nursery. “Listen, I know you try to punish me but not telling me about our baby breaks one of my rules.”

“The baby is still alive. He grows fast and the ultrasound picture lies on your desk. If you have more questions, call my gynecologist or,” turning around you give Dean a cold look, “you could move your ass to the practice next time but I get it – you were busy.”

“I got the right to know about my son,” growling the words Dean steps closer but this time, he doesn’t intimidate you with his size. “Tell me everything.”

“Weight and size are average. His heartbeat is strong, and he sucked his thumb today,” you scoff at Dean’s sudden interest. “You would know more about your child if you actually cared. He started to be more active, I can feel our little boy kick me harder but so far, only John felt our baby kick.”

Walking away you enter your room, slamming the door shut behind you, locking it to take a deep breath.

“He’s my son too! You can’t shut me out!” Dean yells from the hallway.

“Sperm donator, you son of a bitch,” you growl. “If it were up to me, I’d file for divorce.”

“YOU WON’T!” he mutters. “I will not allow you to leave me.”

“I got that, but you should know that our marriage is over to me. If you dare to get close to me ever again, you’ll lose your hands or cock. Go and fuck one of your sluts.”

“I should-“ frustrated Dean kicks your door. “You’re still my wife, Y/N. I expect you to respect me and our bond.”

“Fuck that,” feeling exhausted you lie on your bed, gently running one hand over your belly. “He’ll not ruin your life, baby boy. I promise to protect you from your asshole father.”

“I heard that.”

“I don’t fucking care,” you cry. “Now leave me alone. You got the information you need. Don’t worry, your heir is still healthy. Even though, you didn’t help me at all…”

Two months, two weeks, and five days later…

“Looks good,” John hums, glancing at the ultrasound picture. “How are you, doll? Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m fine,” looking at your wedding band you try to swallow the lump in your throat. “Is there a way to protect my child from Dean? Can you add something to the prenup? Please.”

“I will not allow Dean to hurt your son, Y/N. I don’t think Dean would ever lay a finger on him-“

“That’s not what I meant. Being around Dean is unhealthy for me. What will he do to our child? How shall I explain to my baby boy that his father hates me? That I’m only a breeder to him, a body he could use to get a child.”

“Are you fucking my father?” ludicrously you look at Dean when he storms into your room, your solace. “That’s the reason you moved out of our bedroom – huh? You spread your legs for John Winchester.”

“What the fuck, Dean?” you sniff, reluctantly leaving the bed. “Over the last week I barely left my room as I didn’t feel well, and you accuse me of such a thing? I don’t have the time to fuck anyone. Unlike you, I had to take care of anything-“ whimpering you feel a piercing pain ripple through your womb. “Oh, god-“

“Y/N?” paling Dean watches you crouch down in front of your bed, crying out in pain. “What’s wrong? Y/N, talk to me, sweetheart.”

“Go and get your father or Sam,” you pant, while you try to remember everything the midwife taught you. “I think the baby wants to get out.”

“No, it’s too early,” panicked Dean rushes to your side to help you sit on the bed. “I’ll call an ambulance, Y/N.”

“O-okay-“ you scream, feeling another painful contraction approach. “No, no. My water just broke.” tears run down your cheeks when John and Sam stumble into the room. They heard your screams and try to help.

“Fuck, doll,” John mumbles, kneeling in front of you to calm you. “Sammy, call an ambulance and tell Benny to get Y/N’s bags. I’ll stay here to help her.”

“I already called an ambulance. Stop acting as if that’s your son,” Dean growls, glaring at his father.

“Do you want to help the mother of your child or fight with me right now, son? I think you showed how much you are interested in your child. Now shut the fuck up and help me here,” John would like to give his son a piece of mind but right now, he must take care of you.

“John,” grasping for your father-in-law’s hand, “promise me he won’t be there. I don’t want Dean inside the room while I give birth.”

"That’s my wife and child in there! Lemme inside,” Dean growls, fighting against one of the security guards. “Let me pass.”

“DEAN,” John’s voice booms through the hallway. “Your wife is in there. She’s in pain, scared, and tries to give birth to your baby. Stop acting like an idiot. You had it coming.”

“You didn’t care about your child or wife for over eight months. Did you honestly believe she wants you in there?” Sam huffs, squeezing Jess’s hand. “I was with Jess the whole time. I heard the heartbeat, saw my baby, felt it kick. I can’t believe you didn’t want to experience any of it.“

“I-I never wanted to marry Y/N. It was an arranged bond,” Dean sniffs, hearing you cry out in pain.

“This doesn’t change she’s your wife and that she needed you. Even more important, your son needed you. I believe babies bond with their parents in the womb. You could’ve talked to him, played music, or feel him kick.”

“Look at you baby boy,” cooing your son you feel your heart swell. Even if Dean is not going to show any affection toward your child, you’ll give the little boy all your love. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Can I finally see him too?” Dean mutters, sneaking into your room. “How could you let my father, Sam, and Jess see my son first?”

“I didn’t think you will find the time to visit me and your baby. If you would excuse me now, I want to concentrate on Robert Maximilian Winchester.”

“What?” gaping at you Dean feels his stomach churn. “You named him Robert? But-but we agreed to name him Dean jr. How could you not only keep me away while giving birth but also deciding on a name without me? That’s cruel.” Dean sniffs, looking at your son in your arms.

“Cruel–?” you take a deep breath, try to ignore the burning rage running through your veins. “Do you know what cruel means, Winchester? Cruel means that your husband, the man you love with all your heart ignores you completely. Cruel means that he never shows affection or at least cares about you during pregnancy.”

“I’m his father!”

“Sperm donator,” you retort. “We are only a breeder and a sperm donator. You are not a father, and never will be. You’ll not hurt my baby boy and push him away as you did with me. You can lay claim on him when he turns 18, until then I’ll give him all the love he deserves.”

“He’s my baby boy too,” sniffling Dean looks at your child, tearing up. “Let me at least hold him. Please.”

“Not today,” adamant you defend your son, not giving in. It’s your turn to be selfish and not to show any compassion. Dean can cry as much as he wants to.

Today, you’ll be the cruel one – even if it kills you.

“She doesn’t let me hold my son,” outside of your room Dean starts to cry. “I wasn’t allowed to hold my baby boy. How can she be so cruel?”

“I say it again – you had it coming,” John shrugs, ignoring he feels sorry for his son. “Y/N never was cruel. All she wanted was a bit of affection. Why couldn’t you give her that?”

“I just didn’t feel like pretending. But I care about our baby and want to hold him.”

Dean doesn’t leave your side. He sits next to your bed, still looking at his son.

“Please let me hold him, Y/N.”

“Five minutes,” you whisper, not looking at Dean. “You can hold him for five minutes and after that, you can pretend we do not exist until you need your heir.”

“It’s not like that,” with trembling fingers Dean takes Robert Maximillian out of your hands. “He’s so beautiful and tiny.”

“It’s a baby, what did you expect,” turning around to not watch Dean with your son you close your eyes. “Tell me when you are done playing daddy, Dean.”

“Why are you so cold. This isn’t you, Y/N.”

“That’s what happens to a loving person when she gives up. If you don’t like me the way I am now, you can always ask your dad to let me out of this marriage...”

“Look this is your room, baby boy,” cooing your baby you walk around the room. “There is a teddy bear, and over there is a cute duck. Maybe you’ll like the cat Sammy bought for you?”

“He doesn’t like cats,” Dean grumbles, walking into the nursery. “I bet he’s allergic like me.” hopefully looking at you Dean holds out his hands. “Come on, lemme hold him for a while.”

“I will leave you to your son, Dean. If you are done pretending you are a father, holler and I’ll take care of Robert,” carefully placing your son into Dean’s arms you ignore he tries to talk to you.

“Y/N, we should talk about a few things.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, Dean. I’m stuck in this marriage, but this doesn’t mean I let you walk all over me ever again. I am a single parent, and this will not change…”

>> Part 2

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spencers-renaissance · 3 years

Text

Hunger

Summary: Spencer really likes his new coworkers: they're nice, welcoming, friendly, and made his transition to the BAU as easy as possible. Which makes it impossible for him to turn down an invitation to eat dinner with them at an upscale fancy restaurant, no matter how anxious that makes a boy who grew up with next to nothing feel.

Tags: insecurity, anxiety, allusions to poverty, hurt/comfort, team as family, angst with a happy ending, fluff, background jelle

TW: mentions of poverty, financial difficulties, and food insecurity

Pairing: Gen (Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid)

Word Count: 3k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

This fills my "trying not to cry" bad things happen bingo square and is set a few weeks after Spencer joins the BAU, in an AU in which Elle was there before him.

Everyone is so nice, is the thing.

And that’s great. Really, it is. Spencer isn’t about to complain when JJ kindly walks him through the filing system all the while asking questions about him and his life, or when Derek ribs him gently about his ducktail hair or his nerdy brain. No-one cuts him off when he gets carried away — unless it’s time-sensitive, of course — or teases him about anything that cuts too close to home. Being the new guy in the most prestigious unit in the FBI could’ve been a nightmare, but this team made it easy. He’s so grateful for all of it.

It just makes it really hard to turn down dinner invitations.

He watches his shaking fingers in the mirror as they button his shirt up and wrap his tie around his neck, poking it fastidiously under the collar, not a wrinkle of fabric out of place. He glances down at the countertop again, re-reading the restaurant name copied down in JJ’s careful handwriting onto a piece of copier paper regardless of having committed it to memory the first time he heard it. Sur la Rivière: a fancy European restaurant in DC.

He’d hoped for a cheap and cheerful Chinese when Hotch had first brought up the idea of a team bonding dinner, something more his style, but he’d smiled anyway when Elle had mentioned this place her foodie friend had recommended, no matter how strained it might have been. He’s the new guy after all. He doesn’t expect much swing when it comes to choosing where to eat.

As soon as his shirt and tie are perfectly in place, he gets to work on taming his curly hair. It makes him look younger when it’s loose and fluffy, and with a baby-face like his combined with already being the youngest person in the entire FBI, every year he can add on counts. Soon, though, there’s no more grooming he can use to stall the inevitable, and he sighs tiredly before clicking off the bathroom light and heading to the hall.

He collects his phone and wallet, checking for the sixth time that evening that his credit card and extra money to tip the waiter is definitely in there, grabs his keys, and heads out of his apartment. Derek is in his car waiting on the curb for him like he promised he would be, looking effortlessly suave and cool in a way Spencer never will as he honks his horn at the sight of the younger man walking towards him.

“Pretty boy!” he calls, his grin making Spencer smile, too. “Took you long enough. Hop in, fancy European cuisine awaits.”

Another rush of nerves floods Spencer’s stomach at the mention of the fate he’s signed up for, but he smiles anyway as he opens the passenger door and slides in. “Thanks for giving me a lift, Derek,” he says, hating that his anxious discomfort is so obvious in his voice.

Thankfully, Derek doesn’t pick him up on it, simply pulling away from the curb and beginning the drive across town. “How many times do I have to tell you not to mention it? I live less than ten minutes away, Spencer, it’s really not a problem.”

Spencer flushes a bit at that, wringing his hands in his lap as he watches the streets of his district pass by out the window. “Well, I appreciate it anyway,” he settles on, flashing Derek a quick smile that he doubts he sees anyway with his eyes glued so firmly to the road. “Riding the metro is a nightmare at this hour.”

“Never learned how to drive? I didn’t have the money for lessons, Spencer wants to say, irrationally frustrated at his situation. I was rushed through the academy too quickly to learn something as trivial as driving.

“I was too busy getting five degrees,” Spencer says instead, forcing a smile on his face. He wishes he wasn’t so well-practiced at managing other people’s emotions; wishes he could say what he’s really thinking. But he can’t, not in front of the people he’s trying to impress, not so soon.

“Alright, alright, I get it, you’re a genius,” Derek chuckles. “I’m glad you’re coming tonight, we all are. Gideon didn’t tell us much before he left, just that you had an IQ of 187 and he’d pulled a lot of strings to get you in at only 22.”

Spencer winces slightly at the mention of his ex-mentor. “Yeah, I’m sorry he ran out on you guys so suddenly.”

“Hey, from what I hear, he did the same to you,” Derek counters. “You guys seemed way closer than we were anyway. I never really liked the guy.”

As much as most of Spencer hates Gideon for abandoning him without warning, leaving him to find his footing in the FBI alone and afraid, a small part of him still itches to defend him. “He was a good mentor. Not such a good friend, as it turns out.”

Derek looks away from the road for a moment and shoots him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, man. But Gideon’s loss is our gain. You’re gonna be an amazing asset to the team, I just know it.”

A genuine smile crosses Spencer’s face at that. “Thanks, Derek. I can’t wait to really get stuck in, you know?”

“I remember the feeling.” Derek grins again.

They continue chatting for the rest of the journey, Spencer finally relaxing into the company of a new friend— that is, until Derek cuts across one of his stories from his second PhD. “Hey, the restaurant should be up on the left somewhere but I can’t see it…

“Oh, there,” Spencer says, pointing at the sleek, almost anonymous-looking black sign hanging above a set of fancy doors. How can doors be fancy? They’re supposed to be functional, not pretentious. All of a sudden that sinking feeling that had lifted on the car ride over settles back into his stomach and he can’t help but swallow nervously as Derek parks the car and they step out into the street.

Everyone’s already seated when they finally push through the restaurant doors, and Spencer hates that he made them both late with his apprehensive stalling, but no-one really seems to mind as they all cheer happily at the sight of them, ignoring the dirty looks it earns them from the other patrons.

“You made it!” Penelope squeals as she gets up from her seat to give Spencer a hug. He’s a little touch-averse, really, but something about Penelope’s hugs make him never want to leave her arms. He does anyway, though, and he and Derek find their seats opposite one another at the end of the table.

“I’m glad you’re here, Spencer,” Hotch says kindly as the waitress passes the two late-comers their menus.

“You’ll fit right in,” JJ promises, “we’re like a weird little family, to be honest.”

Spencer flushes a bit under the attention of so many experienced FBI agents, but he nods anyway before they all get started on deciding what to eat. He listens vaguely to everyone talking amongst themselves, giving one another suggestions in a way that corroborates JJ’s statement, and all of a sudden Spencer’s collar feels tight. It’s not just the nerves of meeting new people or the anxiety of an alien social environment, he realises he doesn’t recognise a single item on the menu.

He knows what the words themselves mean, but reading the words 'tortellini of venison’ and trying to imagine deer meat pasta is not easily done. The only simple meals seem to be seafood and Spencer’s never been a fan of fish. The only food he can even begin to imagine himself actually putting in his mouth, chewing, and swallowing is the porterhouse steak: not that he’s ever really eaten much red meat like that.

Spencer isn’t a fussy eater. He’s eaten a wide variety of dishes from any number of different restaurants across multiple cuisines, he’s just never had the kind of money to eat at a place that serves caviar, for God’s sake. Far too soon, the waitress wanders back over to the table, taking everyone’s orders with a polite smile on her face.

He listens as everyone confidently orders their meals: the smoked trout, the Moroccan quail, the lobster tagliatelle. Spencer thanks the heavens he isn’t a vegetarian, at least, but it’s not much of a consolation prize when everyone’s eyes fall on him.

“Uh, I’ll have the porterhouse steak,” he says uncertainly, hoping nobody notices the sweat beading on his forehead or the anxiety raging behind his eyes.

Everyone seems to accept his answer, the waitress taking their menus and walking back towards the kitchen as the rest of them resume their conversation. Hotch’s eyes linger a moment too long on him, and Spencer thinks he sees something like concern in his gaze, but before he can think much of it, Penelope’s drawing everyone’s attention to JJ’s bracelet.

“Can we please appreciate this?” she says, sounding scandalised for some reason Spencer can’t quite discern from context yet. “Elle, baby, you have taste. This is absolutely gorgeous! Are you sure you don’t want to date me, too?”

Spencer’s eyebrows raise slightly at that. “Oh, you two are together?” he asks, although now that he realises it he’s not sure how he didn’t notice sooner.

“Are you sure you’re a profiler, kid?” Derek laughs. “They don’t exactly hide it.

“Even though they’re supposed to,” Hotch chimes in with a faux stern look. “You two are gonna have my job at some point.” “Aw, but where would we find another Unit Chief that would help us hide our secret so well?” Elle says charmingly, making everyone laugh, including JJ, who presses her face into her shoulder fondly.

It’s easy for Spencer to momentarily lose himself in the banter, smiling as they tease one another, interspersing their gripes and funny stories from work among it all. They include him in all of it, and he doesn’t feel left out for even a second, finally relaxing into the unfamiliar environment of a fancy restaurant, eased by the reassuring company of his new team.

“JJ’s right,” he muses out loud when there’s a brief lull in conversation, “you guys really are like a little family.”

JJ leans away from Elle towards him for a moment, wrapping him in a side hug. “And you’re the perfect addition to it, Spence,” she says softly, everyone’s expressions reading nothing but fond agreement. “We needed a little brother to add into the mix.”

Spencer blushes again but leans into her touch.

No-one gets a chance to say anything else before the food arrives, the servers bringing JJ and Elle’s meals first, then serving Hotch and Penelope, before they finally bring out his and Derek’s order.

Everyone dives into their food, immediately making noises of contentment, passing bites around to one another, but Spencer can’t join in the jubilant celebration of a good meal. He picks his knife and fork up shakily as he stares at the massive portion of steak in front of him. It’s served with roast potatoes and flecks of a pointless salad that he suspects is only there as a garnish rather than actually part of the meal, but that’s not what has him worried.

This huge slab of meat hasn’t been sliced beforehand. He knows that he’ll shake the whole table if he tries to do it: it’s a massive, impenetrable slab of red meat that Spencer has no chance of enjoying, let alone finishing. He stares at it as tears burn in his eyes: he’s so out of his comfort zone and he’s so terrified of messing up and pushing away these newfound friends that he can’t move.

“Spence?” JJ cuts in gently, putting a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look up, only to find everyone looking at him with worried expressions on their faces. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” he says, standing up abruptly, the disturbance of the table barely registering in his brain. “I just need a minute.”

He rushes out of the restaurant without looking back, drawing in deep breaths as soon as he’s in the cool evening air of spring. Thoughts race through his mind at a million miles an hour as he grasps for something concrete to grab onto, eventually settling for a tall flower pot.

“Spencer?”

He looks up to find Hotch standing next to him, deep concern written across his face, and Spencer’s heart clenches at the thought that he’s already messed this up so quickly. Could this night possibly get any worse?

Apparently, it can, because all of a sudden he feels his face crumple and the stinging tears finally spill down his cheeks. He sinks down to the ground and buries his face in his hands, humiliation glimmering in every cell of his body.

“Oh, Spencer,” Hotch says gently, lowering himself to the cool pavement next to him and placing a warm hand on his back. He lets him cry it out for a couple of minutes, his palm drawing small circles in between his shoulder blades, trying again to get through to him when Spencer’s sobs calm down slightly. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

With a shuddering breath, he forces himself to lift his face from his palms, although he still refuses to meet Hotch’s eyes, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the Korean restaurant across the street. “I guess it just all got to be too much,” he whispers.

“Yeah?” Hotch says encouragingly. “What specifically?”

“I— I didn’t have much growing up. It was just me and my mom so we were living in the middle of Vegas on a single disability check each month. And, uh, then I went to college, and I was barely scraping by there, too. It’s only recently that I’ve known the luxury of knowing for sure I was eating that night, and it still gets to me sometimes when I’m faced with fancy restaurants and heavy, expensive meals. My body’s had to work for years on virtually nothing, there’s no way I can stomach a steak like that. I guess, all those feelings that are a lifetime in the making combined with the anxiety of eating with the team for the first time… wanting to make a good impression, it just all got too much. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Hotch raises a hand, and Spencer finally meets his eyes, finding nothing but compassion and understanding there no matter how much he searches. “You don’t need to apologise, Spencer, not for something like this. I’m sorry that none of us thought to make the first team dinner with you a more casual affair, and I’m even more sorry that you felt like you couldn’t tell us you were uncomfortable.” “It’s okay.”

“It’s not, but I’m glad you accept my apology,” Hotch says, smiling softly. “You know, we all bring baggage with us, Spencer. I can’t relate to food insecurity, but I had my own issues when I first joined the BAU. I grew up with a pretty terrible father, and the thing I found myself reprimanded for the most when I was a new recruit was the inability to follow orders. I’d spent my whole life scared of this man, obeying his every word, and I couldn’t help but hear him when my superiors would tell me to do something. When I was finally free of him, it was like I couldn’t help but rebel.

“You’re not the only one whose childhood follows them around, and I’d much rather it be something like this that we can easily manage, than something that will affect you or the team in the field, okay? Instead of beating yourself up over things you can’t control, try and remember that you have a whole new family who will do anything they can to make you feel as comfortable as possible. We already think the world of you, Spencer. Sacrificing fancy dinners that — let’s face it — can’t beat cheap junk food anyway is hardly a big ask.

Warmth spreads across his chest at Hotch’s words, replacing the feelings of failure and rising anxiety with something that feels like a promise of all the good to come. There’s something fatherly, something deeply paternal in Hotch that there wasn’t in Gideon, and it’s the most comfort Spencer’s felt in years. “Really?”

“Really,” Hotch nods, squeezing his shoulder gently. “You wait here one minute, okay?”

“Okay…” Hotch is gone before he can finish replying, and Spencer is left staring at the doors confused, until the rest of the team are piling out of them a few minutes later, Hotch bringing up the rear with his jacket and wallet in hand.

“We just paid the tab. How does cheap Chinese food eaten in the park a couple hundred yards down sound?” Hotch suggests, raising an eyebrow as he smiles warmly at Spencer.

He looks around briefly at the rest of the team, who are all giving him encouraging looks, not a trace of judgement or annoyance to be found.

“That sounds amazing,” he laughs wetly, the tears springing to his eyes this time caused by a completely different emotion. “I can pay you back, though.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, pretty boy,” Derek says, patting Spencer’s back, “we’ve got it. Now, come on, I’m gonna order sweet and sour chicken balls, and I want them now.”

“That’s what she said,” Penelope giggles, linking her arm with Derek’s.

“That was terrible, baby girl, but I love that you tried.”

“Do you want to share shrimp chop suey with me, babe?” Elle asks JJ as they clasp hands, walking a couple of steps ahead of them.

“Well, I’m certainly not sharing with any of these losers,” JJ teases, before kissing Elle’s cheek.

Spencer feels Hotch place his hand on his back, and he turns to smile gratefully at the older man. “Thank you,” he says quietly, trying to convey just how earnestly he means it. “No-one’s ever done anything this nice for me before.”

There’s a slightly sad tinge to Hotch’s smile, but it doesn’t look like pity. “I’d get used to it if I were you. That’s just how we do things in the BAU.”

Well, if that’s the case, Spencer thinks, smiling as he falls into step between Hotch and Penelope, I think I might just stick around.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @temily @jellejareau @reidology @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @tobias-hankel @garcias-bitch @oliverbrnch @physics-magic @sbeno22 @im-autistic-not-stupid(taglist form)

#criminal minds #cm #criminal minds fic #criminal minds writing #criminal minds gen #criminal minds gen fic #aaron hotchner & spencer reid #derek morgan & spencer reid #derek morgan #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #penelope garcia #jelle #jennifer jareau #elle greenaway #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds angst #hurt spencer reid #hurt/comfort

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scribblingfangirl · 3 years

Text

WRITTEN WORDS & WHISPERED WISHES | Julie and The Phantoms - Luke Patterson

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Author’s Note: I wrote this fic for an old fandom of mine and thought I could re-write/re-use it to finally get started on my JaTP bingo card (because my creativity and originality are nowhere to be found) - I hope you enjoy, yet I’m still sorry in advance? (song’s Poet by Bastille but slightly adapted by me)

word count: 1.9k

prompt: ‘Song Fic’ on my @jatpbingo bingo card

summary: It took several sleepless nights, days of throwing up and feeling bad and the pressure of cuddling with Luke to finally discover that you were pregnant.

warnings: teen pregnancy, character death, a very hastly scribbeled down fic idea (this was not beta read (or read over in general) so typos, inconsistent grammar and other faboulous little annoyances (if anyone loves to read my fanfics and would like to volunteer as my beta reader I’ll kiss your feet))

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It had been a few weeks since you, well... since you had seen another room rather than your classrooms and your own four walls. You even missed your kitchen and living room. But especially, you missed the boys' studio.

Today, however, has been a good day. You had managed to eat properly without feeling sick and were starting to catch up on some shortly due essays, papers and homework assignments, so you wouldn’t need to do them when feeling utterly sick again.

Luke had come to visit you (or tried to) a few times, needing to use his charm at your door, as you told your parents that you didn’t want him to see you. Your hair was a mess and unkempt, it pained you to stand for a long period of time (so you reduced the times you washed it to a minimum), your eyes had dark circles under them and you were exhausted even if you didn’t do anything the whole day long.

“I brought you food. I know that your fridge only knows like three meals”, he had said once quietly, putting the tray with the steaming meal on your bed, gesturing for you to move a little, so he could sit beside you.

“You mean to say that I and/or my parents only know three meals”, you had coughed laughing and refused to move. You didn’t want him to get sick too.

“No don’t,” you had muttered when he started to push you to the side, “I think I might have a bad bug and Sunset Curve can’t function without its lead vocalist and guitarist. And I can’t eat anyway.”

He had looked at you, confused and concerned. “Still? Alex told me you were able to keep your breakfast in, and I thought that meant you were on your way of improvement.”

“Some illnesses take longer to go away. I just didn’t want you to check on me because things like a normal cold or a little stomach bug can pass without unnecessary medications even if it takes longer.”

That had been two weeks ago. But today, when you were finally looking presentable again and were even able to open the door yourself, it wasn’t Luke that was visiting you.

“Oh… it’s you guys.”

“Geez, thanks Y/N. No need to kill us with all this kindness,” Reggie said laughing and sniffed, “Uh! Smells amazing. Pizza?” Without any hesitation or warning, he entered your house and vanished into the kitchen.

“Pizza? Wow, you must really be feeling better. I remember you throwing up on me a week ago when I tried to feed you chicken soup,” Alex smiled, hands in his pockets and not moving until you invited him in.

“Oh no,” hiding your face in your hands after you closed the door behind you both and groaned. “I’m so sorry about that. Again. Tell me how much the cleaning bill was and I-”

“Chill Y/N, relax. You’ve seen me at my worst and now I’ve seen you at your worst. Sure, I was still way more elegant and not as weak as you, but you just gave me a reason to finally get rid of those shoes.”

“No Alex! You loved those sneakers!” you said horrified.

“Just kidding. Give me 50 bucks and we’re even. Or, you know, better yet, come back to the studio and help us get rid of an overly clingy Luke. Now that you’re better, pleeeease, give him some cuddles!”

You giggled. “You know you have two perfectly fine arms to hug him with as well, right?”

“Yeah!” He said, raising his voice. “But not ALL the time. And I want to be appreciated for myself once too! Not just because I am the only one available to give hugs as an ‘emergency solution’!”

“You make it sound like you actually let us hug you dude, don’t lie,” Reggie muttered through a mouthful of Pizza, throwing himself on your couch.

Throwing Reggie a stink eye Alex turned to you again. “Anyway… You and I will go to the studio now. Yeah?”

“Well”, you stocked, not sure if you could talk to them about it. You had hoped for a few more days to think it over. “You know… It might actually not have been a bad bug, but rather a big bug that I caught.”

At their confused faces, you sighed. “I’m a few days, or even weeks... late”, you mumbled the last part so quietly, you weren’t even sure if they had heard you (if they even knew what you meant).

You were definitely not expecting Reggie to be the one to answer. “Do you want me to drive you to the hospital or do you just want a pregnancy test first?”

You didn’t know who of them had told Luke, or when, but after a few minutes of waiting in the hospital’s waiting room he came barreling in, beanie askew on his head and guitar case on his back. His searching eyes found yours in a haze and you could basically hear the question in his gaze ‘Are you?’. Silently you shook your head, averting your eyes.

Alex offered him his place beside you and Luke grabbed your hand while you waited. A few moments later your name was called and the nurse brought you and Luke to an empty room and told you to wait again. She came back a few minutes later and Luke moved to the side of the bed and held your hand again.

You didn’t feel the cold gel on your belly. Didn’t feel the way Luke was almost crushing your hand in his. Didn’t hear the words the nurse said. You only heard the faint heartbeat of your baby. You were pregnant.

Luke was beaming, looking at the screen where you could see the ultrasound of your baby, but he also looked at you with a little bit of fear in his eyes.

I can't say the words out loud So in a rhyme, I wrote you down Now you'll live through the ages I can feel your pulse in the pages

Even though you were only in your eighth week and not really showing yet, Luke wouldn’t allow you to wear anything else than his oversized hoodies, sweaters, pullovers and flannels (the ones that still had sleeves. And okay, fair enough, it might also have been because he absolutely loved to see you in his clothes.)

He was like an eagle watching over you, flying down as soon as you were doing or were going to do something he didn’t approve of. He even almost convinced his and your parents to move into your room so he could reach you faster in case of an emergency. (It was a clear no from both parents and he even got grounded for that idea - though later on, you learned from Alex that it was because he had said ‘Why not? It’s not like I can impregnate her again!’)

Of course, your parents weren’t happy about the situation, but they weren’t about to throw you out on the street. They both loved you and Luke (after all, they did fall for his charms one to many times), but they never really spoke the words out loud, never really talked about the fact that you two were going to be parents, a family at such a young age.

And Luke and you? While he was acting like an overprotective husband you both weren’t really talking about it either. You both were terrified about the fact that you were going to raise a child while Sunset Curve was trying to make it big, while you were still in High School and it still seemed more like a dream to you both, a dream from which neither of you wanted to wake up and face reality.

That’s why you started to write the letters. Or in Luke’s case - lyrics. Letters to future you’s, letters to your unborn child telling them about your adventures, your experiences and feelings. It was a way to tell yourself all the reasons why it was okay that you were going to be having sleepless nights filled with the cries of a baby, telling you that it was all going to be worth it.

And for the first time, while writing those letters and lyrics, it was as if both you could feel your baby.

Your body lies upon the sheets Of paper in words so sweet I can't say the words So I wrote you into my verse Now you'll live through the ages I can feel your pulse in the pages

Time went by fast. You remembered the first time you felt the little kick very well, as if it was yesterday, but at that time you still could somewhat see your feet and now you couldn’t even stand up anymore without somebody’s help.

School was weird, but you had the boys to help you through it.

You started to draw little babies beside your letters, trying to imagine the different looks it could have. Would it have your hair or Luke’s? His eyes and your nose? Your eyes and his smile?

And then you started to write your letters and lyrics around the baby, making it look like it was cradled by your warm words, hoping that whenever you wouldn’t be able to hold your child, it would be able to read your letters and feel the love, because you surely did.

How could you have known that in just a few weeks these lyrics would be the only words your child would ever ‘hear’ from their father?

I have read you with these eyes I've read you with these eyes I have held you in these hands

You had never seen your parents looking so fragile and broken like the night they came into your room to tell you the boys died.

And then, the next thing you knew was that your son was born. The doctors and nurses said that it was the stress, the emotional overload of being told that your friends, your loves, the father of your child died that caused your water to break.

That’s why it was Bobby and not Luke that was by your side that night and held your hand. It was Bobby, the normally strong and grumpy teenager, that was smiling like a little kid that just got told it would get to eat as much candy as it wanted.

His eyes were glistening with tears as the nurse handed him the little bundle of joy and he started to sway him - Luke - slowly back and forth, knowing that you were too tired to hold him at the moment.

“He is beautiful”, you murmured as he took a seat beside you, his gaze still fixed on his nephew, because obviously, he would be Uncle Bobby (though not for a very long time), “Just like his father.”

You didn’t hear Bobby’s answer as you fell asleep and dreamed of Luke, tucking you in and kissing your forehead before he dedicated himself entirely to the new tiny human in his arms, singing a sweet lullaby.

“We have written you down. Now you will live forever and all the world will hear you and you will live forever. In eyes not yet created, on tongues that are not born, in ears not yet listening. I have written you down, now you will live forever and Sunset Curve will sing about you.”

#luke patterson x reader #julie and the phantoms x reader #jatp #julie and the phantoms #luke patterson #luke patterson imagine #luke patterson one shot #luke patterson oneshot #julie and the phantoms imagine #julie and the phantoms oneshot #julie and the phantoms one shot #jatp imagine #jatp one shot #jatp oneshot #my writing #viascribbles

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captaincravatthecapricious · 3 years

Text

Psychosomatic- Prompt Fill

Soooo I forgot to fully read the prompt, so this isn’t season 2. Sorry! Have a bit of a follow up to my broken ribs fic!

cw nausea, vomiting (brief mentions), headaches, migraines, injury, anxiety, fever, oh and Jon is kind of gaslighting himself a little

And I have finished all my bingo prompts, but I plan on choosing another prompt list soon, so keep an eye out if you wanna make some requests! And the rest of the bingo fics will be out soon (I tend to post on Wednesdays, but I make no promises for consistency). Thanks again to @celosiaa for the wonderful bingo card!

“Jon? Are you sure about this?”

That’s Martin talking to him. He ought to pay attention.

Jon wonders if there is a correct answer to the question. There probably is, if he can think through the headache.

Think.

He is at Martin’s flat, has been for about a week.

Martin is finally going to let him back to work. Partly because he is starting to heal, and even so there isn’t much you can do for broken ribs. Partly because Jon needs to save the world, and he has been doing his all the convince Martin of this. There is also that terrifying thing about needing Statements now. Not that he really wants to share that with Martin. Because Martin is the only one who actually cares anymore and he could ruin it if Martin were to… He doesn’t know. His chest is tight. Partly from the pain, partly from anxiety.

Stress, that’s why he feels like shit.

Stress. All in his head.

Christ he has to answer before Martin gets concerned.

“Yes. I’m fine, Martin. You can stop fussing.” Does that sound like him? How brusque is he normally? Does this fall under the typical Jon being an arse (which… he feels very badly about but at this point what does he even say? They had a few moments …but he never knows what to say now or he’s in too much pain or under too much stress to really be a good conversationalist, and being rude is better than …no it isn’t. He’s just afraid of letting Martin get too close?).

Christ his head is pounding, and it isn’t like he’s done anything.

Just the stress.

Probably.

Stress or statements.

He’s fine.

“It’s just… are you sure? You look a bit peaky. And you do need to be gentle with your ribs so they heal, so you don’t, you know puncture a lung and die or something.”

Jon dodges Martin trying to feel his forehead and hisses with pain. He batts Martin’s hand away instead, pressing his other to his rib cadge.

If he’s running a fever… It’s probably just the pain. He’s been in a lot of pain. Ribs and now this headache, witch, could easily become a migraine.

He wonders if he has Excedrin in his office, or hidden in the stacks with what’s left of his belongings.

“I’m fine. Just… worried about the Unknowing. I’m trying to save the world, but had to take some time off… a bit hard to relax with that over my head. You’re no stranger to anxiety, I’m sure you know the feeling.” Shit. Is that too personal? Was the insensitive? It’s a bit difficult to ignore, even for Jon, that Martin struggles with anxiety. He’s seen the prescriptions by the bed, and around the Archives when Martin was living there. He wasn’t really invading. Not like he had back…. No. It’s fine. He’s fine. No the anxiety certainly isn’t twisting in his core now, sloshing his insides. Just the stress. It’s fine.

Martin sighs. “Yeah. Yeah… I do. And it isn’t going to get better if we sit around here, is it? But, you’ll let me know if working doesn’t make you feel better, yeah? You still need to take it easy. You aren’t better yet.”

Jon purses his lips. Not sure how to answer without outright lying. “I’ll do my best? It’s all a bit muddled? Ribs hurt so it’s hard to sleep. Stress makes it harder to sleep. Stress and not sleeping lead to a headache. Which won’t get better until I sleep, which I can’t do until I can make some progress at work so we all don’t literally die. Christ, I’m sorry. Let’s just go. I’ll have a lie down after I read a Statement and do a bit of research, how about? I… appreciate what you’ve done for me, but I’m imposing and probably putting you in danger, and I’m not the easiest person to live with…”

“It’s no trouble. It’s… nice having someone else here. I’m glad you let me look after you.”

“Not really like I had much of a choice, but I’ve had worse kidnappings.”

Martin makes a face.

Jon worries he’s gone too far with a joke that isn’t all that funny. “Sorry.”

“Let’s just go. Sooner we leave the sooner I can get you back here and resting. Yes Jon, I am bringing you back here if you’ll let me. It’s actually less stressful when I know where you are so I can be sure you haven’t been kidnapped again.”

Jon can’t really argue with that.

The tube may have been a mistake.

It’s crowded, and there aren’t any open seats, and no one seems to care that he’s carrying a cane. And while he could probably ask… he won’t. Martin tries to shield him from the worst of the crown, but it’s the lighting. Scraping at the backs of his eyes, threatening him with a migraine. It’s the jolting of the train between stops where he stumbles because he can’t lift his free hand high enough to grab one of the grips without it tugging painfully on his ribs. Martin tries to hold him steady, but it isn’t enough. And to make it worse, Jon is certain that every eye is on him. He’s small but conspicuous. Messy hair, cane, scars, limp.

Is it just his paranoia? Is it the eye? Is he just tired? He doesn’t know, but it makes him want to curl up as tightly as he can, ribs be damned, and get out of sight. It makes him feel sick.

Martin tuts gently when Jon almost whimpers at the next judder of the train. “Should have called a cab.”

Jon shakes his head. “I’d rather be jostled than carsick.”

Martin glances at him in concern. Probably assessing the likelihood of Jon getting sick in the carriage.

Jon wishes that weren’t a valid concern.

He’s fine.

It’s the headache. It’s the stress. He’ll read a Statement, he’ll do some research, he’ll take a nap if he needs to, but he should be feeling better by then.

Martin checks on him every half hour or so. It’s… distracting.

And concerning.

The Statement didn’t help. He still feels dizzy and sick, and the headache has only gotten worse. He wants to turn off the lights, but sitting in one position, trying not to vomit from the pain has made his ribs stiff. Stiff to the point that he isn’t sure he can move.

He tries to do research, but the words start swimming on the page. Shit. Is this even stress? Is he just having a shitty day? Is he sick? He can’t afford to be sick. If he has to recover from an illness that puts him even farther behind. No. It’s just stress. Stress migraine.

Probably.

The Statement didn’t help. Not enough anyhow.

He doesn’t want Martin to see just how badly off he is. Can’t bear the disappointed look, the worrying. Martin has worried enough. Jon just wants to hide. To be miserable in peace, just like has has done for years. But he doesn’t have flat now. He has a few clothes and a toothbrush at Martin’s flat now. He has the same at Georgie’s. And he has a shelf with some blankets and a few boxes of things from his flat in the stacks. Far enough back, and semi covered by a tarp that he’s not yet been discovered there.

He should go there, if he can. Curl up in his nest of blankets and pillows, see if he can find some Excedrin, and hope that helps.

He should eat something before the meds, but he’s nearly overcome with nausea when he leavers himself to standing. Has to detour to expel what little Martin made him eat that morning. He limps to his shelf. And nearly cries when he has to try to get himself on in without hurting his ribs more.

Sneaking off before Martin can notice just how sorry a state he is in.

He manages to sleep. Deeply. Painkillers helping enough that he can pass out for a couple hours. Probably. His head still hurts too much to look at his phone. Enough that he shouldn’t try moving, but he’s certain Martin must be out of his mind with worry. But…

But he can’t move. His ribs hurt too much. And trying to sit up makes him nauseous enough to wonder if he has anything to be ill into should the need arise.

He wants to sleep more. He wants to sleep long enough to find the Tim of last year to find him. He misses his friend. He wants the old TIm. He wants the old him. He wants to be dragged upright at his Research desk by Tim and for Tim to demand to know why he’s at work in such a sorry state.

He wants Martin to find him.

He wants Sasha to.

(He wants his mother to).

He feels too poorly to pull the blanket up, so he shivers, whimpering a little when that jostles his ribs, jostles his migraine.

He drifts. Too nauseous, too achey to really sleep.

He almost doesn’t hear Martin searching for him. Sounding tired and worried. Calling his name, and presumably checking all the rows, all the shelves for somewhere Jon might have tucked himself.

Jon wants to call back, but the minimal noise Martin is making hurts too much to think about responding. He’ll find him soon enough. Probably. Jon isn’t feeling well enough to disguise his hideaway. Even if that makes him feel dreadfully exposed. (Vulnerable to Daisy and Elias and even Melanie and Tim on their more aggressive days).

He drifts more, as Martin draws closer.

Jon wakes properly to Martin feeling his forehead. Brushing a few stray tears away. Tutting at the fever Jon presumes he is running. “Oh Jon, why didn’t you say something? I’ve been so worried. Burning up, we ought to get you home.”

Jon is ashamed to say he whimpers at the thought of moving. “Hurts.” It’s slurred and pathetic.

Martin shushes him gently. “Is it alright if I lift you?”

“Careful.”

“I will be,” Martin promises.

And he is.

It still hurts.

And the cab ride makes him sick.

But then it’s over and he’s back in Martin’s bed, and he can’t make himself worry about anything anymore.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonathan sims #jonmartin #martin blackwood #fanficiton #cw nausea #cw vomiting #cw injury #cw fever #cw anxiety #fic #my fic #my writing #my words #art #my art

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5-falsehoods-phonated · 3 years

Text

(Prompts with boxes have been taken, highlighted have been written)

Requests for this card are closed, thank you to anyone who sent in requests! If you don’t want to see these you can block the tag #false bthb. As always shoot me an ask if you wanna be tagged in future stories, whether it be for bad things happen bingo or any of the other series, one shots or in general!

I’ve been picking at this particular request since early December as the person who requested it had a lot of details they wanted put in making the writing process a bit more challenging. As a disclaimer, note that the chapter is split between present time and the past; with Logan recalling things in his past in an attempt to make the details requested for the story flow better. I received this request from AO3.

General taglist: @im-an-anxious-wreck

Experimental Socialization

Summary: Logan was raised by the government to be nothing more than an experiment and a weapon, utilizing his unique abilities as a mutant. When he finally escapes things are much different than he imagined they’d be but thankfully finds others like him willing to help guide him right where he needs to be.(Happy Ending)

Warnings: allusions to abuse, physical punishment and human experimentation, tw for weapons and fire, panic attack. If there are more please let me know

Prompt; Not Used To Freedom (requested by AngstyEmoGal on AO3)

Ships: Intrulogical, Logan x Remus

WC: 3432

“You just gotta breathe, Logan. In four, hold seven, out eight remember? You’re doing great, just keep going.”

Logan felt himself slowly coming back to reality as his breathing evening out, the raw panic that had gripped his chest easing slightly as Virgili continued coaxing him through the exercise. He felt the other slowly rub up and down his arm in a slow, steady beat that helped ground him further in reality and he smiled up at his friend gratefully and nodded to let xem know he was okay. Gripping his knees as Virgil’s voice trailed off he squeezed his eyes shut tightly and let out one last calming breath.

“Thank you, Virgil. I-” He struggled to find words, gesturing flippantly in the air making Virgil grin.

“It’s okay. Take your time, L.”

Logan puffed his cheeks out in frustration, thoughts swirling too quickly for him to comprehend anything but the apprehensive fear he held for the plans Remus had made for them later that evening. “I am- not used to being outside. Given my history and the threat I pose as a potential compromise to our place of hiding I fail to understand Remus’ reasoning for going out when we could just as easily celebrate our relationship here.”

“Hm.” Virgil leaned back on xyr hands and looked up at the low ceiling of their underground paradise. “Can’t really see the stars from here, no matter how many stickers Princey finds and puts up it can't really be compared to the real thing.”

Logan had made the mistake of going on a tirade of space facts a few months into his stay in the hideout, Remus patiently listening to the extensive infodump of constellation facts and space physics and planetary rotation. Having a limited amount of books to entertain oneself with for extended periods of time meant memorizing entire books on one subject, which Logan had used all too happily as a figurative escape from his situation in the past until he had actually managed to escape when he was 16. Hearing Logan speak so passionately about the subject had apparently made his mind up that he was taking Logan outside for their first “official” date to view the stars, which had then landed Logan in his current state of panic as he realized that date was today and he was decidedly not ready for what might lay in store outside of safety of the hideout.

“I can stay close by if you want. I won’t spy or anything and Remus won’t have to know.” Logan looked over as his thoughts were interrupted by the offer, Virgil turning invisible and reappearing a couple seconds later to emphasize xyr point. Smiling Logan shook his head, knowing the other derived as much joy from going outside as Logan felt about going himself.

“Thank you for the offer though, you’re very kind.” Letting his thoughts drift again he idly wondered when Virgil had discovered xe could disappear and reappear at will and if xyr parents had tried to hide it before the government had found out. His own parents-

-----

“Logan?” A very small Logan turned at his mother’s voice, losing his concentration which made the hidden jar of Crofters fall from its suspended place in the air and smash to the floor. His parents hadn’t known he possessed any sort of powers, and even as small as he was he still understood the position he’d put them in if they ever found out. Fearfully his hands dropped to his sides as his mother covered her mouth in shock, tears rolling down her cheeks as she took a step back.

Men in suits and long coats were there just a few hours later, speaking in hushed voices while both of his parents cried and he was ushered out the door and into an unmarked car, quiet as he understood yelling and crying would do him no good now. What’s done was done, all he could do was be compliant and hope to be treated gently.

-----

The room suddenly brightening with a flickering light brought him back out of his thoughts, Roman entering with his signature bright flame held proudly in his hand. The image of him in his rather scrapped together Princely outfit posing subconsciously in the doorway was almost enough to make Logan roll his eyes but he didn’t want Virgil to think it was because of xem so he managed to restrain himself.

“My dearest brother has been pacing in the same spot for two hours now and I haven't been able to calm him down soooo I thought to check on our resident nerd.” Roman declared with his usual flare. Logan actually did roll his eyes this time but Virgil did as well so he figured it was fine.

“The ‘resident nerd’ is doing fine, Roman. Though it's concerning to hear Remus is nervous as well considering he’s the one who suggested the date.”

Roman waved his hand at Logan dismissively. “He’s just a sap- moreso than me surprisingly. He doesn’t want to do anything to put you in danger but he wants to do something nice, so he’s worried that’s all. Remus is an idiot but I trust him with my life; believe me when I say you have nothing to worry about except his terrible sense of humor.”

Logan merely hummed in response, staring at the way the flame moved around as Roman gestured with his words.

-----

He panted as he rolled out of the way of another flamethrower, singeing the tips of his hair in the process but he couldn’t afford to slow down enough to worry about that. Years of training with different fighting styles had earned him incredibly fast reflexes but a good portion of his accuracy in knowing where to step and when was owed to him working even harder to focus his powers. Thoughts from others constantly surrounded him on a regular basis, getting more and more prevalent the older he grew. Learning to block out the constant string of stimuli was a useful skill to keep him sane but learning to hone in on specific thoughts to predict actions was what had kept him alive.

He ducked below another bullet and brought up his leg in the same motion, kicking a throwing knife to the side and sending it to clatter harmlessly between one of his assailants feet. A twirl to the side and a tilt of the head let another bought of flame boil the air beside him while another knife just barely brushed his ear. The constant bang of bullets and roar of flames and whistling of knives was overwhelming and made the air so thick he could barely draw a breath and it was becoming a struggle to concentrate the way he needed to and-

A high pitched alarm sounded one, twice, three times- a blaring flash accompanying it that left him blinking painfully. His shoulders slumped as the barrage finally ended, another successful training day completed. He watched as everyone began putting their weapons away, laughing and congratulating each other, clapping themselves on the back and discussing whatever they had planned after this. No one even spared the thing they had been firing at seconds before a spare glance, save for the director of the branch, who took long steps forward to stand in front of him only to snap his fingers and motion forward no doubt to see him back to his room until dinner. Absorbing the sounds around him he drank in as much praise as he could that wasn’t his and would never be for him; people rarely congratulated weapons after all.

-----

“Is this where we all decided to hide today?” Logan looked up to see Patton sitting cross legged on one one of the beams in the ceiling, grinning happily down at them even as their fluffy ears twitched nervously and even fluffier tail whipped back and forth in agitation. They must have come back from trying to calm Remus as well, Logan mused; Patton had never done well being in the same room as Remus who tended to voice his thoughts abruptly and without much care to how they might sound to others which always managed to set Patton on edge no matter how hard they tried not to show it.

Patton was a rare mutant in that as opposed to being born with abnormal traits or abilities they had been a science experiment from the start- an effort to create super soldiers rather than stealing them away from families and training them. Even rarer was the fact that the DNA splicing had taken extraordinarily well by pure chance as Patton was born with a mutation that left their DNA incredibly malleable- a mutation that never would have been discovered had cellular manipulation not been the reason for them being in the experimental branch that they were. They had tried cloning Patton at first to see if their power could be duplicated but when that failed to work they began trying to combine them with different animals to see if desirable traits would come forward. By manipulating them on a physical and anatomical level they were able to change some parts of them to be more cat like, intending, Patton had guessed, to turn them into a kind of stealth soldier but they got away before they completed it, leaving them with heightened agility and surgically coaxed cat ears and a tail. They were only a child when the lab had done this but somehow they were never bitter, simply preferring to leave their past alone and embrace whatever future they could make- a trait Logan greatly admired them for even if their unending optimism could be somewhat grating at times.

“Did Janus brush your tail out Pat? It looks fluffier today.” Patton preened at Virgil's compliment, their tail beginning to wave in a more relaxed manner as their mind was distracted from whatever it was Remus had been ranting about.

“He did! He found a cat brush and got it for me so I could finally get the undercoat out!” Jumping down and landing lightly on their feet they posed a little and flashed another wide grin.

“Beautiful as always, Patton.” Roman said genuinely as he lowered his hand into a barrel to light up the paper scraps and wood in it for the night, the dim sunlight that had filtered through the grated having long since died. The home was a modified branch of a sewer system, thankfully the part most removed from the city where it flowed without the stench and was sealed off inconspicuously enough that in the ten years Janus and Remus had been using it no worker had ever found it.

-----

It had been Janus and Remus who had found him, beaten and bloody from an escape attempt he had made just days before his real one. He had made a weak attempt to coax the scientists into a false sense of security, holding back the full scoop of his powers during training for a year in anticipation for his final escape. He had punished severely but had simply thrown him in his regular cell, assuming he wasn’t strong enough to do any more damage than they had seen him do already and trusting that they had beaten him down enough that it would be a while before he tried again- if he ever did. Not six days later the mangled metal of the front of his cell was tossed into a group of guards, walls torn apart in a straight line to the exit and the huge buzzing gates leading to the outside world thrown open wide and stuck there with varying amounts of heavy debris.

The outside world, as it turns out, was a lot bigger and louder and downright terrifying when you weren’t being sent out as a personal assassin or field missions or training sessions- all controlled on some level to keep him from being killed and compromised. Without the begrudged protection from the labs and moreover having to hide from said lab was another story entirely. The times they searched for him and how closely they came to his spots were random and made it incredibly hard for him to pick out their thoughts from anyone else’s in the city and figure out how close they were. On more than one occasion they passed right by him crouched under piles of garbage or laying low under a hedge, his breath held as he tried desperately to keep himself as still and quiet as possible, thoughts of what they would to him once they found him pounding against his head and making him squeeze his eyes shut to keep his terrified tears from falling.

That was how Remus had found him. It had been dark and hours had passed since the searchers had left that park he had been hiding in. He had still been hiccuping down his sobs as he rolled out from under the hedge that he hadn’t bothered to scope the area for anyone’s close by thoughts, having shut out as much as he could after they had left to try and block out any other hate fueled thoughts that may send him spiraling again. His heart had leapt in his throat so high his breath caught painfully, immediately shifting to offense as he tensed, ready to fight as long and hard as he could. He couldn’t go back- he wouldn’t. No matter what they did or promised him or punished him with; he’d go down fighting or not at all.

But Remus had only raised his hands in the air in a motion of peace, eyes widening as he locked onto the government issued bracelet that marked him as an experimental mutant. He had grinned impossibly wide then Logan remembered, briefly disappearing from his sight and reappearing a moment later, setting him even more on edge but curious nonetheless.

“I’m like you.” Remus had said quietly. “Basically I run real fast and the government hasn’t figured out how to get me yet.”

Logan had watched as he jiggled his wrists a bit for emphasis, bare save for colored chords that he assumed didn’t associate him with any government branch since they didn’t look official.

“Are you okay?” Remus had asked next and mutely Logan nodded, unsure of how to react to this fellow mutant who had never been caught by any sort of lab, apparently living as free as one could when you were as different as they were. He stepped back as another man appeared behind him, Janus he later learned.

“Liar.” Janus had hissed, making Remus reach around and smack the back of his head.

“It was a polite thing to ask that he tried to dismiss Jan. Let the adults speak for a second.”

Logan had noted the faint pout on Janus’ face though he was still trying very hard to look intimidating. And then all at once his eyes had turned cold as his attention was once again focused on Logan, glaring menacingly from beneath a black bowler hat. “I’m younger than you and yet I’m the one that has to put my foot down. He’s being chased clearly; we are not bringing him back with us.”

Remus has turned, Logan seemingly forgotten for the moment. “That’s not how it works! He needs help and we’re not leaving him to starve or be found in the middle of a park! What would Patton say?”

“Patton is a soft fool who needs to figure out where their morals stand. I myself am choosing not to compromise our place of hiding and three other people that you know those power hungry idiots would love nothing more than to get their hands on!”

Remus rolled his eyes so hard his head had lolled with it, face going pale as he watched something in the sky. It was then that Logan heard the telling sound of a helicopter flying low and getting closer but he had barely tensed before he found himself gripped around the middle and held vertically with the ground flying underneath him. They stopped abruptly and he was set down, blinking in rapid confusion as Remus grinned sheepishly at him.

“Welcome to the hideout?”

Logan’s eyes had widened and his breath had caught yet again, chest tightening as he shook his head vehemently. “You can’t- I need to go back! They’ll do anything to get me back-!”

He was stopped from going forward with a finger to his chest, his blue eyes locking with beautiful brown as Remus held his gaze. “And we will do everything to keep you safe.”

Safe. With that one word Logan was his. He hadn’t known why and he still didn’t quite understand it but he had trusted Remus with everything he had- and he still did. Even as Janus had stalked off grumbling and Virgil and Roman had kept their distance at first Remus had kept him close and showed him how much better his life could be, even if they were living in a modified sewer system.

Back in the present he looked up as a hand was thrust under his chin, smiling softly as he took Remus’ hand and let himself be led away from the others’ idle chatter. He counted himself extremely lucky in the end that Janus had eventually come around to him, seeing how happy he made Remus and how Remus made Logan feel it had been him to finally talk to Logan about it and get the two to officially talk about how they felt, going on about the being “hopeless gay idiots” when they had finally started to date officially. Logan wasn’t sure what he’d do without Remus at this point, just a year later and he was so attached to their small group of hideaways he wouldn’t trade for the world.

They approached the exit to the sewers, Remus swinging their hands between them. Logan held his breath right before they crossed the threshold, closing his eyes and letting it out slowly as his feet met grass and he opened his eyes to the darkened field. There were a few tunnels that lead out to different places depending on where they needed to go and this, Remus had told him, was his favorite because of how empty it was. The city lay far in the distance so there was almost no light pollution to block out the sky. Soft grass and flowers brushed his ankles as he scanned the area carefully, seeing nothing but trees lining the far end of the field with a road so far away he could barely, make it out in the darkness. Remus tugged his hand softly to get his attention, searching his eyes for any hint of discomfort.

“Is this okay?’

Logan took another breath and let it out, the last of his nerves fading away as he took in the quiet. “It’s perfect Remus.”

The other grinned and tugged a little harder this time, walking fast to the middle of the field where he stopped suddenly and raised Logan’s arm up to lead him into an impromptu twirl. Logan laughed quietly and then louder as he was dipped, secure in Remus’ strong hold as he reached up to grip the back of his neck. He was safe. He was free and safe and happy finally with someone who truly loved and cared for him. His breath caught in his throat again but this time in awe, Remus chuckling as he was laid down carefully tucked into his side, till with his arms around his neck.

The stars shone bright and winked lazily while swirls of color dusted faintly behind them. The moon was waning, a barely there light that let the beauty behind it show fully as the wind whisked away any clouds that dared to try and cover it. It was everything Logan had ever hoped it would be and more, excitement thrumming through him as he squeezed Remus tightly in an attempt to convey it. He felt Remus grin against his scalp where his face was buried in his hair.

“It’s beautiful isn't it?”

Logan looked back at him, light from the stars reflected in his eyes and wild brown hair framing his face. He leaned up slightly and kissed him, a faint brush of their lips that left them both grinning like the idiots they were. Placing a hand on Remus’ cheek Logan smiled at him, thumb brushing over his cheek in adoration.

“Absolutely stunning.”

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