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the-letter-horror-lover · 2 years

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inbreeding.

Chapter 5: His Master, Ashamed

Chapter Text

Two days after Marchioness Midford and her daughter visited Phantomhive Manor, they had another visitor; one whom they had known well in advance would be coming that day, though they didn't go to any great lengths to please her. Quite the opposite:

At the sound of the front door knocker being vigorously banged, Sebastian strode into the foyer and opened the door, and then frowned down at the visitor. "Miss Hopkins, I've told you before, trades people such as yourself are expected to arrive at the rear entrance."

"And a good morning to you, too, Mister Hardhead," Nina Hopkins retorted, frowning up at the butler's face. "As for the rear entrance to the manor, that is for servants! And Nina Hopkins, the tailor who announces the seasons, is not a servant, but an artiste!"

"Referring to yourself in the third person is a sign of narcissism and mental illness, Miss Hopkins," Sebastian said with clear exasperation. "I am sorely tempted to close this door and insist that you go around to the rear, but the master is already waiting for you in the drawing room, and it would not do to keep him waiting further."

Once inside and heading into the drawing room, Nina called out gaily, "And what daring new outfit do you need this time, my little earl? Are you going on another adventure to distant lands? After the delight of designing your outfits for exploring Africa on Her Majesty's business, I can hardly wait to find out what my new challenge will be!"

Seated in his favorite chair with a detective novel, as he'd been reading to pass the time while waiting for her to arrive, Ciel looked up at Nina with an arched eyebrow and wry expression. "Your 'challenge', Miss Hopkins, will consist solely of making a respectable wardrobe for me. For a growing young gentleman," he added as he stood up, his lips quirking in a blink-and-you-miss-it smile.

Nina Hopkins went from leaning solicitously over the earl's seated figure, to drawing back with a startled frown as he stood up from the chair and stretched to his full height in front of her. "You... you've grown! At least a full inch, in just the three months since I saw you last!"

"A full inch and a half," Ciel informed her, no longer able to hold back his smug grin. "And I believe my shoulders are a bit broader than before as well; you'll need to do a full set of measurements today."

As Miss Hopkins began working with measuring tape and clipboard, frowning in concentration and perhaps something more, Mey-Rin quietly approached Sebastian at the entrance to the drawing room. "Mister Sebastian, perhaps while she's here, Miss Hopkins could see Dahlia as well?" the maid suggested hesitantly. "Dahlia will be needing a holster under her uniform for her pistol, yes she will. And... and begging your pardon, Mister Sebastian, but Miss Nina's designs for concealed holsters are, um, a bit more comfortable for the female figure than your design, I'm so sorry to say."

Sebastian frowned at Mey-Rin, but chose not to comment on her remark concerning his own tailoring abilities. Instead he asked, "Has she finished deciding on the long-distance weapon she'll be using, then?"

"Not yet, sir, but it should be soon. When last I looked out at the firing range, Bard had narrowed it down to three weapons for her, yes he had..."

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Even as Mey-Rin was speaking to Sebastian indoors, back in the fields behind the mansion, Bard was looking through a pair of binoculars at a target twenty yards away from where he and Dahlia were standing, Dahlia with a short-barreled revolver in her hands. "Damn good grouping; all but one shot within an inch of the bulls-eye," he commented past the smoldering cigarette dangling from his lips; lips that twitched up into a smile as he added, "Ain't nobody gonna expect that from a gun that's normally used for close-in fighting!"

"Precision aiming is required for throwing weapons, too," Dahlia commented with a wry smile as she lightly touched the braided coil of hair piled atop her head, in which she kept two hair-sticks that doubled as daggers, and over a dozen tiny throwing blades hidden within the long braid.

"Yeah, and that damn strong grip you got from strangling people makes it easy to handle a Webley Bulldog's recoil, just like I figured," Bard said almost smugly. "Yeah, you'll do fine on the Bulldog. Convenient, too, if you and the master use the same gun; there'll be less chance of grabbing the wrong type of ammunition from the armory in a crisis."

"The young master fires one of these?" Dahlia said, blinking down at the small but powerful revolver in her hands. "I wouldn't have thought..." her voice trailed off, and she seemed to shrink in on herself.

"Lemme guess; you thought he was too small and prissy to handle a Bulldog?" as Bard gave her a lopsided grin. "You should've seen him last year, before he started really growing; such a scrawny little thing that you'd expect him to be knocked on his arse by the recoil from an itty-bitty derringer! But even before I got hired on here, he carried a Bulldog when he went out on the Queen's business, and he'd go bird-hunting with a full-sized shotgun too."

"Indeed he did, and still does," Sebastian said from directly behind them, making them both jump a little before they spun around, to be confronted with his stern expression. "And the master would be singularly unappreciative of your descriptions of him, Baldroy... do you perhaps need another one of my lessons on holding your tongue?"

"No!" Bard said quickly, a bead of sweat trickling from his forehead. "Come on, Sebastian, I was just explaining to the new girl about how the young master is a lot tougher than he looks!"

"That he is," Sebastian conceded, and a little of the dark, dangerous aura that seemed to surround him eased up, as he looked past them at the target. "And that is a decent grouping, Dahlia; enough to satisfy the current requirements for a distance weapon, though of course you are expected to practice and further improve your marksmanship."

"O-of course, Mister Sebastian," Dahlia agreed with a hasty nod.

"I suggest you take your weapon into the house with you, to be measured for a holster by our visiting tailor. I shall retrieve your target to show the young master your efforts, as he had exhibited a moment of curiosity on the matter this morning," as Sebastian strode forward, towards the row of targets.

"But—!" as Dahlia started to reach out to catch the butler's jacket sleeve, only to be pulled back by Bard and urged towards the house.

"But what about all those beehives only a few yards away?" the laundress protested, looking back over her shoulder at where Sebastian was heading; the series of posts and hay bales that supported targets were indeed bracketed on either side by beehives, a cluster of six to the left and seven to the right. "You said the firing line was also our minimum safe distance; any closer and they might feel threatened and attack!"

"Yeah, and you and I would both regret it," Bard said with a vigorous nod, still tugging Dahlia towards the house. "And so would Mey-Rin, or Snake since not all of him is scaly. But Finnian's got some tough skin; beestings only make him itch a little, though he still goes out mostly at night to change the targets because he's such a softy towards any animal, even them. And Sebastian... he just doesn't get stung, period! Which is good for him, considering how often he has to go out there for honey; the young master's got the world's biggest sweet tooth."

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Weeks passed as the latest servant-soldier to join the Phantomhive household settled into her duties. Weeks that saw the ruin of five of Master Ciel's shirts, three pairs of pants, two fancy tablecloths and even an ironing board, before the new laundress finally got the hang of ironing. But under Sebastian's stern tutelage, Dahlia eventually did learn to do all of her duties properly, just as she eventually found her place and comradeship amidst the manor staff.

After giving the matter due thought, Sebastian allowed Dahlia and Mey-Rin to have the same evening off, provided they performed their duties flawlessly beforehand and were always back home at the proper time. Both ladies were happy to have the time off together, having become comfortable and friends with each other, and would often spend their weekly evening off exploring the nearby village. The rough shepherd lads and other locals that had once bothered Mey-Rin so much that she had gotten in the habit of staying in her room to practice reading with children's books instead, were less troublesome when the serving women went out together.

But for the rest of the week, when no laundry needed collecting, washing, hanging, folding, ironing, mending or putting away, Dahlia could often be found in the kitchen with Bard, even when the meal preparations required little to no assistance. Sebastian actually subtly encouraged the behavior, after he noted that there were almost no explosions or incidents of flash-burned food on those days, because Bard wasn't as impatient to get the food ready for eating quickly if he had Dahlia to talk to while working. Dahlia would do some easy but time-consuming task like shelling peas or stirring a thickening gravy while good-naturedly teasing the chef about his rough American ways, smiling when he sassed her right back, and occasionally sneaking his cigarettes.

Just under a month after her arrival, Dahlia was hard at work in scrubbing a set of particularly stubborn grass stains out of Finny’s pants, when Sebastian came in with an armload of bed linens that looked to be of the finest quality and asked politely, “Pardon me, Dahlia, but do you have any matches?”

“Ah, no, sorry,” Dahlia told him, wondering why he had thought she would have any in her pockets; the laundry room had no stove for heating water, so when she needed hot water for washing the whites, she lugged a few kettles’ worth in from the kitchen. She held her arms out for the bedsheets, fully expecting Sebastian to hand them over, but instead he held them up out of her reach. Puzzled, she watched him stride past her and towards the door leading outside to the clotheslines… and then pause and look over his shoulder at her expectantly, in a wordless command to follow him.

Dahlia followed Sebastian outside, far past the clotheslines, and clear over to the burn pit where Finnian burned the most noxious weeds. Then she watched with astonished dismay as the butler dumped the high-quality linens right atop the ashes. “What on earth?! Sebastian, why…?”

“I’m sorry, but the master has forbidden me to tell you anything about this increasingly regular occurrence,” Sebastian said coolly, before walking back to the manor.

Dahlia did not consider herself an exceptionally clever woman, but neither was she a blind fool. She spent only a moment frowning at Sebastian’s retreating back before pulling the sheets out of the burn pit and laying them out to look them over, searching for whatever the Phantomhive butler had been forbidden to tell her but wanted her to know about regardless.

By the time Sebastian came back out with a box of matches from the kitchen, Dahlia had found the stains in the sheets, determined their origin and bundled the sheets back into the burn pit, though with the stains conspicuously exposed instead of hidden in the folds. She asked quietly, “Mister Sebastian, even though you’re forbidden to tell me anything about this… could you nod or shake your head in response to questions I ask after making this entirely coincidental discovery?”

“Why yes, I am physically capable of nodding and shaking my head,” Sebastian said while giving her an approving smile, as he struck a match and set it to the base of the bundle. And for the next several minutes as the fabric slowly burned, he proceeded to either nod or shake his head in response to the questions she asked… though there were a few times when he gave her an inclined head and piercing stare, which she eventually figured out meant that while the question could be answered with a simple yes or no, the real answer was more involved than that and she should make a more specific inquiry.

As the bundle of linens burned to ashes, and after voicing a suggestion for how she could approach the situation and receiving Sebastian’s nod of approval, Dahlia excused herself and went to see the young master.

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Ciel had finished reading the newspaper and was preparing to make the first of the day’s telephone calls to his business managers when he heard the knock on the door to his study and Dahlia’s voice asking quietly, “Young master, may I come in?” He gave permission to enter, and she came to stand before the desk, dropped into a deep curtsey and said plaintively, “Young master, how can I prove to you that I am not a complete failure as your laundress and seamstress?”

“Eh?” as he stared at her in surprise.

Dahlia kept her head bowed as she said in a voice heavy with misery, “I know that I have failed to live up to the household standards in regards to ironing, though I swear to you that I am trying my best to improve with Sebastian’s firm lessons in technique. But truly, I do have some knowledge of how to properly wash and clean various fabrics, and I do sew a tidy seam when mending. Will you not give me the opportunity to prove my worth?”

Ciel cocked his head at her, as a suspicion began to form. “And what, exactly, have I or a member of the staff done to make you believe I doubt your capabilities?”

Still staring at the carpet, Dahlia told him, “Earlier today, my lord, I was hanging the first of the day’s washing to dry when I saw Sebastian taking a bundle of fabrics to the burn pit, and burn the lot to ashes. His manner at the time did not encourage questions, but Finnian said afterwards that it’s not the first time he’s done that since my arrival. My lord, for your butler to burn your belongings before even giving me an opportunity to see how they are stained or torn, let alone attempt to remedy… how else am I to interpret that, except that you think me utterly incapable of performing my duties?”

Ciel sighed and rubbed at his forehead, swearing he could feel a headache coming on. Damn that demon butler, he’d probably deliberately timed that burning to coincide with her hanging clothes to dry… “Dahlia, so far I’ve been given no reason to doubt your capabilities at washing or mending. Nor are Sebastian’s actions intended to cast aspersions on your abilities. Those sheets are being burned because I want them burned, that’s all.”

Dahlia curtseyed again, even further than before, and her voice was strained as she asked timidly, “Would my lord be so kind as to inform this humble servant why he desires the sheets to be burned, rather than mended or washed and donated to the orphanage nearby?”

Sebastian was nowhere in sight, but Ciel could still somehow feel his butler smirking at his discomfiture. He finally growled out, “Because they’re an embarrassment, that’s why! Now return to your duties!”

Dahlia hastily curtseyed again with a hurried, “Yes, my lord!” And she proceeded to back out of the room, still babbling, “I apologize for giving offense, my lord; I did not mean to—oof!” as she turned to hurry—straight into the still-closed door, hitting it so hard she rebounded and fell to the floor.

Ciel wondered for a split-second if Mey-Rin’s more unfortunate habits were catching, as he reflexively got up from his desk and hurried over to where Dahlia lay sprawled, her hands over her face. “Are you all right?”

“Mon nez,” Dahlia moaned, and he could see blood starting to seep out from between her fingers. Having seen plenty of broken noses over the last few years, he recognized the signs too well; he hissed a curse while whipping out his handkerchief for her to use, and said aloud, “Sebastian, come!”

Sebastian appeared in the doorway a moment later, taking in the scene at a glance, and crouching down beside them while giving Ciel a raised eyebrow. “My lord, what precisely did Dahlia do to earn such a mark of displeasure?”

“What?! I didn’t hit her; she ran right into the door!” Ciel protested.

“I was stupid,” Dahlia moaned, as Sebastian whipped out his own handkerchief to give her to hold over Ciel’s, which was already staining red. “I’m so stupid… I’m going to be let go…”

“I hardly think that is the case, Dahlia,” Sebastian said reassuringly as he effortlessly lifted her in his arms, but took her over to a chair in the study instead of back to the servants’ quarters. “Here, lean forward onto your elbows, and keep your head bowed. You don’t want the blood to run back and down into your throat or lungs; that would be quite unpleasant for you… Young master, before she begins truly panicking, perhaps you could reassure our laundress on her continued employment?”

“Sebastian’s right, Dahlia; you aren’t going to be let go just for breaking your own nose,” Ciel told her, and offered a crooked smile. “The other servants could tell you stories of all the things they’ve broken, burnt and ruined, and they’re still here! I told you, you were hired to be not just a household servant, but part of my private army to defend my estate. You proved you were lethal enough back at the House of Flowers, and as far as your servant capabilities, from what Sebastian has told me, you’re doing far better than my other servants did for their first few weeks here! You’re in no danger of losing your position.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Dahlia whispered, keeping her head down as ordered by the butler.

“Young master, it would be best if Dahlia stays seated there and holding her nose for roughly ten minutes, to ensure the bleeding has stopped before she returns to her duties,” Sebastian said with concern written on his features. “Will it be too terribly inconvenient for you to work with an additional servant besides myself present in the room?”

Ciel had been about to tell Sebastian to take Dahlia back to her quarters… but given the way the butler had phrased his question, he’d look peevish and petulant if he said anything but that it wouldn’t be a bother at all. So he did, but he gave Sebastian a glare just on principle as he went back to his desk.

Both servants were silent as he flipped through the ledger he kept on his desk until he found the telephone sequence for connecting to the Funtom confectionery factory in Belgium. He picked up the receiver, started to dial the number… and then set the receiver down, staring first at Sebastian and then at Dahlia, until he finally demanded, “You put her up to this somehow, didn’t you? So damned clever at working around my orders… Did you actually tell her to contrive to break her own nose if I didn’t tell her everything right away?”

“I did not, my lord,” Sebastian said with a smile and bow, though it was unsure whether the smile was for his master’s intuition or for Dahlia’s cleverness. “That delaying action was an inspired bit of quick thinking on Dahlia’s part.”

“It’s not actually broken, young master,” Dahlia said as she tilted her head up just enough to peer at him, with what might have been a wry smile peeking out from under the handkerchiefs. Her voice was somewhat muffled and nasal in quality, but still intelligible as she explained, “I get nosebleeds rather easily; it’s come in handy at other times that I needed a reason to stay in place instead of leave, or keep a gentleman’s attention focused on me in a completely platonic fashion. But it did hurt quite a bit, banging my face like that… and I will continue to bleed for several minutes, my lord; that is an unfortunate truth.”

“I see,” Ciel said grudgingly. “You understand of course that the ruse will never work on me again, and if you try it, I’ll order you to run back below stairs, dripping all the way.”

“Of course, my lord,” Dahlia said quietly.

Ciel sighed and admitted, “And the equally unfortunate truth is, those sheets are being burned because they’re stained. It’s a stain that you’re likely familiar with from your prior profession, and I didn’t want you to have such an unpleasant reminder of your old life when you’d barely begun your new one.”

“I see. Young master, thank you for showing such consideration to a humble servant. But perhaps I could mention two minor issues? The first being that I still see sheets with such stains on them—”

“What?!” as Ciel gaped at her in outrage.

“On sheets from the servants’ quarters, my lord.” Dahlia’s look at him from underneath her lashes was definitely wry. “You have five healthy males on staff, three of them in the prime of life and one of them still growing…”

“But which one—no, forget I said that, I don’t want to know!” as Ciel buried his face in his hands.

Hiding his face did nothing to hide the amusement in her voice. “I don’t try to ascertain which bed the stained sheets came from, my lord; I simply wash and dry them. In any case…” Her voice grew serious again. “My lord, may I speak freely?”

Too aware that he was blushing hotly, Ciel nonetheless lowered his hands, looked at her and sighed. “You may.”

“Thank you, my lord. May I ask, what is your favorite fruit?”

That got not only Ciel but Sebastian staring at her in wary confusion, wondering what she had in mind. But Ciel answered honestly, “Strawberries.”

“Thank you, my lord. As it happens, I do an excellent dessert with strawberries, which I’d be delighted to make for you someday. But to use strawberries as a metaphor… The world is filled with people who like them, and why not; they’re very sweet. But someone isn’t apt to like them much at all, perhaps even loathe them, if their first experience with strawberries was being fed them before they were ripe… and having the fruit forced on them.”

Ciel stiffened in his seat, while Sebastian went very still. But looking down and apparently unaware of their reactions, Dahlia continued, “And even if their first experience was not so … very unpleasant, if someone was fed strawberries with every single meal, for year upon year, whether they wanted it or not… they would eventually get tired of that fruit as well. But it would be a truly selfish person who denied others the pleasure of eating strawberries, which most do indeed regard as a delicious treat, simply because they themselves didn’t like them. No, a decent person would simply and politely decline to eat any strawberries offered, and pass the bowl down the table to others waiting for them.”

Looking up at him through her lashes again, Dahlia finished, “Young master, I would never willingly ‘eat a strawberry’ again, but I do not begrudge others their enjoyment of it. And washing sheets with ‘strawberry’ stains on them will not offend me at all.”

After an uncomfortable pause, Ciel finally said, “Your consideration for others is commendable, Dahlia; thank you.” He added while looking down at his desk, “You can stop burning the sheets, Sebastian.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sebastian said with a smile and bow. “Come along, Dahlia,” as he gestured to her.

But Dahlia remained seated, her eyes downcast. “My nose is still bleeding,” she said softly. “Young master, may I continue to speak freely while it does?”

Ciel’s loud sigh made it clear he was beginning to find this tedious, but he still told her, “You may.”

“Thank you, my lord. And may I begin by thanking you again, for sparing my life when you tore down the House of Flowers. It's quite likely that I would have been dead within a fortnight if you had not come; after it became plain that the facial wound inflicted on me by the last man I strangled to death would not heal cleanly but leave a blatant scar. A flower that is no longer beautiful, is soon plucked from the garden; when you spared me, you saved my life twice over. But now I must ask, why did you decide to do so, and hire me as a laundress?”

Ciel hadn’t expected that question either, but he was ready to answer it. “Partially on Sebastian’s recommendation; he said that you whispered an apology when you tried to kill him, but you still went about it quite thoroughly.”

“Indeed,” Sebastian said with a smile, evidently not at all bothered by the memory. “I dare say that between first strangling me with your braid, and then stabbing at me with your hair ornaments, you would have succeeded in killing nearly anyone else. Fortunately, I am of rather hardier stock than the average human.”

“Rather hardier stock, indeed,” Dahlia agreed emphatically, sparing the butler a rather suspicious glance. “Mister Sebastian, may the young master and I have privacy for the next few minutes?”

Sebastian gave her another wide-eyed look of surprise, that started to turn into an offended frown—but instead became a professionally blank expression, as he bowed to Ciel with a smooth, “With your permission, my lord.” When Ciel nodded assent, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

After several seconds of silence, Ciel prompted the laundress, “Well?”

“Given his exceptionally sharp hearing, I believe Mister Sebastian is still within listening range outside the door, young master,” Dahlia said without looking up. “Would you kindly tell him to move out of range?”

Ciel gave a quiet half-chuckle, and then said without raising his voice in the slightest, “You heard her, Sebastian; the rest of the staff is catching on to you. Go keep Bard company in the kitchen until I summon you.”

Both master and laundress faintly heard a set of footsteps walking away from the door, and thumping down the stairs with a definitely offended air. Ciel informed Dahlia, “You’ve likely just made the next few days harder on yourself, you know.”

“Yes, sir,” Dahlia said quietly. “But I thought you’d prefer he not be present for what I have to say.”

Ciel frowned at her. “I’d prefer it?”

“Yes, master. Because I am not an exceptionally clever woman, but as a Black Rose I was trained to observe, to spy as well as seduce, steal and kill. And I have made some observations that I feel it necessary to voice now, while no one else can hear.”

Here it comes, Ciel thought to himself with resignation. With each servant-soldier that he hired onto his staff, there was a risk that the newcomer would figure out that Sebastian was a demon, and then the newcomer would have to be quietly gotten rid of before they could cause serious trouble. They’d been fortunate up till now, in that Bard knew the value in keeping his mouth shut (and frankly, wasn’t really that smart when it came to matters outside his military expertise,) Finny was just too blindly loyal to question anything Sebastian did, Mey-Rin couldn’t see past the not-so-secret crush she had on the butler, and Snake apparently knew better than to say anything that might risk his position at one of the few places in the entire world that would accept him and his poisonous friends.

But Dahlia was reasonably intelligent, able to blend in with the general populace if she wished, and too jaded by her past experiences to have a blind crush on any man. After nearly a month of observing the butler at close quarters, it would be no real surprise that she had determined Sebastian’s supernatural origin. Now he'd have to take her on ‘a trip into town’, and then have Sebastian bury her remains where no one could find them, while he told the staff that she'd found a new employer or a long-lost lover or something.

Ciel expected Dahlia to start listing all the things Sebastian had done lately that no human could accomplish—the first being surviving her successive attempts to kill him. But instead she said, “The first observation is that Hyacinth tried and failed to kill Sebastian too, but the two of you did not spare her as you did me, long before offering me a position here. And given that we were trained to kill in similar ways, I cannot help but feel that the greatest difference you saw between myself and Hyacinth, is in how we behaved towards you personally. Before we were given the orders to kill, Hyacinth tried and failed to seduce you. But I did not, because I wasn’t assigned to do so.”

Ciel gave her a sharp look of warning, and was about to tell her that the greatest difference was that she had quietly apologized while attempting to kill Sebastian—his soldiers had to be ready to deal out death without hesitation, but truly bloodthirsty people eventually began killing just for the fun of it, and he would have none of that on his estate—but Dahlia kept her gaze focused firmly on the floor as she added, “And I know too well the effects of the Passionflower Potion, how men usually behave when under its influence. ”

His mouth suddenly dry, Ciel shut it and swallowed convulsively as she continued, “You didn’t behave that way at all when you were drugged with it, even when you were thrown afterwards into a room full of Flowers who had been ordered to couple with you until you were comatose. You channeled all that drug-induced passion into rage, instead of desperately seeking carnal pleasure as the Madame had expected. I had more than enough time to observe your actions and reactions, both as you and Sebastian killed the Master and Madame and tore down the House, and afterwards on the journey to your manor. And your iron self-control, that which kept you from pouncing on me or on any of the women or pretty young men you saw on the long journey back here… that iron control was forged from more than just a sense of decency.

“And in all the occasions since my arrival here that I’ve seen you interact with people besides your staff… My lord, you never asked about my past history, nor have I ever asked about yours. But as you surely deduced from my metaphor earlier, I started my ‘career’ at the House of Flowers by being raped by a well-paying client, when I had barely begun to blossom as a woman. Nor was I the only one to be initiated that way over the years, though we didn’t all start that way... and after a while, I learned to recognize the signs of those who had.”

She almost whispered, “There’s… a hesitation, a slight stiffening of the body, whenever we’re touched by anyone that we’re not already deeply familiar with and trust implicitly. There’s a certain look in the eyes; the look that speaks our first thought and fear of ‘how much is this person going to hurt me?’ And often there’s a flush of anger, at anything that makes us remember what we’d like so much to forget. Most of us at the House of Flowers learned quickly to hide the look and the hesitation, the fear and the anger, because our masters told us we must give every impression to our clients that we enjoyed being bedded by them… Except for the ones that came there precisely because they liked hurting women.”

Keeping her eyes firmly on the expensive Persian carpet, Dahlia continued, “Life at the House was terrible, but those of us who survived it chose to endure because we knew what would happen if we tried to escape. Nearly every year, someone tried… and when they were caught or hunted down, the Master and Madame made an example of them before everyone. And then made us bury the remains afterwards. But there was one time, roughly twelve years ago… one of us didn’t escape, she was rescued. I remember…

“Her name was Alice when she was brought to us, before the Madame named her Gentiana. She was thirteen, a few years older than I was when I’d been sold to the House, but her first time was even worse than mine, because they gave her to two clients together; I heard her screams and sobs, and helped her clean herself up after the bastards left. And afterwards, she showed the same hesitation and the same subdued fear and anger that so many of us did until we learned to hide our true selves. But roughly three months after she was brought there, a Danish nobleman visiting the country with his son came to the House of Flowers, saying it was time his boy became a man. Gentiana was chosen for the boy, while Chrysanthemum went with the father, and he’d paid for a full night for each.

“The next morning the father was found dead, having died in his sleep of a heart attack. Well, Chrysanthemum swore that it had been an entirely natural heart attack, even after the Madame put her in the Flowerbox for it, and it’s true that the baron had been overweight and had a somewhat unhealthy complexion the evening before. Anyway, the Master and Madame made their apologies to the boy, the new baron, and at first he seemed to accept them without question. But later that evening he came back with twenty strapping men, the entire crew of his father’s ship to act as his bodyguards, and he demanded to see our masters again.

“The new baron told the Master and Madame that there would be a price to pay for his father’s death; a price for his silence, to keep him from warning all the men of peerage that he had ties with to steer clear of the House’s deadly women… and he named his price as Gentiana. He demanded they release her to his custody, and forswear all claim to her thereafter. Aster witnessed the meeting and she told me that he even offered them a small sack of gold, to compensate them for the loss of her future services. The Master was ready to refuse him and have the Black Roses take care of him and his entire crew, but the Madame privately told her husband to accept, that Gentiana was proving too fragile for the work and she didn’t expect her to last the year anyway; they’d get far more money for her from the baron now than they’d get from regular clients later.

“So the new baron took Gentiana away to his ship, and no one at the House ever saw her again. But six years later, on an assignment that took me to Denmark, I saw Alice. I saw the baron on an outing with her and their children, and she was laughing. She was happy. And we were in the middle of a crowd, there were men all around her and some of them were acting quite boisterous, but I could see in her eyes that she was unafraid. Unafraid, and unashamed of herself; even when her husband kissed her cheek, as much affection as could be shown in public, she just smiled and accepted it. I can’t say that Alice had forgotten entirely her terrible time with us, but it wasn’t casting a shadow on her anymore.”

Ciel had occupied his hands during Dahlia’s story by clenching a pen in his white-knuckled fingers, though his grip had loosened as time went on. When she seemed to have finished, he made sure his features were schooled to impassiveness before commenting dryly, “A nice little story. Let us all rejoice in happy endings. But why did you think it important enough to tell your master?”

“I told that story because… I was a Black Rose for far too long; there can be no such happy ending for me,” Dahlia said as she lifted her head, though not looking directly at the earl, and took away the handkerchiefs; her nosebleed had stopped. “I am a humble laundress, but it’s honest work and I’m alive to do it, and I’m content with that. As your servant and out of gratitude for your having spared me and hired me, I just want to say that… that for some people, happy endings may still be possible. That there is still hope, for people who have others who truly care for them, as that Danish youth cared for Gentiana and as… as some other people’s fiancées obviously care for them. People like that, even if they were forced to eat unripe strawberries once, can still learn to like the fruit and enjoy it without shame.”

After a moment of frozen silence, Ciel said heavily, “Congratulate yourself, Dahlia. You came perilously close to an outrageous level of impertinence, but by your wording you’ve managed to avoid the charge by a hair’s breadth.”

“Y-yes, my lord.”

“However, if I ever hear of you speaking to anyone else, even the other servants, referring to me in even the remotest of connections to one of your fellow enslaved whores—except in my role as the Queen’s Watchdog who tore the House of Flowers to pieces—if I ever hear of any talk even remotely like that, you’ll be sacked immediately and without references. And possibly deported, to whichever remote corner of the world I happen to be thinking of at the moment.”

Dahlia wisely did not ask how he would accomplish that last threat; she simply repeated meekly, “Yes, my lord.”

“Having said that…” Ciel found to his self-disgust that he could not look Dahlia in the face just then; he stared down at his desk instead of at his servant, even though she’d been carefully not looking at him the entire time. “I appreciate, on just this one occasion, your attempt to offer comfort and hope about… about disliking strawberries. Not that it was at all needed; I’ve been slowly improving on my own over the years since… since then.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Sebastian won’t be burning the sheets anymore. And I can see now, the link between my ordering him to do that and… back then. But don’t expect me to start bloody announcing to all and sundry when the sheets need changing!” as he abruptly gave her a fiercely defensive look. “There’s such a thing as common decency!”

“Of course, my lord!” Dahlia hurried to assure him.

“All right. Now return to your duties, and tell Sebastian to bring me a fresh pot of tea and some sweets when he comes back up; something with chocolate.”

“Yes, my lord,” as Dahlia rose to her feet, curtseyed again and left the room, this time without running into anything on the way out.

After she left, Ciel brooded over her words and the horrible memories of That Month that they had dredged up. Dahlia's suspicions had hit the bull's-eye; among the many other tortures the Satan-worshipping secret society had inflicted on him, he'd been raped repeatedly, by men and by women equally as depraved as the men. For nearly a full year after his rescue, he could hardly stand to be touched by anybody except Sebastian, who was bound by an unbreakable contract to protect him at all costs... and when waking up from nightmares of being their captive again, he couldn't stand even Sebastian being within arm's reach.

During that awful time in Germany when he'd been stricken by the werewolves' "curse" of mustard gas, the incredible pain he'd been in had brought the memories and nightmares back full force, and even paralyzed his mind when he was awake. He'd been literally struck blind from shock, and had gone into utter hysterics if he'd thought any adult was even in the same room with him. If it hadn't been for Finny, a youth far more childlike than Ciel in many ways but who had gladly stepped up to take care of him, Ciel would either have starved during that terrible week, or thrown himself out the nearest window in a blind panicking attempt to get away from his servants’ caring(hurting!) hands and end the torment forever. Once he'd finally snapped out of it, he'd been so humiliated by his behavior... even when Bard had informed him that even seasoned soldiers sometimes had episodes like what he'd suffered, after being wounded unexpectedly and worse than usual.

Those nightmares of the ways he'd been so foully violated by his captors were relatively rare now, though he suspected they'd be visiting him again tonight. But after listening to Dahlia, he realized that even though the nightmares were rare now, the grooves worn into his psyche by his tormentors were still affecting his daily life. He still unconsciously avoided being touched by anyone but Sebastian, when he could manage the avoidance without giving offence. And even all these years later, the thought of sex was still more apt to make him panic than anything else.

And the way his own body had been betraying him of late, with what the medical texts politely referred to as ‘nocturnal emissions’... even after two full months of such happenings, he still felt burning shame with a dash of raw horror every time he woke up to find the sheets sticky and stinking of that.

He told himself that he shouldn't feel ashamed of such things, which Sebastian had assured him over and over were actually quite normal for boys his age. But telling himself that did not stop the feelings of degradation at all. Surely a normal boy would be over such feelings and feel no more than mild embarrassment by now...

But then, Ciel knew to the core of his being that he wasn't normal.

Normal boys didn't agree to make contracts with demons, knowing full well that it would cost their souls in the end.

Normal boys did not become heads of household and acknowledged by the Queen as titled nobles when they'd barely turned ten.

Normal boys didn't become business tycoons even before becoming teenagers, amassing wealth and influence in the business world... and all to taunt those who had killed his parents and sold him to the Satanists, basically daring them to try to end the Phantomhive line once more.

Normal boys would scarcely even dream of becoming the Queen's Watchdog of the Underworld, with all the terrible burden implied.

Instead of being curious or outright eager to experience sex as so many boys his age were, if being perpetually ashamed, afraid and disgusted by even the idea of sex was just one more way that he wasn't normal, then so be it. Normality was for the common folk, not a Phantomhive.

Dahlia had tried to offer him hope that becoming married to Lizzie would change his views on the matter, but he refused to touch that hope and instead did his best to banish it from his thoughts forever. Really, given the life he led, how likely was it that he would even survive till his twenties and a decent marrying age? He fully expected to have his revenge against his tormentors fulfilled, and his soul to end up in a demon's belly, years before that could happen.

The young earl's broodings were thankfully interrupted by Sebastian coming back into the study, pushing a fully laden tea trolley. “As requested, young master, fresh tea and some sweets with chocolate.”

The tea was Darjeeling, and was received with due appreciation. But the sweets Sebastian uncovered with a flourish were chocolate-covered strawberries... and the butler got those pitched back in his face.

00oo00oo00oo00oo00

To be continued...

#black butler fanfiction

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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 3 years

Text

part i, autonomy in your coherence | c.g

With something like time that runs round with the world — ignoring it’s inhabitants and stealing things that you’d hidden away for safekeeping — you’ve taken up the hobby of art, furiously sketching faces that are six-feet under.

The skill is beautiful and horrific all the same, watching like a person with amnesia as the portraits begin to lose their depth, the freshness, the personality that came free with who you’d chosen to print on the page.

You’ve forgotten your feelings for Carl, because he didn’t feel the same.

You just wished you did a better job at it.

WARNINGS: mentions of death, suicide ideation

this is a continuation of watch you burn away and i recommend you read that, first! this is also part of a series, so here is the masterlist if you need it!

(cross-posted on ao3!)

Your father once told you he had a patient that died from heartbreak.

“Your heart can’t really break, though, right?” You’d said. A doctor for a father and a laboratory technician for a mother made you more than aware of things, seeing through the myths and pretty white lies of figures like Santa and the tooth fairy.

(They had gone through with it anyway, because although their child knew, it was a gateway to normality in such a busy home.)

Your father scratched his chin, unsure how to respond. “My patient had died from a broken heart, though the process wasn’t as simple as it’s term name. A broken heart — the nonliteral meaning — can be the cause and the domino toppling to many things that could lead to death.”

“Like what?” You’d said with little admission into the conversation, having been flicking through a novel you’d picked up a while back (which featured a one eyed pirate and his partner who’d ended up dying in the end — not that you knew, yet, at least.)

“I don’t know, er,” Your father swirled his coffee lightly, gesturing wildly with his free hand, “Mental health issues, for one. Erratic actions, depression, a lost sense of self. Obsession.”

“Huh,” You muttered, looking up at your father for the first time. “A lost sense of self? Really?”

“What is your father teaching you?” Your mother said, stepping into the kitchen with a questioning expression. The conversation ended there, without so much as a thought after.

You wish you pried your father for further answers. What you’d give to get the workaholic of a man to dump his duo psychology medical major thoughts unto you with little care.

The knowledge would be gold in your time of need, when pulling and pushing distance further between you was like venturing through a field of thorns.

(Perhaps you just missed your parents. But that couldn’t be it, right? They’d died and you had lived, their blood on your hands and the gun in your fingers, their glazed over eyes and your own that nearly matched, cold and willing without a drop of emotion.)

But you’d gotten through it for him— without him. Without anyone, quietly harboring scratches and bleeding from the field with little effort.

If someone asked, you would tell them with full and honest confidence that you harboured no more attachments. You were a naive teenager, running through your feet and over yourself for something that was just a crush.

Crushes are — in their whole singularity and purpose — temporary.

They are brief, and momentarily something that causes ripples and waves in your thoughts, just the slightest mention or faint sight makes you detour down a road of sickly sweet dreams and fantasies.

He was first love (like? You didn’t love him, no, it was a crush and it was something for the unattainable and the inappropriate — in which with full truth, he was.) so you poured the honey glazed remembrances and rose coloured lenses over your memories, because he was a first love, and you know that those were cracks in the heart, growing vines and constricting the part that was him — the part that’d always, always be there, without a doubt.

(However much you didn’t want it to be.)

The leaves and the venomous flowers that sprout in decaying grooves come with age, and you are older now.

You bear fresh scars that litter your entire being and wear newly buried bones of people who were once not just that, the dirt still sitting in the crevices of your nails, and you seem to forget their voices with each passing day.

More and more, the faces look like reference art rather than a taken from life picture, which was all telling them to sit still and watching their eyes crinkle at the edges when you show them the result, voices echoing and asking if they could have it.

Everyday, as it has become a peevish habit like biting your nails or obsessively reminding yourself your stove is off, you draw pictures of everyone.

If you are close enough with them, you ask the subject to sit and model for you, analyzing every breath and laugh they take when you crack a joke or engage them in meaningless conversation just to see how the light hits their brows when they raise, the shadows pooling in their aging lines.

Everyday, you wish and hope and even fucking pray that their portraits continue to be something of anxious routine, rather than trying to dump their image out of your head and onto paper so you can see their faces one more time.

His image seems to change with each moment he sits in for you, once a face with two piercing blues, then a patch and eyes that looked at the dusty wooden floor, and later, someone who looks at you straight, something that told you he was a survivor, who bore his battles proudly, the scar on the right of his face sitting ruggedly and bewitchingly.

You draw him, exactly the way you see him, and when you show him the picture, he laughs, and says “You made me look too pretty,” and you shake your head, “It’s exactly the way I see you.”

You do her, too, upon request. When she sits, you draw her almost like it was professional, drawing the curvature of her face with exact precision, intense shading, marking the features she holds. The dip in her nose, the straight of her hair.

(You often forget who you’re drawing in these moments, and when you step away from the canvas you’re hit with whiplash. It’s subconscious, the way you do these things to please him, wanting to see so clearly how his face spreads delicately with delight.)

It takes a little while for you to convince Ron. When you first propose the drawing, he gives you a confused face, before walking off to do shooting practice. He’s gotten better with the gun over the years, and doesn’t respond when you tell him you know why.

(His mother didn’t come out of it alive, and his brother didn’t come back without harm. The younger boy was alive, but would grow up with only his brother by his side and one less limb to account for.)

The second time, he makes a snide comment, albeit with no bite, about how ‘you must be a horrible artist, to ask me of all people to model for you.’

The third time, you’ve dragged him to the small office you makeshifted for the drawings in the garage. He studies every slit of paper you’ve ripped out of your book, the unfinished sketches or yet-to-be painted canvases piling up against the walls. Complete works sit proudly on your wall, displayed for the world to see.

His hands hover over the paints sitting on your desk, charcoal, dirt, sticks, paintbrushes, handmade dyes, wallpaper cut-outs.

“Why?” Ron says curiously.

“‘Why?’ what?” You echo, fiddling with a fork you grabbed from the kitchen, splaying out a thick lather combination of beet dye and cement onto your finger to check the consistency.

“Why do you draw these portraits? I get the others because,” He says, leaving the words “because they’re dead” hanging in the air between you two in mutual and regretful acknowledgement, “But you draw these everyday. You drag Carl and Enid off, or just sit on the benches and draw Maggie and Glenn knee-deep in the dirt.”

You sigh a dreadful breath, wiping the rest of the beet-cement mix onto the page with the pad of your fore-finger. “We’ll forget them one day.”

He looks at you, unblinking. The dead, the gone, and the soon to be long forgotten only existed in your memories, in your words, and when the time came that the world had moved on and stopped, they would cease. Their whole memory relied on the living, nothing about them able to reach and grasp life on their own. Memory was all that was left, and it was all you could do to wash away regret.

“And the rest?”

You bite your tongue hesitantly, your movements rigid, “You see their portraits. Everyday they get less and less coherent. When — when time comes , these drawings will be the only thing getting me by.” You whispered.

The ball had dropped. Coping and grief in it’s big and ugly form, preying on your conscious hungrily, taking shelter in your largest worries. Claws sunken in your flesh, the monster was a thing that felt like it would never go away, because it would loom right alongside death itself, watching and waiting for the moment they’d deemed someones time to have been enough.

(It would never be enough. Enough meant they’d pop in from next door and ask to borrow something, enough meant they’d swipe dirt across your face to make you angry — enough meant they would come in everyday and sit for their portrait once more.)

A creaking on the floorboard caught your attention, eyes watching as Ron’s feet walk to the corner of the room, before hopping onto the wooden seat with little effort.

“I’m not going. I never will. But — do it anyway. I’d… like to see how I look on paper.” He said cheekily, picking up a thin pencil off your desk and handing it out to you.

So you did. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes snowballed into hours in the dim lighting of the garage, asking the blond to turn his body, stretch his head and make different expressions, fulfilling and destroying the little worm of worry sitting in your head.

When you’re done with the charcoal, turning it around for Ron to see and to inspect, he asks, “What about you?”

“And what about me?” You say. His questions never make sense without further discussion, but the boy always has to wait for you to pry and ask him to elaborate.

“You don’t have any drawings of yourself. You’re the artist, the photographer, the one who makes these things that will stay longer than the memories and the words — so what about you?”

It’s rare that Ron delves into his emotions and the things he really means, but when he does, it’s something that stays, for a long while.

“I,” You didn’t have an answer for it. You weren’t one to do a self-portrait, it not being the same as having someone to sit and take from. “I don’t want to.” You finished simply, an ice cold realization coming to reality in you.

“Why?” He says the same words as before, but the words hold a heavy weight.

“I don’t know.”

You knew.

Maybe one day, you’d wished that you’d wash away like seafoam on the beach. You wouldn’t leave a single portrait behind of you, and the memories and the words were left mum behind his lips, because you knew how he got in a loss.

Quiet and unfeeling, it was so selfish of you that you’d counted on how he got in that state to leave you behind, neglecting you like the fruits of your memories you’d never get to bear.

Ron’s gaze bore into you like he knew exactly what you were thinking, telepathically taking in every thought you’d conveyed at your dispense.

“You should.” Is all he says, before stepping off the wooden stool and out the door.

What was wrong with you? You feel so… entirely foolish. Obsolete. Embarrassing.

You walked past the remnants of those who were gone everyday, obsessively creating canvas over canvas of them and the only thing you could think was that you’d wish to position yourself beside them?

This world was catching up to you, and fast, but you’d just have to run faster than it could.

#twd #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes #chandler riggs #angst #the walking dead #twd x reader #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead carl #carl grimes x you

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sly2o · 2 years

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Hello and welcome to my theory that Odval is secretly an owl.

Let's start with the obvious. They both have three eyes.

Now for those that are concerned about eye placement - do not worry! The League of Gallivanting Scrutinators in Steamland has us covered.

There's other aspects of his appearance too.

His beaky nose. His skinny legs hidden behind his plumage robes.

Now for the more conspiratorial: we never see Odval eat.

Everyone eating in the garden after Luci gets sent away by Big Jo? Odval is perched above Zog behind the table.

The Duke of Twinkletown visits for dinner? Odval is again perched above Zog behind the table.

There is a single time we see him sitting at a table that has food - but we never see him eat that food. It's in The Lonely Heart is a Hunter and he's only there for the establishing shot of the room. Then once it moves on to showing people eating - he is no longer in his seat. He's moved to the floor to talk with the other guests.

Even later on in the episode - when Odval finally goes back to his seat he's sitting in the wrong spot, and Derrick has moved to the seat Odval was originally seated at. (Aside: did Derrick eat Odval's meal?)

There are no mice in Dreamland.

In fact we are frequently shown the absence of mice.

We see mice in other places - so it's not like they don't exist/the animators can't draw them.

In Elfwood in the very first episode when Elfo and Kissy are hooking up.

In Bentwood (although those might be rats?) when the scene transitions from the Merikmers laughing to the dungeon.

In the Enchanted Forest when Derrick loses his trousers.

The exceptional mouse

There is one single exception to the claim there is no mice in Dreamland. This is when Stan mentions "mouse cramming" to a prisoner. But even then - he only has the tiniest of kittens as the next step after the mouse cramming. I mean - it's hilarious and adorable.

But also I gotta ask: is joke, or is?

Because it could be that this is alluding to the fact that the mouse cramming consisted of some small mouse he happened upon and that was it - which is why Gladis is an appropriate next step.

There's only two groups in this show we are told about having regular orgies

The Seekers - as seen in Castle Party Massacre and several other episodes.

The Owls - as stated in Beanie Get Your Gun, and as seen in The Lonely Heart is a Hunter.

This could be a coincidence. Or maybe not? Who is to say. Speaking of things that could just be coincidences - we now move to the final part of my theory:

Prime Minister Odval - Prime Minister of what?

Now here's the thing: I've seen the assumption that Odval is the Prime Minister of Dreamland - but I believe that is incorrect for a few reasons:

Only members of the Seekers or Odval's staff call him by this title, and when they do it's generally in private locations where they will not be overheard.

While we can overlook the royal family not calling Odval by his title because - let's face it, they generally are rude/dismissive towards him - we never see others who work/serve/live in the castle call him by this title.

In Tiabeanie Falls it is explicitly stated that Dreamland doesn't have a constitution. This means they are not a constitutional monarchy and therefore don't have a parliament.

So here's the thing, the Prime Minister is the head of a parliament, there is no parliament in Dreamland... so what is Odval Prime Minister of?

Well see here is the thing. A group of lions is called a pride, a group of gorillas is called a band, and a group of owls is called a parliament.

#Disenchantment #Odval

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worminstuff · 3 years

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dreamsmp mcmh

dreamsmp members as teachers au: blrub edition!

mcmh = Minecraft middle and high school

no warnings:)

wordcount: 3.9k

I will also definitely take requests from now on with this teacher au! Weather it be reader x teacher bla bla or whichever teacher and whatever prompt you think of! Just plop em in my inbox and I’ll check em out! I may not get to all of them or even see them all but I’ll try!

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Mr.Wastaken - math

“The quadratic equation isn't useless, you just don't understand it. Here,” the students glared at the diss from their teacher. Dream turned his back to them as he attempted to draw another diagram on the board.

He took a quick glance behind him at all the kids, he was only met with empty stares.

“Oh come on- guys! Really?” he laughed slightly, a wheeze crawling up his throat. They looked angry at him. “You all look like kicked puppies.”

One of the boys in the back kicked his friend. “Jared!” said friend threw his pencil at him.

“Okay well obviously we seem to be done with math today..” Dream sighed and shook his head slightly as everyone watched the fiasco in the back. He’ll step in. In a minute.

“If you throw the pencil by holding it by one end not in the middle, it'll spin more.” he called to the boys in the back.

Mr.Blade - english

“Did anyone have any trouble or anything with the paired text writing last night?” his arms were folded on his chest, not in an angry or off putting way, his hands were just cold.

“Yeah actually I-” one student started,

“The rubric is the link under the one for the document template.” he prematurely answered, a soft grin gracing his features.

“How did you?..” the student tilted their head in confusion.

“You ask the same question every time.” Mr.Blade shrugged and everyone laughed softly.

Techno loved the little community that was his class, he's had them for about 3 months now so he's gotten to know them really well. This little bunch was incredibly creative and he really enjoys reading their assignments.

Mr.Blade sat down on the edge of his desk and slid his still cold hands into his pocket, scanning the small group of kids in front of him.

“Is anyone having any trouble?” He tried to seem nice as he asked because he didn't want to come off as pushy. There was a chorus of yes’ and techno grinned.

“Well as you all know, as Sun Tzu once said-”

Before he could finish his sentence he was cut off by a series of groans and sighs as everyone rolled their eyes.

Techno smiled to himself. He really did love his job.

Mr.Jacobs - history

“Amy!” Karl excitedly grinned and dapped up a small girl walking into his class, “Was that extra credit assignment i sent pretty easy or was it too hard? I can switch it up if you don't like it.”

Amy told him it was fairly easy and she would be done with it very soon.

“No rush ames!” he said as he craned his neck a bit to look at her as she sat in her chair.

He was just about to step into his classroom as the bell rang, but a certain hand tugged on his forearm.

“Hey!- oh hi nick.” Karl's smile grew. Sapnap smiled but shook his head softly, “I've got a class this period but I wanted to come say hi first.”

Karl giggled, “simp!” he whispered before turning to quickly walk into his class.

Everyone was excitedly sitting in their chairs, talking about due assignments and anything else they could think of.

“Good morning everyone! Hello, hello, hello i hope your other teachers have treated you well this morning and if they haven't then that's okay cause you're here now.” he pointed finger guns at the bunch of them and then grabbed the remote to turn on the smart board.

Mr.Quack/Mr.Q - Spanish

“Hola mi niños!” Quackity smiled widely at the bunch of kids sitting in front of him, there was a chorus of answers from the excited kids. Many of them were in the “wrong seats” as to sit with friends because today, today was kahoot day.

Every Friday was kahoot day where they always do some type of kahoot whether it be related to the lesson or not and everyone was always excited.

Especially kids who have PE before this class, the coach's competitiveness really sticks.

No one hypes these kids up more than Mr.Quack, which causes for the occasional noise complaint.

“Aye! Mr español! Keep it down here you spanish gremlins.” Mr.Dude pressed his head through the doorway scolding the class, the students erupted into a large fit of laughter only causing their volume to rise.

“You can’t put a volume warning on learning Sam! We're popping off!” Quackity yelled over the laughter of his students.

Mrs.Nihachu - art

“Oh my goodness! This is beautiful!” Mrs.Nihachu flashed a sweet smile to the student in front of her. She was handed a small doodle of a flower and she was already pinning it on the board beside her desk.

Her class was currently working on their test grade assignments, some making sculptures with cardboard or paper mache, some making clay creations, others painting. It was a big jumble of chaotic creativeness and nikki was enjoying it thoroughly.

Her class was often chaotic in this way, but during lunch time it was much calmer. There was a small group of students that would eat in her room to escape the crazy chaos of the lunchroom, and she enjoyed it as much as them.

She loved to listen in on the current drama and give advice where she could, they were her little buddies and she adored them.

Coach Sapnap & Coach Punz - PE

The sound of a whistle was no stranger to this classroom, or rather, this gymnasium. There was only one whistle, and two teachers. Both coaches made it ritual that whoever got there first would get it for the day.

Today, Coach Sapnap happened to get the whistle first.

“Okay kiddos-” coach Punz was cut off by the blaring sound of the whistle beside him.

“Airtight Kiddos!” Coach Sapnap clapped happily as all the students turned their attention towards the two Coaches. “It's kickball day,” he grinned deviously as the students cheered.

Both of them directed the class to one end of the gym to split them into teams.

“Okay so we’ll pick two team captains, and then they'll go back and forth picking their team and then once everyone's picked, the team captains can rock paper scissors to pick which one of us you want on your team.” Punz explained and everyone nodded.

sapnap picked one of the smaller girls in the class as one captain, and another kid standing near her as the other. Both of the kids picked through the class until it was separated into two groups.

“Okay! Ready?” they both nodded. “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!” the girl had picked rock, and the other kid picked scissors. Immediately the victor pointed to Punz with a small smile.

Punz’s arms shot up in the air “Aye! That's right! Gimme five!” he high fived her small hand.

sapnap smiled and shook his head, “no this works out perfect because i know you guys were hoping for me on your team, right?” sapnap joked to his team, one boy jokingly piped up,

“well..Coach punz is ideal but, you're okay too.” the whole class erupted into laughter until Sapnap blew his whistle ushering them to start the game already.

Mr.Notfound - engineering

“Mr.Notfound where are the extension cords for the soddering table?” George currently had his freshman period and they were working on a lightboard project. Today's task was soldering the leds to the correct wires and such on the back of the projects.

“Em..they should be there..are they just not? Or are they on top of it and you just didn't look?” he quirked a brow at the freshman.

“No, it's just not there..” they shrugged.

George nodded, “alright, do you want to go ask Mr.Wastaken if he's got a spare or would you rather me go instead?” George asked with a small smile. He was quite stonic before so he was afraid the kid thought he was mad at them. The freshman said they would and scurried off.

George decided he wanted to walk around the class and see how everyone was faring with their projects and if there was anything else they couldn't find.

He walked around all the desks and lab tables and stopped at a small group of friends all working separately but sitting together.

“How's it going over here?” He held a very small smile. The group replied positively and each showed their projects to which he praised. They were all really really cool already, and he couldn't wait to show Dream some of his favorites after they were turned in to be graded.

Mr.Fundy - biology

“Mr.Fundy, your coat is very...bright.” A student named Owen, was referring to his very colorful lab coat. He sounded as if he was trying to compliment him, but he really couldn’t just LIE to his teacher.

Fundy narrowed his eyes at Owen. Owens desk was directly in front of the lab table that was his desk, in the front of the room. Fundy was stood behind it.

Fundy placed his hands on the table and leaned forward, “are you making fun of me?”

“He SO is.” The girl next to Owen said with a grin.

“Hey! I wasn’t! It’s just very...different.” Owen defended.

Fundy pointed an accusing finger, “there’s that backhanded tone again!” He ended it with a giddy laugh.

The rest of the class joined in until, “alright alright! I get it! It’s not super pretty but! It’s a great Segway into today’s lab,”

The rest of the class groaned loudly, smiles showing through.

Fundy snorted a laugh and shook his head, pulling some beakers from the drawers in the table.

Electives:

Teacher Eret - sociology

“So she told you you weren’t invited? After all that?!” Eret was currently chit chatting with his very small third period clas that consisted of a small group of kids that happened to be friends.

“Right teacher eret! I was like, woah, that’s so honked up! So we all decided we’re not going.” A girl named Jane said.

“Well that’s very sweet of you, I would’ve done the same.” Eret patted the first girls head endearingly as he walked back to his desk to sit in his desk chair. The girls continued their small conversation, including teacher eret when they wanted input.

Eret was heavily fond of classes like this where they were all very close already and he found it easy to bond with them. It just happened that these girls did there work on time so they had plenty of time to chat with him and eachother.

His favorite thing was when they’d give him fashion advice, because he always took them up on it. It paid off too, he’s a very dashing dude because of it!

Mr. Dude - comp science

Sam was sat at his desk typing away as the class was doing a quiet activity. They were playing around with coding websites that are essentially games. The class was fairly small, so he’d grown quite a bond with his little dudes over the past couple months.

“How are all you guys other classes going?” He asked, turning his chair to face them.

“Mr.Notfound is honestly about to give me a headache.” One of the girls sat towards the window said, her friend beside her laughed and nodded.

Sam laughed softly, “how come?”

“His room is always a mess! I can never find the correct pieces for anything. You have to look where you wouldn’t think it would ever be and then that’s where it always is!”

A few other kids laughed and agreed as they had him aswell.

“Not to mention he gets grouchy sometimes when we ask him to much.” One boy poked in.

“He does? That’s not to nice. I’ll poke him about it.” Sam said to his kiddos with a soft smile, “how we feeling about a snack break?”

All the kids quickly agreed and he pulled a box out from under his desk with various snacks and drinks and placed it on the floor in the front of the room.

“Have at it!” He made his way back to his desk as there were various wrapper sounds and “thanks Mr.Dude”’s

Mr.Soot - drama

“Okay let me get this straight- you did the script assignment but you didn’t study the lines?” Mr.Soots eyes were narrowed.

“Well no i used the script to help but I didn’t memorize it.” The girl in front of him said, her name is gene.

“Hm. Alright, you can just read off it then I suppose, it better not render your performance though, geney!” He smiled as he nudged her towards the stage.

The students were doing this group project where they made their own story’s and scrips and they got to perform them for fun, not for a grade. They had a free day so they decided it would be fun to do it today, and Wilbur was the most exciting out of all of them.

He watched each one, giving copious amounts of praise and encouragement and he really enjoyed it. The bell rang faster than they’d all expected since they were having so much fun, and he waved them off as they went on to their next class.

Wilbur sighed to himself, a content smile on his face as he sat in the front row of the auditorium.

“What’s with the sigh?” A voice started him slightly as it broke the silence of the large room.

“Jesus phil, a bit of a warning, yeah?” He pressed a hand to his chest.

“Sorry, should’ve announced myself. My bad, mate.” Phil walked up the small steps of the stage and sat on the top few, facing wilbur.

“You looked awfully content, a good class?” Phil asked.

“Oh definitely. Love that bunch to bits. They’re so smart and they’ve got so much passion for theater but they’re so carefree and they have so much fun. I just love to be a part of it. Makes my job a whole lot more fun.” Wilbur spoke with a proud grin. It was true, he really did adore his students and he was beyond proud of them.

“I’m glad!” Phil stood, “keep up the good work, kid.” He clapped him on the shoulder as Wilbur nodded.

Mr.Schlatt - political science

“No you said it was before the time you had it, therefore your argument is invalid cause how can you claim you had it during that time if the entire argument is based around you not having it?”

Schlatt stared at the student in front of him. He was a tad speechless, which was impressive in itself.

They were talking about a stupid debate thing shlatt had made up, but he made it with a loophole, wondering if they’d actually catch it. He was very surprised one of the students actually did.

“You’re correct actually. Good job, ren.” His brows were raised as he tried to hide his proud grin. He didn’t want them to know how genuinely excited he was that they figured it out.

“That’s stupid.” Ren said, with a blank stare.

“Aye!-“ Schlatt was about to go off a tad when the door opened and Mr.Q stood in the doorway.

“Am I interrupting a yelling session?” He asked

“Yes.” Both Ren and Schlatt answered at the same time.

Mr.Halo - self defense

Mr.Halos class was one of the chilliest, like Erets and Sams, there wasn’t a whole lot of work getting done during class since they would just talk about various things and have snacks.

Today Bad taught them about various hotlines they may need to know about for different situations they’d find themselves in.

“Do they just make hotlines for everything these days Mr.Halo?” One kid asked.

“Well sometimes. Not for everything though, but definitely for a lot of things.” He responded.

He was currently sat cris cross on the rug in the front of his room, munching on a orange as the rest of the class was also having snacks.

He loved classes like this because these were times when his job didn’t feel like work, he loved that he was helping make sure these kids could be educated enough to protect themselves when he couldn’t. He worried about them, but he felt happy when he could see them safe and sound, and not hungry, like they were at the moment. He cherished these simple moments the most.

Even more than the times he’s watched them scrimmage some defense tactics and evidently fall on their butts in some instances.

Mr.Skeppy - money management

“Mr Skeppy, I'm bored.”

“Okay.” Skeppy replied as he stared at his computer screen, his head rested in his hand.

The student scowled slightly, others giggled to themselves.

“Mr.Skeppyyyy” the kid groaned, the kids around him laughing.

“Fine, if i put up a kahoot will you all leave me alone?” He smiled softly, sending the kid a side eye.

The class agreed loudly and he pulled up a kahoot about vines.

“Whoever gets first place gets 6 bucks.” Skeppy said with a grin as he leaned back in his chair.

“Isn’t that counter productive to the lesson we’re learning about waisting money on stupid things?” One girl said.

“Why six?!” Another student suddenly said, the rest of the class flowing into laughter.

Mr.H - hospitality

“Wait so your other teachers didn’t give you guys valentines?” Mr.H asked, his eyes wide as he stared at the kids in front of him.

They all shook their heads, “Mr.Jacobs and Mrs.Nihachu did. But that’s it.” One boy said as he shrugged.

“Mr.Wastaken didn’t even know it was valentines until we mentioned it, poor Mr.Notfound.” One girl said back, her eyes trailing of to the floor as she raised her brows.

Mr.H laughed loudly, he loved how his kiddos were so comfortable in his class to diss their own teachers.

“Well not here! Today you all have a valentine and that valentine is me.” He said as he placed little bags full of different candies on each of their desks. He put them together all by himself with little hand written letters. It was adorable.

They all excitedly opened the little presents and read the notes together, all of them giving Mr.H a hug.

It was a very adorable day in the H classroom.

Mr.Frost - horticulture

“Mr.Frost! Can we go outside for class today?” The students were filing in for class since the bell just rang.

“Sure! How about..how about we go bug hunting?” He replied.

The students all agreed very excitedly. Once the bell rang for the start of the period they began doing their begging of class rituals which included watering a bunch of different plants and taking care of the compost bin. Then once that was all done everyone got some jars and set out to go outside and see what they could find.

Everyone ran around trying to find different things and yelling out when they did find things.

“Mr.Frost! I found a caterpillar!” A boy named Lennon ran up to Ant.

“Really?! Show!” Ant watched happily as the boy showed his new caterpillar friend.

They discussed what type of caterpillar it may be before Lennon ran back off to his friends.

Ant loved classes like this where he got to be outside in the sun and watch all his students learn hands on in a super fun (and adorable) way. It was one of his all time favorite things.

Staff:

Mr.Minecraft - principal

“but it’s so annoying! Why can’t I just leave when I gotta go, why should I ask to take a piss!”

Phil stared at the boy in front of him, a blond one by the name of Tommy. This kid frequented his office way to often.

“I don’t know Mr.Innit but you’ve got to listen to your teachers, it'll get you out of my office and I think that’s something we both want.” Mr.Minecraft glared slightly.

“Oh come on! You don’t like hanging with me Mr.Minecraft?!” Tommy said with a grin.

“No, Tommy we’re not ‘hanging out’ you’re in trouble.”

“Well when you put it that way it seems bad-“ Phil cut tommy off,

“It is bad Tommy!” He scoffed, holding in a laugh.

Mrs.Puffy - councilor

Mrs.Puffy was a hugger, a very big hugger. So whenever kids came in crying over just anything, hugs were a must. Often students would visit when they only needed a hug! Sometimes that was her favorite thing.

“He said there was no-“ the small girl heaved for air a tad before continuing, “l-late credit, but but I didn’t have time and I- I need to get the grade and I just-“

“Hey, hey, it’s alright! Mr.Blade seems scary but I bet if he knew you were this stressed he would be very happy to help you out! He’s a very nice man.” Mrs puffy wad currently trying to calm this girl out of a the panic attack she was seemingly having.

“R-really?” She asked Mrs.Puffy

“Of course! I actually think he’s got a free period right now, would you like to talk to him now? I can have him come here so I’ll be here to and it’ll be easy peasey lemon squeezey!” Puffy said with a big smile.

The girls nodded softly with a sniffle and puffy brought her in for a hug.

She would always have the kids backs, no matter what. Even if that meant talking to the big scary Mr.Blade, who was more likely afraid of her really.

Teacher Callahan - substitute

“Callahan!” Mr.Wastaken yelled, he was laughing but he was getting slightly frustrated.

Callahan apparently didn’t have a class this period, so he went to Mr.Wastakens class as he usually does to annoy him.

Callahan has been taking the pens for the whiteboard dream was trying to use and passing it around to students to pass to each other . It was very funny.

Callahan didn’t always pick this class because of Dream, he also picked it because there was a fellow mute in this period. Her name was alise, and she used ASL alot, which made Callahan actually learn a bit so he could talk to her!

Dream actually thought it was really cute, so he tried to get Callahan to teach him some as well, so he could talk to alise the way she communicated. This backfired terribly after dream learned that thank you, and fuck you, we’re actually very similar signs. Callahan had taught him the latter. Alise never corrected him, she only made a silly face and huffed out a small laugh. Dream apologized a lot once he learned. Callahan thought it was hilarious though, so often him and alise sign said sign to dream just to tease him.

Another thing Callahan did often was stand behind dream, and mock him. Dream would walk farther from the board as he would go on and on talking with his hands and such. Callahan would make his way behind him and pretend to sit on the edge of his desk.

So every time dream would turn around wondering why all the kids were laughing at him, he would see a normal looking Callahan who would only shrug. This always made the kids laugh even more. No one would rat him out though, it was teacher Callahan!

438 notes · View notes

things-we-cant-say · 3 years

Text

pretty little liar

Pairing: Ten x Female!Reader

Summary: In order to get your annoying ex off your back, you tell a little white lie that takes an unexpected turn.

Genre: College!AU

Warnings: Smutty smut, dirty dancing

Word Count: 4,867

A/N: Unable to withstand Ten’s power any longer, I had to start writing about him…or a version of him anyway. Hope someone out there enjoys my first dip into the ~imagines~ pond. ☺️

The party was in full swing by the time you and your best friend Amy arrived, the music so loud it could be heard down the street. It was a wonder the cops hadn’t broken it up yet but hey, the night was still young. Ducking through the arched doorway with Amy hot on your heels, you let her guide you into the foyer where you both stopped to take in the scene. The place was packed with people dancing, drinking and laughing—everyone apparently having a great time. Which was perfect for you because all you wanted to do was blow off a little steam and pretend you hadn’t spent the day fantasizing about committing the perfect murder.

You enjoyed school for the most part and you enjoyed your classes, but really you couldn’t wait for it all to just be over. Two extra years and your master’s degree in linguistics was almost within your grasp. You still weren’t one hundred percent what you planned to do with it (teaching was definitely out) but either way you were ready to dive into the real world. To no longer be stressed out about exams and papers and boring ass professors that constantly seemed to have a stain on their tie.

And to get far, far away from your stupid ex, Adam.

“Uh oh you have murder face,” Amy said as she peeped around to look at you. “What’s wrong?”

You shrugged. “Just in my head I guess.”

Amy hummed. “I get it. That’s why we are here though! To get fucked up and do something we regret in the morning.”

You laughed. “Guess we’re Uber-ing home.”

She grinned and grabbed your wrist, pulling you over to a table loaded with different types of alcohol. The guy ‘tending bar’ as it were winked as you two approached. “What can I get you for?”

“Something with alcohol but where we can’t taste the alcohol!” Amy exclaimed happily. “Oh! And if you’ve got any little umbrellas I’d like one of those too.”

He did finger guns and proceeded to cook something up in two red cups, sticking in two pink umbrellas when he was done. You and Amy took your drinks and after a cursory sniff, took a sip. The tequila wasn’t as strong as with a single shot but you could still detect it just not enough to make you stop drinking. Unlike Amy you didn’t plan to get completely fucked up but you weren’t going to say no to a nice buzz.

Cups in hand you migrated onto the dance floor and fell in with everyone else, bopping to the beat and scream chatting over the loud music.

“I really needed this!” Amy yelled. “Statistics is kicking my cute little ass!”

“I know what you mean!” You shouted. “But hey! Soon we’ll be done and actual jobs will be kicking our cute little asses!”

Laughing, Amy bounced up and down, sending her blonde hair flying. “Is that why you’ve been so grumpy lately? Or is it…he who shall not be named?”

With a sigh you took a big sip of your strawberry margarita. “Yeah. He keeps fucking calling me and leaving me these stupid ass messages, apologizing and shit. I’ve blocked him but he just uses someone else’s phone.”

Amy’s eyes stretched wide. “That’s like stalker behavior! Or maybe he really is sorry for what he did.”

You snorted. “Sorry for having sex with his ex in the backseat of my car? As far as I am concerned he can take his ‘sorrys’ and shove them so far up his ass they come out his mouth as safaris!”

Amy choked a little on her drink, hitting you hard on the arm in admonishment after she stopped coughing. “I hate you! I could have died!”

Her words made you smirk. “But did you? No but for real, fuck Adam. Fuck Adam and anyone who even looks like Adam!”

“Woo!” Amy threw both hands up into the air, yelping as liquid sloshed down onto her head. “Oh shit! Drink emergency I’ll be right back!”

Before you could say anything, she turned and hurried back towards the drink table. Alone in the middle of a dancing crowd, you didn’t know whether you should slink over to a corner or just keep dancing. That last thing you wanted was some random dude trying to groove with you. Of course if you decided to hold up the wall nothing would stop some random dude from trying to hit on you either. At a bit of a loss you drained the rest of your drink and did a I don’t really know anyone two step, hoping Amy would return soon.

The tequila settled nice and warm in your stomach, making you feel more at ease. Most of the people at the party were from your school but not ones you associated with on like, a daily basis. Sure you recognized a few faces from the library or cafeteria but there was no one you’d had more than a surface conversation with.

And then your eyes landed on him. Ten.

Ten was a…different sort of person altogether. He was the kinda guy CW shows thought actually existed in college, except he was very real. And very much fucking gorgeous in that unattainable way CW shows also loved. However, that sort of did him a disservice because as far as you knew, he was just a decent guy who happened to be able to do some pretty awesome things.

For example, he was an amazing dancer. The kinda dancer that just freaking mesmerized you when he moved. Had you wondering how in the hell had he taught his body to do that shit? One minute he was in total sync with everyone else and the next he was performing his solo and blowing your mind. He’d done some show a few months ago with a friend and you’d nearly flipped out of your chair watching him work. The body rolls, the attitude, the way he’d just commanded the stage…whew. Was it possible to be a fan of someone who wasn’t famous?

Then there was his art; things he designed himself or drew from memory. Art class was essentially where you’d sorta came to be acquaintances with him. You weren’t exactly good at drawing but you liked it enough that you wanted to improve, plus it helped you de-stress after particularly hard days. Ten on the other hand excelled and just like with dancing, it was interesting to watch his process. He’d described himself as a sensory artist so he wasn’t always as concerned with the end product as the professor sometimes wanted him to be. From your eye though he’d yet to create anything that wasn’t remarkable. In fact, more than once you’d wanted to ask him to design a tattoo for you, but felt it would be kinda weird. He had no idea what you were into after all. So far your conversations with him had consisted of colors and that one time he’d asked to borrow one of your brushes.

You were pretty sure he’d sold something to an art gallery.

Anyway so Ten could dance and he could draw and he could sing and he was fluent in several languages; as far as you knew the only thing he was kind of shit at was cooking. But who hadn’t set a class kitchen on fire once or twice? Or three times…

If he were an asshole—well people would probably still crush on him—you’d count that as a major flaw and want to keep your distance. But the kicker was that he could do cool things and he was nice. Dorky even especially when it came to cute animals. Was always posting pictures of himself at the animal shelter playing with the kittens and the puppies, or just acting like an idiot with friends. Yet it was that confidence that made him seem untouchable, and also made him sexy as fuck. More than once you’d fantasized about biting his Adam’s apple.

Heh.

Shaking your head, you fanned lightly at your face with both hands. Maybe stepping outside for some fresh air would be a good idea.

“Y/N!” Amy nearly tripped over her pretty sandals in her hurry to get back to you. “Weewoo weewoo weewoo!”

“Um…”

She grabbed your shoulder. “It’s a police siren! We have a code red situation here, I repeat a code red! Adam just walked in!”

“What?” You blinked and immediately looked towards the doorway, brows narrowing when you saw she was right.

Standing there in a white t-shirt in his formerly handsome glory was your ex-boyfriend, Adam. Once upon a time you’d thought the world of him; thought he was the kinda guy you could probably marry someday. The kinda guy you’d introduced your family to. Turns out he was the kind of guy that hooked up with his ex in your car repeatedly until finally being caught in the act. Sure it had been gratifying to make him and her walk home half naked but it had done nothing to quell the pain left behind. Thankfully though your pain quickly turned to anger and now you usually focused on not murdering him when he popped up. There was a lot you could forgive but cheating was firmly in the do not cross zone. Everything you’d felt for him evaporated the moment you saw him with her.

And he’d promised he was over her. Lying piece of shit, you thought to yourself.

“What the hell is he doing here?! Does he even know anyone here?” you asked with a frown.

“I dunno!” your friend said slowly. “It’s possible, big campus and all. Do you want me to help you climb out of the bathroom window?”

“Yeah my boobs aren’t fitting through one of those skinny ass windows,” you replied wryly. “Though to be honest I’m almost willing to risk it. C’mon let’s—”

It was too late. Adam spotted you like an arrow searching for its target, eyes registering shock and then elation. He reached you in three quick strides, opening his arms for a hug that he was damned crazy to expect. “Y/N. Wow you—you look amazing. I’m so glad we ran into each other.”

You huffed. “I’m not. I told you we’re over Adam. Or does me blocking your calls not get the message across?”

He exhaled deeply. “Look I know I messed up but I’m sorry. Classes were just really tough and—and Lucy and I would reminisce about old times…”

“Do I look like I give a shit? You cheated on me and we’re over.” The lie came so easily. “Besides, I’ve moved on.”

“Yeah!” Amy poked him in the chest. “She’s moved on so suck it!”

Adam arched a brow. “You’ve moved on?” He sounded skeptical and that made your blood boil. “Since when? And with who?”

You’d once heard that Hippocrates came up with the saying drastic times call for drastic measures though it wasn’t something you’d be willing to bet money on. However, standing there with your ex eying you like he just knew you were lying brought a whole new meaning to the idiom. You would one hundred percent be damned before giving him the satisfaction of gloating.

Tequila’s kicking in…

Without missing a beat, you put a hand on your hip and motioned to Ten. “Him. I’m seeing him.”

Amy made a sound like a cat having its tail stepped on while Adam gaped at you. “What? I—no. No way. You’re totally lying. I’ve seen the people he’s dated and you’re not his type at all.”

This bitch.

Twirling on your black heels, you strolled across the room to where Ten sat in an arm chair, chatting with a few of his friends. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you straddled his lap and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I know this is awkward as fuck—I’m so sorry—but if you just play along I will owe you big time. I’ll give you anything. You need a kidney? You can have a kidney.”

Ten’s friends had gone mute and as you sat back to gauge his reaction—or to possibly be thrown off of him—you bit your full bottom lip. His dark eyes were watching you calculatingly, his own lips pursed together like you were a riddle he needed to solve. Up close he was utterly breathtaking, all smooth skin and silky black hair that fell artfully across his forehead. He smelled incredible.

And then he spoke.

“There you are baby,” he said wrapping an arm around your waist. “I’ve been looking for you.”

That was when you figured you owed him your first born but it was fine. “Well, you found me. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He chuckled. “You’re worth waiting for.”

His friends still looked confused though they didn’t have time to voice their opinions. Adam stalked over seconds later like a man on a mission. “So it’s true? You and Y/N are together?”

Ten tilted his head to the side and you saw the moment the lightbulb went off for him. “Yeah we’re together.”

Adam huffed. “Since when? For how long? Where did you two meet?”

Ten smirked. “Are you taking a survey or something?” He brushed his lips across your jaw, making you shiver. “The only thing that matters is that she’s mine. Let’s dance, Y/N.”

“I would love to,” you replied with a smile. You were also grateful he’d remembered your name.

You climbed off of his lap and took his hand, sending Adam a you thought look before pulling Ten out into the thick of the crowd. Your heart was beating a mile a minute but you felt too giddy to pay much attention to it. Plus, you knew Adam was watching you like a hawk and you didn’t want to let on how nervous you actually were. If he found out you were lying he’d never leave you alone and consider you pathetic to boot. Besides the nice buzz that was finally creeping down your spine told you everything would be fine. How could it not be?

Ten’s hands settled low on your hips and he gave you a little tug, pulling your back to his chest. You fit rather perfectly with him, his chin brushing the top of your head. Picking a rhythm in the song that thumped with bass, you began to move together. You rolled your ass against him and leaned your head back to rest on his shoulder, focusing on his breath as it ghosted across your neck. A silver of light wouldn’t have been able to get between you.

Normally you wouldn’t have dared to do something like this with a near stranger but your desire to make your ex suffer was bigger than your nerves. Besides Ten appeared to be all in on the ruse; his body twisting and curving in sync with yours, fingers on his right hand sliding up between your breasts to wrap lightly on your throat. His teeth nipped at your earlobe and you gasped. Reached around to his side to clasp his shirt for an anchor. You heard him chuckle and suddenly you were spun away from him only to be reeled back in, this time face to face.

The room felt like it was two hundred degrees. You weren’t exactly wearing much—a slinky black dress with tiny ties at the hem—but even that seemed too much. Without missing a beat though you and Ten continued to grind with one another, his thigh just barely pushed between your own. Every time you swayed forward to meet him the denim of his jeans rubbed deliciously against you, sending sparks sprinting through your veins. Both of his hands were on your ass as if helping to guide you, and as you met his gaze you couldn’t help but bite your lip at what you saw there. Desire, lust, hunger—no one had ever looked at you like that before. Like they could just devour you and still not have enough of you.

It made you feel powerful.

You grinned and wrapped an arm around his neck, fingers giving his hair a little tug. He hissed and lowered his head so that he could mouth at your bare shoulder, hands squeezing your ass so hard it nearly hurt. You weren’t sure when you started to get wet—maybe it was the moment you sat on his lap or he decided to play along with your dumb stunt—but you could tell it now. Your panties were sticking to you, your skin was on fire and it was becoming difficult to think straight. Honestly however you didn’t want to think at all, especially not if it meant not being in Ten’s orbit.

“Ten,” you whispered into the skin under his jaw.

He hummed, the sound vibrating through your body. You plastered your hand to his chest and pulled it down, nails catching on the thin material of his shirt until they were brushing along the zipper on his jeans. You gave him a quick squeeze—he was hard and straining—and he cursed loudly. Between one second and the next he was dragging you down a dimly light hallway, past kissing couples and one guy passed out drunk in the doorway of someone’s room. He swung you both into the first vacant room he came to; a lavish bathroom at the very back of the house. The door was closed with a swift thump and the lock clicked shut.

You licked your lips as he crowded you back into the counter, looking down at you with a tiny smirk. That part of your brain that yammered on about bad decisions was surprisingly quiet, so you figured it was beyond okay to pull him down for a kiss. As with most of the stuff he did, Ten was a damn good kisser. His mouth was soft and warm, his tongue playful and coaxing. He kissed you like he’d been waiting to kiss you for a long time. Until it grew deep and sensual. Until you were both panting with the need for air but neither wanting to let go of the moment.

With a gasp you tilted backwards a bit, your knees suddenly weak. “Fuck me,” you said absently.

“Can I?” Ten asked, chest heaving. “Can I fuck you?”

“God yes,” you replied, already pulling your dress up until it hitched around your waist.

Ten hooked his thumbs onto the band of your pink panties and slid them down your legs, laying them next to the sink. He looked you over with that same eye he used for his art but you could tell he liked what he saw. You grabbed his hand and brought it between your legs, spreading them wider for him. Two of his fingers slipped inside of you without any resistance to find you damp and aching, already so hot for him. He started a lazy rhythm—in and out, in and out—like he was in no hurry at all. Like he wasn’t driving you crazy all the way down to the tips of your toes.

He kept his eyes locked onto yours as he touched you, lips slightly parted like he couldn’t believe this was happening. That rang true for both of you. Never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d ever really be friends with Ten, let alone about to hook up with him. It was like you’d stumbled into some alternate universe.

Bringing his free hand up to your cheek, he smoothed his thumb across your lips, pressing lightly until you let him in. You sucked his thumb into your mouth and gave it a little nip, smiling when he smirked. When he deemed it wet enough, he pressed it to your clit and you moaned, your hips stuttering upward with a will of their own. He began a firm massage, working your clit this way and that, fingers still thrusting in their maddening motion. Of course he’d be great with his hands. Of course he’d be able to play your body like a finely tuned instrument.

Pressure started to build low in your stomach. “I—I’m…”

“Turn around.” Ten took a step back and made a show of sucking his fingers into his mouth, tongue darting out to lick between them like he wanted to savor every drop.

You whimpered but did as he requested, your eyes finding his in the wide silver mirror. You watched as he unzipped his pants and pushed them along with his dark colored briefs down to the floor. You hadn’t seen him pull out a condom but he had one; ripping open the packaging with his perfectly straight teeth before rolling it onto his hard cock. It was a delicious looking thing you had to admit, long and thick with a slight curve. If you’d had the time you would have gladly went to your knees for him.

A low breath shuddered out of Ten’s lungs as he pushed inside of you, his hands gripping your waist so strongly you were bound to have a few bruises later. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

It had been a while since Adam and nobody after him until now.

When he assumed you’d adjusted to the size of him, he pulled nearly out before driving back inside of you. You moaned and pushed back to meet his thrusts, feeling the pleasure shattering through you. Your breasts bounced as he moved and he reached a hand forward, tugging down the top of your dress so that he could cup one. He rolled your nipple between his fingers and pinched, bending over you so that he could bite down onto the tender skin of your shoulder. The motion sent him even deeper and you both groaned at the feeling.

“Te—Ten,” you stammered, losing your train of thought when he rolled his hips liked he did on the dance floor. “Oh fuck! Fuck!”

The picture you made in the mirror was a very erotic one; you could see every single expression on Ten’s handsome face. The utter enjoyment he was obviously finding in fucking you was written all over it; there was nowhere for it to hide. His head was tipped back, eyes fluttering closed only to pop back open so that he could watch himself shove into you over and over again. He had you up on your tip toes, nose just an inch from the mirror itself. He was always sexy but tonight that word took on a whole new meaning.

All you could do was try to give as good as you got.

You slapped a hand onto the sink to steady yourself and clenched around him, reveling in the low whine that escaped his throat. It kinda sounded like your name.

And then he was pulling all the way out, dick bouncing as he stumbled backwards. You blinked in confusion. “Wh--what’s wrong?”

Ten ran his fingers through his hair. “C’mon. I want you to ride me.”

He sat down on the closed toilet seat lid and you straddled him without a second thought, sinking down onto his dick with a full body shudder. With your dress around your waist and your breasts jiggling in his face as you bounced up and down on his cock, he traced his tongue around your nipple before lightly biting down. You tangled your fingers in his hair and panted out his name, letting out a squeak when his palm connected with your ass for a hard slap. Planting his feet on the floor, he leaned you backwards a bit as he drove into you repeatedly, eyes watching how well your pussy took him.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against your collarbone. “Gorgeous—you feel so good.” He bit you again, this time on the side of your neck. “So good.”

With one hand on his shoulder to brace yourself, you rose up and let yourself come down hard over and over again, feeling him pound so deep it was almost criminal. Had the music not been so loud you knew exactly what you would have heard; the sound of skin hitting skin as Ten fucked you like he owned you. Just for tonight, maybe he did.

You weren’t sure how long it went on but when you came it still managed to take you by surprise. Your body lit up like a Christmas tree from the inside out and you cried out Ten’s name, clenching around him, your nails digging into his shoulder blades. He muttered a drawn out fuuuuck and pinched your clit with this thumb and forefinger, making you jerk so hard you nearly tumbled off his lap.

“Ah! Ten!” You shouted as he kept it up. “I—no—oh god—”

Your pussy tightened around him again and he shivered, thrusts growing erratic as he came with a grunt. You trembled through a second orgasm almost in disbelief—usually the only thing that could get you off twice in a row was hidden under your bed in a shoe box.

Seconds later you flopped against him, attempting to catch your breath. He was still rolling his hips just a tiny bit, making all the too sensitive areas ping.

“Whoa,” he said breathlessly, wrapping both arms around your waist. “That was…”

You chuckled softly. “Yeah…” Chancing a look at him, you admired the way strands of his dark hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. He was glistening, shirt sticking to his chest. He smelled like hints of your perfume and you smelled like hints of his cologne. It was all so intimate.

Reluctantly you sat back and gazed at him, wondering if things were about to get awkward. But Ten just smiled and ducked his head a little, a barely there blush creeping up into his already flushed cheeks. It was so adorable you couldn’t have resisted kissing him if you tried. From the way he melted into you, he’d had the same idea.

After a few minutes of just enjoying the feel of his lips against yours, you forced yourself up off of him. Your legs shook; you had to grab the counter to keep from tripping in your heels. You could already tell you’d still feel him tomorrow and the thought made you kinda dizzy, but in a good way. Blinking at your reflection—your hair was a dark mess—you knew there was no way you’d be able to hide the love bites that adorned your skin. They stood out stark red and purple like a bruise.

Ten remained slouched on the toilet for a couple of moments before removing the condom and tossing it into the trash. He dabbed at his dick with a handful of toilet paper, and then pulled up his underwear and jeans. “So…can I ask you something?”

You fixed your dress. “Sure.”

“Who was that guy?” he inquired with a grin. “The one you obviously wanted to get away from.”

Oh shit you’d forgotten all about Adam! “Oh he—he’s my dumb ex. He jumped stupid at me and I—I wanted to show him that he’s an idiot. That I’m totally over him. I—I’m sorry for getting you involved.”

He laughed as he patted down his hair. “No complaints from my end. I think he got the message though.” Reaching behind you he handed you your panties. “Don’t wanna forget these.”

It was ridiculous to be embarrassed considering what you’d both just done, but you couldn’t help it. You took them from him and pulled them on, keeping your eyes on the ground. “Thanks… Look Ten—”

“I’m hungry,” he said interrupting you. “Have you ever had grilled dried pollack?”

“Um yeah once I think,” you replied uncertainly. “It was pretty tasty.”

Ten motioned behind him. “I know a place that makes it if you wanted to go. And…maybe afterwards we could just hang out. Talk.”

That sounded amazing. “I’d love to. But…”

He picked up on your meaning. “Y/N I sit next to you in all of our art classes. I make conversation with you for no reason. Do you really think I of all people forget my brushes? Honestly I’ve wanted to ask you out for a while but you’ve always seemed…disinterested.”

You were dumbstruck by his admission. “Me?! That’s just my face! You’re the unattainable ingénue or whatever!”

Ten chuckled, folding his arms across his chest. “Oh please the only thing standing between me and being a serious cat dad is having an apartment that allows animals. However, this conversation is pointless. You owe me and I’m collecting…if that’s okay?”

You huffed but couldn’t stop grinning. “It’s perfect.”

The walk from the bathroom to the living room had everyone staring with a few people letting out loud whistles. Adam had disappeared but Amy was there to give you a big thumbs up. You promised to call her later and then let Ten pull you outside into the warm night air, your fingers happily entwined with his.

#wayv ten #ten imagines #wayv smut #ten scenarios #ten x reader #ten smut #nct scenarios #ten oneshot #wayv imagines #woc reader #wayv ten imagines #ten lee #wayv au #nct au

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hongism · 3 years

Text

mists of celeste ➻ 38

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, smut ➻ word count: 17.1k (._.) ➻ rating: m ➻ warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba chapter specific warnings: blood, fighting, violence, weapons, choking (not the sexy kind sorry), self-inflicted injury, some psychological torture, graphic depictions of death, drowning but not really? someone being held underwater, implied suicide (but no graphic depiction) ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

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✧✧✧ act five ➻ part five

Stepping onto the bridge with Wooyoung in tow is an experience to say the very least. Mostly because it is eerily quiet when you arrive, so startlingly empty that you pause the second you step into the room. Hongjoong sits still as a statue in his usual place even though he has truly no need to be in the captain’s chair since you aren’t going anywhere quite yet. The only movements he makes are to cross one leg over the other back and forth every few seconds like he can’t stay put for too long. Other than that, he makes no effort to acknowledge your presence at the edge of the bridge, which would be expected if not for the crucial nature of your mission.

The effects of Soojin’s little concoction are still weighing heavily on your muscles and bones, but you are at least able to keep your eyes open now. Jongho refuses to let go of your waist, and you might complain if you didn’t think you would crumble to a useless heap on the floor once he let you go. You don’t trust your muscles to cooperate that much.

“I see you’re bringing good news,” Hongjoong states as you draw closer to where he’s seated. One quick glance at the observation window tells you he’s carefully watching your every move, including the pair behind you that consists of Yeosang and Wooyoung.

“Aye, Captain,” Jongho says through a smile. Hongjoong finally shifts to look your way, eyes hesitating on your slumped form for a moment before moving to where Wooyoung stands.

“Glad to see you back on board, Wooyoung.” His tone won’t commit to showing how he truly feels, but there is a certain light in Hongjoong’s eyes that he cannot hide, and you find relief in his features as he looks over Wooyoung. It’s brief and temporary, but the obvious warmth that his countenance holds as he and Wooyoung make eye contact is enough to show you how heavily this has been weighing on the young captain as well.

“Glad to be back, Captain,” Wooyoung answers in haste. You can hear the smile in his voice even if you cannot see it.

“Were there any issues with the mission?”

“No, just… a small hiccup.” Jongho glances down at you, and the slight shift has Hongjoong redirecting his focus to you as well. You steel yourself for some sort of lecture, a backhanded comment about staying focused on the task at hand, or maybe even just a comment about you being a weak link. Hongjoong’s gaze never hardens though. Instead, he offers a small nod then —

“I see. Be sure to check in with Yunho in that case.”

Something else nags at the edge of your thoughts then, mostly due to the absence of one certain person on the bridge at the moment.

“Where is Jisung?”

Hands squeezing hard around your throat, shoving you under bloody waters.

Cold, cold, cold. Red in your vision, hands on your throat, and everything is cold.

“In the brig. We — I decided it would be best to keep him there until the situation changes.” Hongjoong’s answer is spoken through a stiff and uncomfortable tone, and you expect that he was met with some resistance when it came to such a decision. But of course, that begs another question about the other person who is not on the bridge or by Hongjoong’s side like he typically would be.

“And Seonghwa?”

“Also in the brig.” Hongjoong presses his lips together, and he shifts to glare holes into the floor. The shift in his demeanor is slight but unsettling nonetheless, especially as he forces a tight grin onto his lips a second later. “Wooyoung, after you’ve settled and taken some time to recover, I’d like to chat. I won’t ask anything too invasive, but I need to know a little bit about the places you were held and where San and Mingi could possibly be. And Yeosang, a mission debriefing is needed as well.”

“We can talk now, Captain. I’ve got some news that should be helpful anyway!” Wooyoung steps around you to talk more directly to Hongjoong, Yeosang lingering at his side the whole time, and you pull back to give them more space. “I’ll go see our dear doctor after we chat. He’ll talk my ear off anyway.”

“Do you need to see Yunho?” Jongho asks, stepping back with you.

“No, no, I’ll be fine. Right now I… I think I just need to see Jisung,” you murmur. How are you going to stomach looking at him without thinking of his hands around your throat and trying to kill you?

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“If he’s in the brig being watched by Seonghwa, how much damage can he do?”

Jongho falls silent at that, mostly because your point holds strong, but he still stays by your side during the walk down there. And arguably yes it is your first time heading down to that part of the ship; the only times you’ve wandered in that vague direction are when you went to the cargo bay with Jongho. There is a different kind of tension in your muscles now though, one that feels much more like walking to your inevitable doom than anything else. That feeling intensifies with each step closer to the small hatch leading down to the brig, a ladder with metal rungs taking you to a place you aren’t sure you want to be. A quick glance over your shoulder shows you a minor portion of the brig, only enough to see three cells lined up on the left then a sharp corner that no doubt leads to more cells in a narrow hallway. Typical of a ship of this caliber. They aren’t built to house prisoners, and any slave trades made with such a vessel would only carry that precious cargo in the cargo hold. They would only need roughly twenty of these cells — five by five squares with just enough space for the average person to stand up comfortably but nothing more than that.

Yet when your feet hit the cold paneled floor and echo a hollow noise, your gaze falls upon Jisung and only Jisung. He is safely tucked away in the middle cell, walls of bars surrounding him and separating your body from his, but that’s hardly noticeable compared to Seonghwa’s absence near his cell. Hongjoong had claimed that Seonghwa was down here with Jisung, and the initial lack of his presence immediately sends your brain into danger mode.

“What did you do with Seonghwa?” You inquire without hesitation, leveling the man you used to admire so fucking much with a glare full of heat you didn’t even know you were capable of. Jisung laughs from the spot where he is curled up on the floor. He has his back pressed to the only solid wall in the cell, knees pulled up to his chest and elbows draped overtop them so that his hands hang loosely down in the space before him. The huff of air that passes through his lips almost sounds like a laugh. It does nothing to quell your nerves — if anything it makes your anxiety spike a bit higher, causing Jongho to lay a hand down on the small of your back in attempts to calm you some no doubt.

“Shouldn’t you be asking your dearest captain that?” Comes Jisung’s scathing reply, complete with a sneer and curled lip. The disdain in his tone isn’t hard to miss at all. His chin tilts. Eyes blaze with some fury. Then he presses his tongue against his bottom lip and forces the skin there to stretch under the pressure. “To think you escaped my cruel clutches just to fall into the filthy hands of a scourge who doesn’t care about anyone but himself. A beautiful irony, don’t you think?”

You don’t give him the pleasure of hearing any response from you.

“Don’t worry, doll. You’ll be safe in my hands soon enough,” he says, tone almost bordering on teasing rather than being serious with the threat. “What’s it? Got one back, no? Not the one you care about though, am I right?” Jisung brings his head forward again, staring down the line of empty cells before him like he’s taunting something nonexistent there. “Poor, poor lieutenant. Denied by both the people he loves. How much bending can an Elitist take until he breaks? I’ve always wondered that… never did get to see Hyunwoo snap after all. Perhaps now I’ll get to witness it with my own two eyes.”

“Don’t speak on things you know nothing about.”

That stops you dead in your tracks, your whole body lurching as you are midway to stepping closer to Jisung’s cell. The words don’t come from your lips, nor do they come from Jongho’s, but the tiny voice in the back of your head tells you that no one snuck down behind you and Jongho. And that Jisung’s staring isn’t coincidental or meaningless at all. A cruel smile curls the corners of his mouth. He prods at one side with the tip of his tongue and releases a laugh that is more hollow than anything else.

You force your legs into action and push yourself forward, although this time you don’t head for Jisung’s cell like you originally intended to do. Instead, you round the sharp corner leading to the remaining cells in the brig with bated breath and a growing sense of dread in your gut.

As it turns out, that dread is not misplaced in the slightest.

Because the moment you stare down the row of metal cages perpendicular to Jisung’s own holding cell, your gaze falls on something heart-wrenching and horrid to see. And Jongho might be confused — a bit beyond merely confused, you’ll admit — but you? You recognize this to be the cruel picture your mind conjured up the day Hongjoong told you that you would be going on the rescue mission for Wooyoung.

“I don’t know how much or what exactly you saw in Seonghwa’s memories. I do not need to know either. But something you need to know is that we have been back to Lynder exactly once since I met Seonghwa there. And that one single time, two years ago, we had to lock Seonghwa in the brig for six days straight to keep him from breaking out to kill his mother. Seonghwa tore cuts into his arms and shoulders so deep that Yunho had to come to stitch him every night until we finally chained him to a wall to get him to stop. When he finally gave up on trying to break out, I went in and took the cuffs off, only for Seonghwa to choke me hard enough to fracture my neck and leave bruises that lasted for several weeks.”

It’s Seonghwa who sits far in the back of the brig, curled in on himself in the very last cell in the block with what feels like leagues stretching between you and where he is. Chains cuffing his wrists together and a shackle hanging so heavy on his neck that he can barely lift his head. You’ve never seen a man look so small and insignificant in your life; the knowledge and realization that it’s none other than Seonghwa under those chains burn so deep in your chest that you forget how to breathe properly until Jongho shatters the weighty silence by joining you in front of the row of cells.

“Lieutenant?”

“The mission, Jongho. Did you recover him?”

How dare Seonghwa look so gentle and confident even while being chained and held in the brig of his own ship?

“I — yes, Lieutenant, we recovered him but — but you—”

“Good,” Seonghwa interjects. He gives a heavy nod that makes the iron hanging from his neck rattle. “Then there is no reason for you to be down here currently. I’m sure our captain would have much better use for you now than I do.” Seonghwa’s dark eyes remain fixated on you as he speaks, but you’re too far away to even try to discern the emotion concealed in them.

Jongho turns back to the ladder leading out of the cellblock. He doesn’t put up a fight or argue about the matter; merely looks the other way and follows the order like nothing is possibly wrong with the scene unfolding before him.

You, on the other hand, hardly consider yourself the kind of person who gives in so easily.

Thus, against better judgment no doubt, you step around the wall of cells separating you and Seonghwa, then take the steely walk over to that far corner of the brig.

And against better judgment, with Hongjoong’s words of warning ringing in your ears of how dangerous Seonghwa was the last time he was in such a position, you get as close to the cell as humanly possible. You curl your fingers around the bars as you sink to your knees in front of him, eyes unable to find a comfortable resting place anywhere on his body and instead finding purchase on the sliver of the floor still exposed under his knees. He, like Jisung, has his back pressed to the cage, bars digging harshly into his typical billowing black coat. He can’t extend his legs all the way in the cell and is thus forced to keep his knees bent at an awkward angle that will surely hurt after some time has passed. Hands are held together by that short chain and stretched as far as possible over his knees. You would never go so far as to say Seonghwa could ever look pitiful, but this brings you pretty damn close.

“I do not wish for you to see me in this position, Y/N,” Seonghwa whispers without looking over at you. He maintains the same honed stare on Jisung, and now that you’re closer to him you can see that flames of anger that lick at his dark eyes. Despite his words, you can’t bring yourself to move. The weight of your bones suddenly feels heavier than ever and even if you wanted to get up and leave, you don’t think you could. “It was shameful enough to ask Hongjoong to put me here.”

“You… you asked him to do this?” You inquire through a whisper of your own.

“He didn’t want to, of course, but—” Seonghwa cuts himself short and you watch his chest heave as he inhales sharply “—I’m ashamed to admit that I know how to get what I want from him. And thus… I made him put me here.”

“Seonghwa, I — you — why?” If only eloquence could be your strong suit.

“I cannot trust myself. I am not needed for these missions. I am a liability. Anything I do must be under careful watch and instruction, otherwise, I could risk the safety of the crew and the success of our missions.” Seonghwa swallows around nothing and drops his chin to his chest. His mop of black hair falls forward to cover his eyes. You hadn’t realized how long it had gotten in recent days as he pressed it back constantly, but now you can see how the ends caress his eyelashes and near the bottom of his temples. “I pose more of a threat than anything else in this state.”

“Says who?” You insist, pressing your face so far forward that your cheek squishes against the bars. Seonghwa seems startled by your sudden fervor. His eyes go wide and dart over to your face, but they linger for only a second before turning back to his lap. “Was it Jisung? Did he say something? Before he was locked up? Or maybe after? He’s — Seonghwa, you can’t believe anything he says. He wants to cause discord and issues in the crew, he wants trouble because he’s an enemy.”

“He has nothing to do with this, Y/N. Absolutely nothing.” The skin around his eyes crinkles as he squeezes his eyes shut, almost as though he’s in pain. “Please leave. I do not trust myself in this state, and if I hurt you on top of — on top of what I’ve already done, Y/N, please. I won’t forgive myself if I ever lay a harmful hand on you even in the slightest.”

“What did you do? No, what happened while we were gone?”

The chains around Seonghwa’s wrist rattle so suddenly that it startles you, and his abrupt movements send you back from the cage in a rush without thinking twice. You merely acted out of self-preservation and instinct, and yet —

And yet the damage is already done.

Your eyes dart up to look into Seonghwa’s. He looks more lost and confused than anything else, like a child who can’t find his way home. From the way his lip trembles to the wobble in his gaze and how his hands clench and unclench as though in an unknown ceremony of their own. The man seems — is harmless.

“Go, Y/N, before I truly hurt you.”

This time, you don’t fight him on the matter. You force your legs into action and push yourself up from the floor where you just unceremoniously sprawled in an effort to get away from Seonghwa’s cell. The walk away from him hurts something awful in your chest, like each step you take to get away from him causes a new piece of your heart to break off, but still, you walk until you reach the end of the hauntingly short hall. You can’t keep yourself from staring down that corridor to look at Seonghwa’s crumpled form one more time.

In that moment that couldn’t have lasted more than half a second, you believed that Seonghwa would hurt you, and he believed the same. It only took that much time for the line of trust you thought could be unbreakable to shatter and give out under you. Was it not only recently that you told him you were willing to place your heart in his hands and trust him with it?

“Are you content with yourself yet, Spectre?” Seonghwa’s voice rings clear in the room, echoing off the metal walls with more venom than before. You don’t think that venom is directed at anyone other than himself right now.

“Not even in the slightest, Lieutenant,” Jisung laughs in response. You don’t intend to make eye contact with him, but it happens nonetheless and once it does, you are transfixed on each of his movements. He drags his tongue over his lips before tucking it between his teeth and biting down hard on the tip. “I know plenty about making people break. And I can guarantee that by the time your dearest captain loses his will and decides to let you out, I will have broken you in ways you fear to even imagine. Let’s see how well you can play my game, Lieutenant of Death.”

The urge to reach a hand between the bars and strangle Jisung where he sits is so overwhelming that you see red. Somehow you find it in you to turn away, using some shred of reason and logic because you know you need Jisung as much as you wish you didn’t — until San and Mingi are safely back on the ship, you cannot risk killing him.

And to your surprise, Jongho is not waiting outside the hatch when you surface in the corridor again. It falls shut with a loud bang, trapping Jisung and Seonghwa both in their little prison once more.

The pressure around your head is mounting and becoming hard to ignore, even through the lingering effects of Soojin’s concoction. It seems the drowsiness wishes to win out, however, seeing as you pull yourself to your bedroom without much thought and more like it’s some form of muscle memory instead. Between all the things happening around you at the moment, it’s hard to pinpoint just one thing and focus on it.

San is still missing.

Seonghwa locked himself in the brig.

Han Jisung is terrorizing you and your crew out of some odd desire to claim you.

Mingi is still missing as well and at risk of being reprogrammed back into the Brute of Kebos.

Wooyoung, in the very least, is safely back but no doubt suffered new and awful traumas that he’ll have to deal with in the coming months.

Hongjoong and Seonghwa fought for what feels like the hundredth time.

You found Soojin in a brothel then promptly got confirmation that your memories were indeed wiped a second time without you knowing. Delightful, truly.

All that swirling back to the mounting headache that pierces the left side of your head so hard you see little flashes in your vision. And despite the need to most likely think through things, weigh your options, try to do something other than just sitting around and waiting for someone else to plan, you merely curl up under your sheets in the darkness after wiping away your leftover black lipstick and changing into some more comfortable clothes.

Alone again. It’s odd how you went from being on your own almost constantly for three years to now being so dependent on having someone by your side. Maybe it was the knowledge that you had no one back then that kept you sane. Now, however, you know there are people around you, close to you, people you would almost dare to say you can rely on for safety and trust. An image of Jisung’s cruel smile flickers in your mind before you close your eyes to sleep.

Trust got you nowhere before.

Would it be foolish to make the same mistakes again?

…

There’s a cold hand wrapped tight around your own, but even as you look down at it you can’t figure out who it belongs to. Another hand is folded over your eyes, blocking every ounce of your vision and leaving you shrouded in darkness. You have no idea where you are or where you are heading, and though your first instinct is to fight, you feel somewhat safe under the hand that holds yours.

“Kan han ceso, Umiko. Nu an nadu. Un cu nu, Umiko, un nukon.” The words grate against your ears, a soft-spoken voice whispering the foreign language to you through the darkness, and you blink hard against the hand covering your eyes.

“I-I don’t know what you’re saying,” you whisper back, only to be answered with more confusion and unknown words.

“Nadu, nadu. Sosun hen.”

The hand around your head slips away only to shove hard at your back. You don’t have time to turn to face your companion before a door is slammed shut on your back. You whip around to face the wall of metal, seeing nothing beyond the dark.

“Wait! Don’t — don’t leave me here!”

“Kidehon u Nurun, Umiko.”

Despite not knowing what any of the words mean, a chill rushes down your spine and leaves goosebumps all across your skin. Then a shrill scream tears you away from the door and back to the reality swirling together behind you. It’s moreso the contents of the scream that catch your attention because through the sudden swarm of yells and shouts, you catch one recognizable word.

“Yeosang!”

It’s like a veil is torn away from your eyes and you can suddenly see the world around you with so much clarity and brightness it hurts. And the first thing your gaze lands on is the sight of Wooyoung being dragged by the waist back into what seems to be a spitting image of the House of Lilies. His captors are hooded figures, unimportant and insignificant compared to Wooyoung who flails around desperately in their arms to get out. And across from him, running and running but never once catching up because a massive crowd of people blocks his path, is none other than Yeosang. You push your way forward as well in attempts to reach the Elitist. Each step is harder than the last with the way faceless figures shove your shoulders and force you back until his blond head of hair is out of sight. You can’t see Wooyoung’s face any longer either; all you can hear are a few distant shouts and screams that are unintelligible by now.

You have no choice but to let the crowd guide you to an unknown destination, shifting to follow their hasty steps before you get trampled to the ground. They’re too tall for you to see past their shoulders, all shrouded in black coats and suits with masks covering their faces as well, and you are only left with confusion the more you try to get a closer look at them. That confusion lingers for a while, and as you walk, the shouts and yells around you morph into cheering. It’s deafening, growing louder with each second, but the hoards simply continue into what seems to be the source of the sounds.

Once you finally reach that destination, your heart drops through your stomach because it’s tall colosseum walls that rise up around you. They are painfully recognizable, and you can almost guess what you’re about to witness given what you just saw transpire with Wooyoung and Yeosang.

The confirmation, albeit unneeded, hurts worse than you thought. As the crowd ushers you into the arena, you stumble up familiar stairs and come to a halt at the railing looking over the heart of the colosseum.

Mingi stands at the center of it all, donned in leather and copper armor like a gladiator of olden times that have long since become mere myths for children’s stories. Red streaks down his cheeks and covers him in a bloody glow under the sun. You watch him as though in a daze. Each movement he makes is like a dance between the way he swings a longsword in one hand and an ax in the other. The beauty of Mingi’s swings dissipates into a cloud of panic and horror when his opponent comes into sight across from his tall form.

“Jongho, Jongho, no!” You scream through the din ringing into your ears. A hand stretched down to the pit below in vain because there is no way for you to even attempt reaching them.

There’s a flash of red again, this time one that reaches across Mingi’s blade and spreads onto the sand below their feet. You clasp a hand over your mouth to silence the blood-curdling scream that tears through your lips.

“It’s not real, Y/N, it’s not real,” you murmur to yourself, not daring to look back down even as the cheers continue to swell around you. “It’s just a dream, you need to wake up. It’s not real.”

The most obvious clue that this is not real is the fact that you see Jongho — another Jongho — stepping out of the gates into the arena just seconds after Mingi cut him down. The body hasn’t even dissipated into thin air; it still sits at Mingi’s feet, a lifeless corpse that will continue to haunt you for god knows how long. The second Jongho comes forward to replace the last, standing completely still before Mingi like he’s nothing more than a training dummy for Mingi to kill over and over.

That is exactly what you are forced to witness too because the tall figures surrounding you refuse to let you budge or turn. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut each time Mingi lifts his arm. This hell is almost worst than the last. Seeing Yeosang and Wooyoung being torn apart burned deep in your chest but this?

Mingi killing the person who cares about him perhaps more than anyone else? Like it’s only a game or a sport to be played for entertainment?

That leaves a different pain in your chest. One that cuts deep and tries to sever your heart from your body.

You lose count of the bodies down in the area, and counting them would only hurt more so it’s a foolish plight to even imagine right now. Your limit comes soon enough, however, and in a fit of desperation, you shove so hard at the figures behind you that they topple over like dominos.

The mantra of reminders of how this isn’t real still runs on repeat in your head, but even forcing your way out of the crowds grants you no reprieve.

You can still hear the cheering, the way the crowd shouts for more blood then delights in another kill. And now that you know it’s Jongho being cut down by none other than Mingi, it makes matters much worse. You don’t make it three steps out of the arena before you’re stumbling to the ground on your hands and knees. A dry heave wracks your form, forcing up nothing but air. The contents of your stomach are nonexistent in this hellscape yet your body continues to convulse until bile drips from your lips.

“Please make it stop, make it stop, please, please, please,” you beg to the sand under your form.

“Y/N?”

Normally the voice would fill you with a sense of relief, but given what you’ve seen thus far, it only fills you with incredible dread.

You lift your chin to look Yunho in the eye nonetheless. He stands several feet away from you, unmoving and nearly statuesque with his pose. That peace lasts all of four seconds. He chokes out a cough. It sounds far too thick and wet for it to be merely a normal cough. Your fears turn to reality when blood coats his bottom lip after the next cough.

“Y-Yunho, no, n-no, not you too, please.”

Another cough and Yunho is on his knees like you are.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I… I wasn’t good enough to keep this from happening.”

“No, no, no, p-please, no, Yun—”

“This was the only thing I could get right.”

Your chin drops to your chest.

“You’ll be okay, won’t you? Our little Ghost…”

“No more. Please, Daichi, if this is your doing, then end it! End it please, please stop this!”

The response to your pleas is a hand clasping hard at the back of your neck. It shoves you to the ground with little effort until you are sprawled out on your stomach. You release a weak cry into the dirt, thrashing hard under the stranger’s grip. Another hand closes around your ankle. You aren’t given any time to prepare as it yanks you forward, dragging your body over the scratchy ground. You can feel your skin splitting under the impact yet as much as you twist to get out of it, the best you can do is flip onto your back and let the abuse continue there. Your new position allows you to at least see your attacker, a tall and lanky figure with sweeping black hair. You can barely see the outline of her face, but she looks strikingly familiar, like a person you’ve seen once in your dreams. It isn’t until you have been pulled all the way to a new destination that you realize exactly who she is.

“Mother.”

Seonghwa stands in the center of this barely lit room you’ve been dragged into, gun in hand and shrouded in a black cloak.

This is Seonghwa’s mother. Of course it is. This nightmare is not only yours but both Seonghwa and Hongjoong’s as well, the thing that has been so glaringly present for a while now. And in your inability to stop thinking about it, it has landed you here to live out this unending nightmare.

Seonghwa lifts the gun to aim it at his mother’s skull. He doesn’t spare you even the slightest glance, so dead-set on this mission that nothing else exists in his mind. You don’t have time to react before the gun goes off and echoes through the room. You scramble back on shaky legs when the woman in front of you crumples to the ground. Scarlet ebbs from her skull in mere seconds.

You think that’s it — hope would be a better word actually. You wish for the nightmare to end here with Seonghwa killing his mother, but it gets worse as Seonghwa turns the gun to his own skull and places the barrel against his temple. Despite already knowing that nothing you do in this dream will make it stop, you rush forward practically like an animal to stop him.

Something — or someone, rather — beats you to it.

A force hits you so hard that you are sent sprawling to the floor again, landing somewhere near Seonghwa’s mother, and upon looking up to see your sudden attacker, you find Hongjoong standing before Seonghwa instead. He’s in the middle of trying to wrestle the gun from Seonghwa’s hand, aiming it high at the ceiling before Seonghwa can hurt himself.

“Stop it, Seonghwa, I won’t let you do this!”

“Let me die, damn it, you were supposed to keep me from doing this!”

All you can do is watch as the fight unfolds before you with a growing sense of horror because you know where this is going to end. It will end the same way it has for everyone else in this nightmare. The thought of watching Seonghwa die and not being able to do anything to stop it is almost too much of a burden to bear.

If that was the worst scenario your mind could come up with, what actually happens minutes later is far far worse. You don’t see where it comes from but you don’t need to either; all you see is Seonghwa barreling into Hongjoong’s smaller form with all his strength until both are them are pressed to the nearest wall. The silence that overtakes the room is deafening. You don’t realize that there is anything wrong until you see hear the soft pitter-patter of blood dropping to the ground.

There’s a pointed metal spike sticking out of Seonghwa’s back, dripping blood from not only Seonghwa’s body but also Hongjoong’s.

“I’m sorry, my beloved.”

In a cruel twist of fate, you see the metal joining their bodies together, watch the way their chests rise and fall in shaky patterns that show their diminishing strengths. Hongjoong’s chin is the first to fall, dipping down to his chest as his eyes fight to stay open. Seonghwa is crying — no, sobbing with all the effort he can muster and pressing his lips to the edge of Hongjoong’s hairline through muttered apologies.

You know your limits, and you know you are not nearly strong enough to witness them die like this, even if it’s together and at Seonghwa’s own hand.

Thus, you push yourself up onto shaky legs and stumble out of the dark room as best you can with Seonghwa’s shaky cries ringing so loud in your ears that you fear you will never escape it for a second. There is a lingering sense of dread curling in your gut at the moment, however, because you have witnesses horrors happening to every single one of the crew except for one. And arguably, it is the one you fear the most, the one you wish to avoid the most, yet every attempt to force yourself awake before you can come across him fails miserably. The next room you stumble into is another familiar one, much like the distant memories you have of being strapped to a cold metal chair, but in this room, the chair is occupied by a man with jet black hair and a tuft of white at the front. You can’t manage more than a pained whimper as you step close to the chair.

Rounding the metal brings you face to face with him, although his eyes are shut as though he is asleep. For a fraction of a second, you think the worst has happened and throw your hands down on his chest to lean over San’s reclining body. He jolts at the contact, a sharp gasp tearing through his dry and cracked lips when he comes back to the land of the living.

“San, oh S-San, it’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, you’re safe, I promise,” you babble like a woman possessed. Your hands come up to cradle his face and brush a few long strands of hair away from his eyes. It takes too long for him to fully come to his senses, eyes blinking against the harsh light that filters down from the ceiling, and you wait with bated breath for him to say something as he registers your face. “Hi.” You’re too lost in the moment to remember this is a nightmare, too enamored with the mere sight of San’s face. When the reverie is torn away from you, it hurts worse than you could ever have imagined it would.

“H-How do you know my name? Who are you?”

Your chest tightens to the point where it hurts to breathe.

“It’s Y/N, San, don’t you remember me?”

“I don’t know who you are,” he whispers back, pulling his face away from your hands as best he can in his current position. You withdraw your hands as though burned and fall back onto your ass so hard you bounce a little. It should hurt, but the pain in your chest outweighs that by far. San sits up and slings a leg over the side of the chair, the other following shortly after. He steps down off the metal to come closer to you. His head is tilted in question, and his eyes search your face like he’s attempting to recognize you.

You hardly realize what’s happening before he’s bending over you and latching his hands around your neck. When he shoves you down to the ground, you aren’t met with the cold floor but rather a splash of water. It’s murky and an almost copper shade, like someone has doused you in blood and water. San’s grip on your neck tightens until you’re forced to choke up a few air bubbles.

“Did you think you were someone worthy of remembering?” San speaks to you through the water, voice coming to your ears in a muted tone. His features fall into a blur, and he squeezes at your skin so hard you see spots dance across your vision. You cry out in the water even though you know it won’t do you any good. “Did you think you earned that right? What use are you to me? Someone who couldn’t even do the bare minimum and protect me when I needed it… useless.”

San huffs out a loud laugh that echoes around you.

“You are completely and utterly useless to me.”

Sleep might have come easy to you but it does not claim you for long. Rarely are you ever awoken by nightmares; your body tends to just continue on with sleeping until the morning, but tonight is one of those oddities where the nightmares wake you up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. With the end of dream San’s cruel monologue, you startle awake, gasping for breath like you had been holding it the entire time you were asleep. A quick glance at the clock on your bedside table shows that it’s nearing one o’clock in the morning, so you were hardly asleep more than four hours.

You almost wish that Jongho stayed by your side through the night, if only to provide the comfort you want so desperately from someone who isn’t here. It wasn’t even an offer he posed or one that you asked for, but you find yourself wondering if it would have been better to seek out that comfort. And maybe it’s selfish of you to crave that peace that Jongho claims to have brought him for so long, but the appeal of not waking up alone is too tempting. Being able to have that with Seonghwa — the ability to go to bed at night and wake up in the morning with the knowledge that someone was there if anything went wrong — is something you took for granted. On nights like these, it’s all you could ever ask for. And while you and Seonghwa made the mutual decision to sever the more intimates parts of your relationship, it’s become glaringly obvious to you that you don’t have anyone to rely on for physical comfort anymore, even just the smallest action of holding a hand or sleeping beside you. Did you dream of him? Jongho might ask, hand outstretched to offer some sort of relief from the anxiety tugging at your heart. Either that or to try to take it away as best he can.

Yes, and it was wretchedly awful and horrible, you think. Something wet slips down the side of your temples before you can stop it. I feel I might lose my mind if I cannot bring him back safely soon.

Why, why, why did this happen?

Surely you’ve been through worse in the past, but this feels so much more potent than those times, either because those memories are tucked away or because you’ve never felt this strongly about needing to protect someone before.

You roll onto your side and let the stray tears slide across the bridge of your nose now.

Staring at the bed does absolutely nothing (even though you knew it wouldn’t); neither does reaching out to put a hand over the cold sheets there.

These days you keep finding your mind slipping back to the memories of Echidna. They’ve become so much more vivid since the entire kidnapping situation, yet oddly enough you cannot bring yourself to recall the actual torture you and San suffered together at the hands of Cara. Rather, you keep coming back to a monotone hotel room with a creaky bed and fluffed pillows.

“I won’t leave this time,” you mutter. You can feel heat radiating from San’s cheeks even though you can’t see the flush to his skin.

“I’ll hold you all night to make sure you don’t,” San whispers back. Hot breath fans over your lips. You aren’t sure what comes over you but you lift the hand resting against San’s chest to trace over the outline of his lips with two fingers. He smiles into the touch.

It brings a startling realization to your bones when you find yourself reaching out to the nothingness before you like he will be there because how could he be gone, why is he gone, he isn’t supposed to be gone.

“I’m scared to let you in,” you admit, bring your gaze back up to San’s eyes. He’s looking back at you with a gentleness in his eyes that catches you off-guard.

“You don’t have to let me in yet. Just try to trust me.”

“Okay… okay. I can do that.”

“Then that’s more than enough.”

You should have never let go of the hand he outstretched towards you. It’s a hefty realization, one that weighs down on your body so much you struggle to breathe because you would do anything to have him back. And perhaps you didn’t appreciate him enough while you had him, perhaps you took that time where he was safe for granted and didn’t think it could happen again. Because even though you had told Yunho back around the time of the incident that you would never be able to look at him without worrying something bad would happen once more, you let your guard down and believed him to be entirely safe.

A huff of air passes through your lips, then you sit up in bed to throw your legs over the side of the mattress. Your gaze lingers on the bedside table for a moment, only to recall what’s been hidden inside there since you returned from Echidna. You haven’t forgotten about the pardon papers per se; your mind has understandably been elsewhere and things took a turn during that mission with San. Before then you were so dead set on leaving without a word.

It wasn’t Hongjoong who convinced you to stay back then even though you left you with several pretty threats and propositions.

It wasn’t Seonghwa with his comforting words and touches that burned your skin.

Nor was it any other member of the crew outside of San. It was always Choi San, the Spectre with a cat-like grin and pretty eyes, and he wormed his way into your heart with such little effort that it still scares you quite a bit. If you had absolute certainty that what you remember from your time in the military was true and real, you might say that the only time you felt this way towards another person was with Jisung, but you doubt that now with recent revelations.

How much easier would life be if you could simply roll back into bed and find San there waiting at your side, all warm smiles and gentle gazes as he urges you to sleep once more?

Unfortunately for you, life is far from easy and that is not an option, so you do the only other logical thing that comes to mind and that is to stand up and leave your bedroom without looking back at that cursed bedside table. If you can’t have San or anyone else to calm you down at the moment, perhaps a short walk around the ship will do you some good.

It is that very thought that lands you on the bridge and in front of the observation window. Despite the late hour, some workers are milling about in the hangar bay Hongjoong has landed you all in, doing their duties without cease. Some are cleaning and sweeping at the floor even though it looks spotless to you, others are polishing other ships in the bay, and you’re sure that if you could see near the bottom of The Horizon, you would find them doing the same there. There are a few others who don’t quite look like the workers do — perhaps people from the other ships — who sit on boxes and offer each other seemingly menial chatter based on the way their gestures remain casual. They seem so calm and at peace compared to what you have been experiencing with this crew where trouble seems to be around every corner and you can’t get a breath of peace for more than a day.

Briefly, you picture yourself in their shoes one day. It’s something you can only wonder about because you aren’t sure whether that’s even a possibility for you, but the image of sitting on one of those boxes with Jongho sitting on one side and Wooyoung on the other floats to mind. And maybe Yeosang would be wedged between Wooyoung’s legs with hands held tightly together like even a breath of air could separate them. You imagine Mingi would be lingering near Jongho rather than anywhere else, draped over the other Berserker and pressed as close to him as possible because it grounds him and keeps him in one piece for the time being. Yunho would probably be doing something like reading a medical article or book and muttering to himself about the contents of the writing, nearby but never too far from the rest of you. In that daydream, Hongjoong and Seonghwa would come around the corner of the ship side by side, and the captain would have a hand pressed to the small of his lieutenant’s back because he can’t bear to be any further than that. Then San — darling San — would rush around them with a smile on his lips and dimples flashing to barrel straight into your chest with a resounding laugh. You dare to let yourself imagine the peace and serenity of the scene, dare to picture San pressing his forehead to yours as he exhales a laugh over your lips, but every image your mind conjures up hurts worse than the last.

You may want that desperately, but it’s not something you can achieve.

The daydream ends with hands around your neck and bloody waters clouding your vision. And thus, you startle yourself back to reality and tear your gaze away from the hangar bay below as not to let the images come back.

The peace you wish for is not one you can ever hold in the palm of your hand the way you wish. The crew cannot have it either so long as you are present in their lives. The next sound to tear through your consciousness nearly makes you believe that they wouldn’t be able to have that peace even if you weren’t around to mess it up. There’s a resounding shout of frustration followed by something loud thumping against the wall off to your left and behind you a bit. You whip around to stare at the door to Hongjoong’s quarters, the source of the sound, and wait with bated breath for something else to happen. You aren’t sure what exactly you’re waiting for — perhaps for the captain to step out in a huff of anger or something like that — but nothing happens for the next thirty seconds, which is what causes you to pull closer to the door. It’s hardly your place to eavesdrop on whatever is happening inside, although that doesn’t stop you from doing so anyway.

“I shouldn’t have had to put him in that fucking brig in the first place!” That clearly comes from Hongjoong; you can tell just from his voice, but he must not be alone in there as it sounds like his rant is directed at someone. “This isn’t the same situation as last time! He knows that the mission is our priority, that the goal is to get San and Mingi back, he wouldn’t let himself lose sight of that. The Seonghwa I know wouldn’t do that!”

“Then you shouldn’t have listened to him when he asked you to put him in there, Hongjoong! You were the one who bent over backward for him yet again.” It’s Yunho’s voice that rises through the door next, and that is equal parts shocking and unsurprising because you aren’t sure who else would possibly be in there with Hongjoong at this hour. “Your only two options are to either leave Seonghwa where he is or let him out to do as he wishes. If he chooses to go out there and kill his mother, then so be it!”

“That’s not what he wants, Yunho,” Hongjoong refutes without missing a beat. “And it’s not what I want either — I don’t care for either of those options. I want to let Seonghwa out and have that be that, nor for him to go off and murder someone! He hardly wants to kill her, it’s just what he thinks he ought to do as an Elitist but — you… you wouldn’t understand it, Yunho. You wouldn’t understand what goes through Seonghwa’s head or what he wants.”

The next sound to fall from Yunho’s lips is a scoff, and you can almost picture the way his eyes roll with the noise.

“You can’t pretend like you understand what all Seonghwa wants either, Hongjoong.”

There’s another clatter and something smacks into the wall again.

“I’m trying my fucking best! I am trying my best to know what he wants right now. All I know for certain is what he is afraid of, and I know that he fears turning into the kind of person his father was and he fears losing himself. This would—”

“You can’t know whether this would make that happen, Hongjoong, that’s the point I’m trying to make here.”

“Are you encouraging murder all of a sudden? When have you gone a minute without chastising me for taking an innocent’s life?”

“And when have you ever hesitated to let your precious Lieutenant of Death kill someone? How many people have you killed yourself? How many have you asked Seonghwa to kill? How many innocents have bled under your hands, Hongjoong?” Yunho fires back, seeming to grow louder with each question he poses. “Is his mother innocent of all crimes? Does she not deserve to die? Because Seonghwa sure talks about her like she deserves a fate worse than death!”

“And if she deserves death then I will bring it upon her myself!” Hongjoong accentuates his words by slapping his hands down on his desk, letting the sound echo after he speaks, and Yunho doesn’t respond for a bit.

“How angry would Seonghwa be if he found out then?” Yunho inquires, tone so low you can barely pick up on the words.

“He wouldn’t need to, Yunho. He wouldn’t need to find out. He could just hear that she passed away in her sleep a long time ago because of age or illness.”

“You’re so ready to base your relationship with him on lies when doing so was what caused things to go to shit between you in the first place. I can’t fix you a second time, Hongjoong. I can’t do shit if you are the one making things intentionally worse. You need to sit your ass down in that fucking brig like a god damn man would and take responsibility for your mistakes. Then you need to ask Seonghwa what he wants and hear it from his own damn mouth rather than assuming what Seonghwa wants and hoping for the best. Fucking listen to him and trust him for once instead of making every decision in his life for him. Why do you think he ran off to Y/N in the first place?” That causes your breath to hitch in your throat, and you seize up as though both men inside know you’re standing outside the door as they speak. “He at least got to choose her.”

“He chose to join my crew, he asked to join my crew, he chose a fuckton of things in his life, Yunho! You want me to be a man? I am his captain. Is that not enough for you?”

“No, it’s not, Hongjoong. You being captain doesn’t mean shit to me unless you have the balls to back it up, and from where I’m standing, you aren’t going to step up anytime soon. There are only two people on this ship who can put you in your place. That includes both me and Seonghwa, but Seonghwa stopped doing it a long time ago because you changed the dynamic of the relationship without stopping to ask him how he felt.”

“Are you trying to act like you’re in control now?” Hongjoong counters, but his voice has lost a bit of the edge in it.

“Act?” Yunho releases a tiny hum. You can almost feel the way the mood inside the room shifts despite not being inside yourself. “Now you’re just trying to rile me up so you get what you want and I forget about this conversation.”

“That would only be the case if it works, Yunho.”

You pull back from the door, having a slight sense of where this conversation is headed and realizing that you probably shouldn’t stay any longer. As you move to exit the bridge, however, you can’t help but wonder how much of what Yunho said is accurate.

Would — could Seonghwa really want to kill his mother? Maybe for a sense of closure and peace? To put that part of his life behind him for good perhaps?

If Hongjoong truly were to kill the woman behind Seonghwa’s back, then you don’t doubt that Seonghwa would be enraged, to put it mildly. Everything you have seen from him thus far since meeting him has shown you that he prefers to do things himself than to rely on others to do it for him. Yet… even if his mother passed of natural causes, you are not sure that Seonghwa could have his closure unless he saw her body with his own two eyes. So maybe that is why his inner voice is as desperate as it is for him to kill her.

You cannot speak for Seonghwa himself, but you do know a fraction about such closure. Not seeing Hyunwoo’s body after the execution and having to dig an empty grave was one of the most painful experiences of your life, even if you cannot remember much of it or if it was completely fabricated, the pain you were left with from said memory is still sore to the touch. You would have given anything to have his body to bury but instead, you were left with absolutely nothing, not even something small and of value to him in life. You were denied closure then. It causes you to think back to those pardon papers again. If you had been granted that closure, would you have even sought the pardon papers in the first place? Would you have gone off and settled down somewhere no one could find you?

Seonghwa has mentioned craving peace before. You know you will never have yours because of your lack of closure, so perhaps if he were to achieve his, then things would end better for him.

That thought stops you dead in your tracks, midway down the corridor leading away from the bridge.

Although… Seonghwa mentioned begging to be put in the brig. If he truly wanted this, then why the hell would he ask for such a thing?

“Please leave. I do not trust myself in this state, and if I hurt you on top of — on top of what I’ve already done, Y/N, please. I won’t forgive myself if I ever lay a harmful hand on you even in the slightest.”

You make a spur of the moment decision right then and there, spinning on your heel in the middle of the corridor and inhaling sharply as you head back to the bridge with a new thought in mind. You wish to hear from Hongjoong himself what transpired before Seonghwa was put in the brig and the reasoning as to why Hongjoong agreed to such a thing. Sure, now might not be the opportune time for such a discussion, but you have already made up your mind and it’s unlikely you would be able to sleep with this plaguing your thoughts anyway.

Less than a minute passes before you are back at Hongjoong’s door, this time rapping your knuckles as hard and loud as you can on the metal. You hear nothing more of a conversation inside — neither his nor Yunho’s voices filter through the door until after your knocking ceases. Then a bit of shuffling resounds followed by some mutterings that vaguely sound like complaints of some sort. That could not have prepared you in the slightest for the sight that greets you when the door finally slides open.

First of all, it is not Hongjoong who stands before you, but rather Yunho.

And not only that little shocking tidbit because Yunho is very much standing half-naked with pants hung low around his hips and absolutely no shame or insecurity in the way he leans against the doorframe to greet you.

The inherent shock from the sight causes you to sputter and choke on air, gaze darting off to the side and away from the healer as quick as humanly possible. You truly do your best to ignore the very obvious trail of bruises along the column of his neck and collarbone, along with the ones traveling lower.

“Oh? Looking to join us, Y/N?” He asks. An amused grin paints his lips, you can see that much out the corner of your eye.

“Abs-Absolutely not, Yunho, are you mad?” You refute through a stutter and dare to focus back on his face (and his face only). Yunho arches an eyebrow, not at all shy in the way he drags his gaze over your body from head to toe. You ignore him with a scoff then ready to duck around his stupidly tall form. He seems to catch that before you can though because he darts a hand out across the doorway and effectively blocks your path inside.

“You certain about that? You seem a bit eager to come in.” Your only reply is a pointed glare. Thankfully, Yunho picks up on the hint in that look after a second and shifts his tone. “Is it an emergency?”

“I need to ask Hongjoong something, it’s important. About Seonghwa.” You see movement just past Yunho’s shoulder and glance beyond him. Hongjoong stands back at the other edge of the room in the doorframe to what must be his bedroom. You nearly don’t recognize him right them because of how… incredibly fragile he appears to be. A blanket wraps around his shoulders and torso, dwarfing his already small figure and making him almost come across as something delicate. If someone asked you to point out the horrifying and menacing pirate captain in the room, you would glance over Hongjoong without a thought.

“I take it you’ve been down to the brig then?” Hongjoong pipes up. His voice bounces off the walls to reach your ears, confident and knowing.

“I have.”

Hongjoong ducks his chin to his chest, and the way his breathing shakes his form almost makes him seem like he’s laughing at your response. Then he comes closer to join you and Yunho where you stand. You hardly miss the way one of the captain’s hands darts out to touch Yunho’s bare waist before he brushes a soft kiss over the back of Yunho’s shoulder. It’s a rare — no, more than simply rare, it’s frankly a sight you have never seen from Hongjoong before in that you have never witnessed him be so openly intimate with anyone in the crew in such a way. Perhaps the closest he has gotten was when you were left in the medbay with him and Seonghwa, but even that was not as… openly blatant as the way he touches Yunho before you now. Yet it does not seem to be meant to tease you in any way; you moreso get the sense that it’s almost a threat in a way. After all, you are still the newest on the crew and you aren’t sure you have fully gained Hongjoong’s trust. If this is a challenge, you aren’t sure how it is meant to test you.

“Go back to the bedroom. I’ll be there shortly,” Hongjoong murmurs against Yunho’s slightly flushed skin. The healer steps away with nothing more than a nod. Hongjoong waits until the taller man disappears into that room he just emerged from before turning back to face you. He still seems smaller in your eyes like this even though he is closer; the two of you are more evenly matched when he’s not wearing his typical heeled boots. The blanket around his body strains as he pulls it tighter. He, like Yunho, is very clearly not wearing much in the way of clothes underneath, but at least he covered himself mildly even if you can see a deep v exposing his chest through the folds of the fabric. It is enough for you to see numerous bumps and ridges along that strip of skin, all discolored and mismatched lines that mar an otherwise perfect canvas of tanned skin. Even if expected, it’s an alarming amount of scars for such a small expanse of skin. And if you look past the points where scars are, you can make out the barest hint of black ink accompanying the marks — it spreads over him like a constellation, connected by lines and threads of varying thickness to meet each other in other corners.

You tear your gaze away with great effort, clearing your throat as you blink up to look the captain in the eye.

“Seonghwa mentioned that something happened while we were gone on the mission. He asked me to leave before I had the chance to ask further about it but…” Your voice dies in your throat then, and nerves suddenly curl in your stomach. When you speak again, it’s in nothing more than a whisper. “What happened?”

Hongjoong hums.

It’s the only sound he makes for quite a while too, and you think he has no intention of continuing the conversation until he shifts his blanket all of a sudden and exposes the lower half of his body. Just as before with Yunho, you are swift to look in the opposite direction before you spot anything you do not wish to see.

“That’s hardly appropriate, Captain,” you grit out, finding a newfound interest in the wall to your left. Hongjoong exhales a laugh that’s so soft it sounds more like a sigh.

“Seonghwa stabbed me.”

Now that has your head jerking back to examine him, and thankfully, your eyes settle on pants around his hips rather than nothing at all. One of his hands slips down to tap what looks to be a bandage. He peels it back as gently as possible and reveals a narrow yet long slice along his abdomen, almost parallel to his side. All in all, it doesn’t appear to be too gruesome or gnarly, no doubt held together by liquid stitches of some sort.

“We had a small argument after putting Han in the brig,” Hongjoong continues. As usual, his tone is near impossible to read with no clues as to what he is feeling as he recalls the memory.

“Did it involve discussions of Seonghwa’s mother?”

“Yes, yes, of course, it did.” Hongjoong returns the bandage to its original placement then tugs the blanket back around his body. He brings a hand up to run through his mess of fading blue hair. “It didn’t start that way though. He accused me of caring more about him appearing to be an Elitist than anything else. Threatened to tell Jisung that he is a Siren along with the rest of the crew. I doubt Jisung even cares about Sirens in the slightest given the way he is hyperfocused on you instead, but Seonghwa has always been so adamant about being wanted by others because of what he is. And I know that we were both acting rashly and out of fear rather than reason, but it doesn’t — that does not excuse what we said to each other. I told Seonghwa that perhaps he might feel better killing me rather than his mother, and that obviously did not go over very well. That’s when he stabbed me, well, it was more a glancing blow than a stab. Hardly even deep enough to cause significant damage, but Seonghwa damn near acted as though I was fucking bleeding to death though. He called for Yunho to get me patched up them begged that I put him in the brig. As much as I wanted to deny him that, I complied.”

“I can talk to him,” you offer without a second thought.

“Talk to him? What is it you think to do, Y/N?”

“I was denied my closure, Captain, and that has haunted me every day for the past several years. You… you are a person who achieved that already; I don’t need to know the details of your backstory to understand that because it is more than clear in the way you handle yourself and matters around you. But Seonghwa? He hasn’t gotten his closure either. At least allow me to talk with him and see if this is what he truly wants before you rule anything out.” Hongjoong regards you with nothing more than a lingering stare for a bit. You take it as a cue to excuse yourself and leave, yet the second you turn to do so, he catches hold of your wrist and pulls you back to be face to face with him. The jerk of his arm sends you propelling forward more than you expect because it tugs you close enough to nearly smack foreheads with the captain.

“I am willing to trust you with this and with Seonghwa, at least for now. Take care to remember that, especially when it comes to Seonghwa’s heart. For if you mislead him in the slightest, there will be hell to pay.” Your subconsciousness has you straightening your back at those words, reading the thinly veiled threat with ease.

“I won’t do anything to influence his decisions. They should all be his own anyway, so I won’t try to change that for him. You have my word. Besides, you no doubt plan to talk with him again soon, right?” Hongjoong’s gaze falls into a pointed glare at that comment, and you catch yourself a little too late. “At least, I’m sure he would appreciate that either way.” That soothes the captain enough for him to release his grip on your arm, and he lets you step away from the door after that.

“I pray for both our sakes that his mind is kind enough to have a reasonable discussion with you. But… don’t — don’t get too close just in case the worst happens.”

“Understood, Captain,” you whisper back. The warning is a bit haunting albeit necessary; it’s moreso unfortunate that Hongjoong has to even usher the warning in the first place because the Seonghwa you know would never willingly harm someone he cares about. Especially not Hongjoong.

As you walk away from Hongjoong’s quarters and off the bridge for a second time tonight, you have to remind yourself that it is still Seonghwa down there. He isn’t a different person, he’s not some monster even if there is a bit of fear curling through your gut as you walk down to the brig. He remains the same Seonghwa that you know and care about so much. Perhaps you have just been blessed enough to only witness the pretty sides to his character in the time you’ve known him. Thinking all the way back to the way you met — how you knocked him out cold in front of an airlock — he was not cruel or heartless then either. In fact, every ounce of evidence up until recently made you wonder how such a compassionate soul could possibly be such a deadly and fearsome pirate.

“Perhaps it’s time for me to go home and face my demons after all,” Seonghwa whispers, letting his smile stretch a bit wider. It falls away a second later, and something dark takes over, something you decide you don’t want to see cross Seonghwa’s features again. Because in that moment, you see something sinister and cruel, and all the legends you heard about the man come to life before you. The stories of a man in a black cloak bearing a silver scythe in one hand with a gun in the other, the fearless killer who stands beside the Scourge of the Black Sea rearing death in his wake. When Seonghwa turns on his heel and leaves the room, you see it. The dark shadows billowing behind him curl outwards and sweep across the floor, crude shapes built by the light in the hallway, and that cloak of darkness sits on Seonghwa’s shoulders. It’s like the Lieutenant of Death has crawled his way out of the dark abyss of hell that Seonghwa kept him buried in, and the face he rears horrifies you.

That thought keeps you occupied the whole way down to the brig, and it continues when you climb down the ladder with hesitant steps. As before, Jisung is the first thing you see when you reach the bottom, although this time he is curled on his side and facing the wall. He must be asleep given his position, yet you’re hesitant to write him off as so without knowing for certain. You don’t dare stop to find out, however, and instead just move past his cell as quietly as you can.

You find Seonghwa still sitting upright in his own tiny prison. He has shifted to put his back to Jisung now though, and his head hangs at an angle that is uncomfortable to look at. Whether he was already awake or merely sensed your presence, you have no way of knowing. Nonetheless, he shifts to glance back at you when you approach, chains jingling and rattling in the silence of the room.

“I asked you not to return,” he murmurs once you are close enough to hear him. You don’t kneel before his cell in the same way you did last time. There’s a bit more distance between you and the bars now, enough to be just out of harm’s way but near enough for you to reach out if you so desired.

“You know I’m no good at following orders,” you reply with a melancholy smile. Seonghwa’s gaze softens a bit at that. He tilts his head back to rest on the bars, still staring at you out the corner of his eye. He seems exhausted beyond belief — muscles lax and with no strength to them, eyelids drooping every time he blinks, breath huffing out in deep sighs rather than even exhales. Despite that, you don’t get the sense he wants to rest at all.

“Why aren’t you resting? I’m sure you’re tired from the mission.”

“I rested enough earlier.” But couldn’t stay asleep because of the nightmares. Nightmares in which you killed both yourself and Hongjoong. Ones where San took the serum and forgot me. “I’m okay.” That seems to be more for your own ears than for Seonghwa’s. He hums a bit anyway, acknowledging your words as his eyelids flutter some.

“You don’t need to come keep me company, you know.”

“I can’t just see you because I want to?”

“Y/N…” Seonghwa faces forward before finishing the thought. Something seems to overcome him, if the sudden spike of distress that rolls off his shoulders is any indication at least, and he curls in on himself some more. Your first instinct is to move closer to him and offer some sort of physical comfort, but Seonghwa only pushes further into the corner of his cell when you move. “Don’t.”

“I trust you, Seonghwa,” you utter back. You heed his words though and stop dead in your tracks.

“That would be your first mistake.”

“Why?”

“What?” Seonghwa’s counterattack sounds nearly incredulous.

“Why would it be a mistake to trust you?”

“You are at a greater risk than Hongjoong, yet I still hurt him. Just like last time.”

“How am I at a greater risk, Seonghwa?”

“I don’t — I fear… I fear my mind mistaking you for someone who should die simply because you are a woman.”

“Ah…” you exhale. The implication is there: he’s afraid of mistaking you for his mother in the craze that his head is putting him through. You hadn’t even thought that to be a risk before honestly. From the memories you saw of her, you don’t think you look anything like said woman, but you also have no idea of what Seonghwa’s demons are capable of convincing him to believe. If they’re strong enough to make him harm Hongjoong, then no doubt they would be capable of that too. Seonghwa reaches down to rub at the skin around his ankles, where the flesh has already turned red and bruised from repeated abuse.

“I can’t stay here, Y/N. I’ll lose my mind. I almost wish that fool behind me would do more to antagonize me, but it’s my own head that refuses to let me come up for air.” The chains rattle once more as he reaches up to massage his hairline. The thin black strands of hair cling to his skin like he’s sweating buckets, and under the little bit of light in the brig, you can see a sheen of sweat on his body.

The room is deathly cold.

“Hongjoong mentioned… he said you believe he is forcing you to masquerade as an Elitist.” The words are spoken quiet enough to where you don’t think Jisung could pick up on them even if he were awake.

“I don’t. That’s the thing — I don’t believe that. I know he’s not. I don’t know what came over me when I said such a thing. It isn’t his fault that I-I am like this, and he shouldn’t even have to b-blame himself for it. I’m the one who chose this and demanded the masquerade before he even knew my true identity.”

“But—”

You stop the thought in your throat, cutting off with a small grimace and sigh of air. Seonghwa jerks to look at you anyway. He waits and waits for you to finish the thought, and under his intense gaze, you have lost much of the confidence you had in saying such a thing.

“From what I saw of your memories, and what you told me of your childhood, you were not the one to decide that,” you say after some deliberation. “It was her.” Admittedly, part of you fears the reaction you might garner from Seonghwa in mentioning his mother directly, so you try to keep it as vague as possible. “You never asked to be kept a secret.”

“My worst crime then was being born,” Seonghwa murmurs more to himself than to you. “Now what is it? A son who wants nothing more than to kill the woman who brought him into this world? The more time goes on, the more I… I-I lose myself. I don’t know where my line of morality is, nor do I know how to adhere to it. Y/N, I’m—” Seonghwa falls silent, tongue caught between his teeth, and when he looks to you, there are tears shining in the corners of his eyes. “I’m so afraid.”

You don’t think you have ever heard Seonghwa utter such words, at least not with the raw conviction he says them with or the wrecked pain that radiates off his body.

“Are you afraid of what might happen if you do kill her or what might happen if you don’t?”

Seonghwa doesn’t answer right away; instead, he hangs his head between his knees and you can only watch helplessly as the man’s shoulders tremble under an invisible weight.

“The right answer… what a good person would say is that I fear killing her. But I’m more terrified of what happens if I don’t. How much longer do I suffer if I don’t take this opportunity now? Can I justify risking your safety, Hongjoong’s safety, the crew’s safety for being a good person? I know the blood on my hands is already immeasurable, the infamous Lieutenant of Death shouldn’t fear one more life ended, and I don’t. I just can’t figure out if the Seonghwa who isn’t an Elitist believes that or if it’s the Seonghwa I’ve pretended to be most of my life. Maybe part of me fears how you all might view me if I do kill her.”

“I can’t say it wouldn’t change anything, but I don’t know if anyone would view you as a bad or evil person because of it.”

Seonghwa huffs out a weak laugh and pushes his hair back with the hand he’s not keeping clenching into a tight fist.

“I think Hongjoong is convinced I’ll turn into some sort of monster.”

“He believes that you don’t want to do it,” you counter. “He thinks that your definition of losing yourself lies in killing your mother.”

“I thought it did too.” Hopeless. That’s the word you would use to describe Seonghwa’s current tone, and it burns you from the inside out to hear such desperation on his lips. “If I keep pulling away simply because I’m afraid to hurt any of you, then what right do I have to call myself a lieutenant? To work as Hongjoong’s right-hand? I-I should have some semblance of self-control rather than continuing to distance myself. I thought back then that my mind was crying for her blood bec-because it wanted me to go insane, but now it sounds more and more like a cry for help. When this is all said and done, when it’s time for me to rest, I don’t want to have lost any of you along the way. And I certainly don’t want to be the cause of it either.”

To you, that sounds like a decision. And so, you echo his words back to him with a resolute tone.

“If you tell Hongjoong that, he would take you there, Seonghwa.” You aren’t strong enough to push the full meaning into your words, but it lingers between you. He knows what you mean. “He’s adamant that the decision be yours, as am I. Even Yunho wants you to do what you think is the best course of action. And should you get there and not be able to carry it out, no one would force you to, and no one would do it for you unless you asked that of them.”

“I could never ask anyone to take that burden for me, Y/N.”

“Then you have your answer.” You muster up the courage to slide closer to Seonghwa’s cage and slip a hand between the bars. You don’t push your luck and touch him quite yet, merely letting your hand rest on the bed of metal for Seonghwa to regard with a terrified stare. Although it’s slow progress, he inches his hand down to rest a little ways away from your own. “I promised Hongjoong that I would do nothing to influence your decision, and I plan to uphold that promise. I just… want you to know you are loved today just as you were yesterday, and you’ll be loved tomorrow as well. Whatever kind of that love is, it’s love nonetheless. These people — the family you have built and chosen yourself — will continue to love you even if you get a little lost along the way.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sound so certain of something before.”

It’s your turn to exhale a little laugh, although yours is merely one of faux amusement.

“I wish you could see the way they look at you, Seonghwa. The respect they hold in their eyes when they see you, the admiration and love and affection — I don’t need to feel what they feel to know how much they care. It’s not a matter of thinking you are strong because they know you are. You don’t have to force yourself to show restraint or continue to be the thing your mother wanted you to be for them to know you are strong. You have already been with them through some of the toughest moments of their lives, you have been at Hongjoong’s side and you have led just as much as he has. I firmly believe that is not a bond that could be so easily severed.”

Seonghwa’s fingers are so close to yours, so close to curling around your palm and holding you at last, taking that last step of the fickle little thing called trust. At this point, you are throwing yourself headfirst into it with reckless abandon. While there might be some hesitance hiding away in your bones, you would rather see Seonghwa take this step forward in trusting himself.

In the next second, that precious thread of peace snaps and frays at the edges.

“Bravo, Y/N, bravo.” You withdraw your hand from Seonghwa’s cell with a start, lips pressing into a thin line as you turn to regard the man who spoke with a glare. Jisung smiles back at you. It’s all poison and menace. His chains ring to an inaudible song as he claps his hands together. “Oh, you must be so proud of yourself for that one, little lady. Absolutely riveting and… encouraging and… inadequate, don’t you think?”

“Don’t you ever tire of hearing yourself speak?” You hiss back without answering the question.

“I don’t think I do. Because every time I speak, I just dig my way under your skin a little more, and that? That amuses me to no end.”

“Don’t humor him, Y/N,” Seonghwa mutters. His hands are now withdrawn to rest in his lap again and curled into tight balls as he stares down at the floor. “I’ve found he wears himself out if you ignore him.” You can hardly imagine being trapped here for more than five minutes with Jisung, but Seonghwa has been in here for hours. Unfortunately, you don’t hold the same resilience that Seonghwa does.

You push up to your feet and stalk towards Jisung’s cell with no clear intent in your mind.

It feeds right into what he said though, it’s proof that he has gotten under your skin and bothered you to some extent, yet you don’t stop even with that knowledge.

“Don’t you have what you want? Haven’t you wreaked enough havoc in your stay here?”

“Oh? And what is it I want exactly, Y/N? Let me hear it from your pretty lips instead of my own.”

“You want me,” you spit back, leaning over the bars like it will intimidate the man behind them.

“And? Do I have what I want?”

“And you fucking have me. I made the deal, I did what you wanted, can’t you quit now?”

“Such foul language from my little lady’s mouth. A shame, truly.”

“I’m not yours to be clai—”

“Incorrect! You said it yourself: I have you. As far as I’m concerned that makes you mine. I really wanted us to find a nice peaceful place to settle down after all this, but you… you are so violent. Angry. I really would rather not be forced to deal with such behaviors, but if you continue to do so, then maybe we can try that method they’re using on the Spectre. What was it? Regression… therapy? I hear it’s quite effective in breaking someone’s spirit. Shall we try?”

You know better than to fall into that trap again. It’s all for show; Jisung is merely saying and doing these things to bother you because he knows how best to do so. He hasn’t yet even proven that he has the balls to follow through with anything he’s threatened, but he also understands that he doesn’t need to. Whether he proves it or not, he wins merely by garnering a reaction from you. It was a tactic you learned about years ago, something they taught your unit before you engage in high-risk intelligence-gathering missions.

“You don’t get to talk about San,” you fire back, right into the trap Jisung laid before you.

“San, is it? He’s the one you worry about most, no?” The smile painted on Jisung’s lips nearly seems genuine. It probably would be if not for the gleam in his eyes. “You always got too attached too quickly. I suppose that hasn’t changed.”

Jisung sits up on his heels and traces a finger over the bars separating you. Whatever the reason in doing so is a mystery to you, but you stand transfixed by the gentle movements.

“I bet you haven’t even told him how you feel. That’s the scary part, isn’t it? The part where they leave? Die? Or worse… forget everything about you? When the doctors go in to reset his brain, they won’t even think to keep those memories of you. If it makes you feel any better, I can take your memories of him away too.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

The laugh that tears through Jisung’s lips echoes off the walls and bounces off your ears.

“Is this so amusing to you?” Seonghwa is the one to pose the question, voiced raised a bit so it carries over to where you and Jisung are.

“I haven’t even begun to have my fun yet. I do so adore seeing relationships crack under the slightest bit of pressure though. I suppose that’s one thing dearest Y/N and I have in common. I’m not sure she’s let you glimpse into the cruelest parts of her yet.” His smile drops with such haste that it causes you to visibly flinch. “I’ve seen them all, Lieutenant. Oh, the fun we’ll have once together again, doll~”

“Fuck you, Han,” you spit through the curling fear in your gut. Your words have no effect and offer no respite, however; all it does is bring the smile back to Jisung’s lips and another laugh from his throat.

“You should be grateful that Hyunwoo spared you from living with the weight of your worst crimes. I wanted to let you live with them but he said you would be too guilty and too much of a liability if we left you with them. He had to be the one to take the weight of those crimes after all. I wonder how many of those broken memories will still be intact when I go back into that pretty little brain of yours again. Since Hyunwoo won’t be around to keep me from playing this time, that is. Which ones should I release first, Y/N?”

“Shut up.”

“You saw our lovely whore in Lynder didn’t you? Don’t tell me she forgave you for what you did… perhaps we should start there.”

“Shut the hell up, Han Jisung, if you want to keep your life.”

“Oh?” Jisung presses forward and gets to his feet without batting an eye. You hadn’t realized how close you had gotten to his cell until he comes face to face with you behind the bars, so close that the heat from his body radiates onto your skin. “I would be careful, Y/N. I’ve spent years learning how best to toy with brains using the military’s serum. If you want to keep your sanity, then I suggest you play nice like the good little doll you are. You wouldn’t want to be left with any horribly traumatic memories, now would you?”

Jisung’s lips fall into a faux pout, and you take a hasty step back from the bars in disgust.

“I told you: I know plenty about making people break. All I have to do is tell you the smallest white lie for seeds of doubt to take root. I can make you believe that you killed thousands of people without even taking a single step into your head. Take that into account before you attempt to threaten me.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe, but we… we’re merely two halves of a whole crazy, Y/N. You need me to survive because if you didn’t, you would have forgotten all about me a long time ago, wouldn’t you? Isn’t it funny how someone who doesn’t even have any true and real memories of her past clings to it so desperately?”

“You know, from where I’m standing, you aren’t doing shit to help us find the others, so I have no reason to uphold my end of the bargain,” you deflect, turning the conversation on its head to escape his pointless scrutiny of your reasoning. It works to your advantage perfectly because Jisung huffs air through his teeth and rolls his eyes.

“We’re on Dorado, no? Your Berserker is in the Lower Echelon of Lynder near the Smokehouses. Large warehouse preparing for reprogramming no doubt. You won’t be able to get him out. Your best hope is to wait until after the reprogramming as my crew will take him back to our ship, then we can play tradesies and bring him back while you come with me.”

“Or you can go to that warehouse and tell them the deal is off and there’s been a change in plans.”

You squat down beside Jisung’s cell, hand slipping over your waistband and dipping underneath it to pull the sheathed knife you keep there out. It glints under the low yellow lights above your head.

“Scourge was right in saying that it’s hard to threaten a man like you. But one thing fucks your plans up, Jisung. If I’m dead, then what do you get out of this?”

The playful gleam in Jisung’s eyes fades like a candle being snuffed out. His smirk falls, expression growing grave in mere seconds, and you crank up the heat a little further as you dance the knife over the inside of your wrist.

“If it means ruining your plans, I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to ensure the safety of my crew. You should know that by now.”

“You haven’t fucking changed in all these years.”

“Is that a yes?”

“You fucking wish, you harlot. Do you really think—”

You cut him short by digging the knife harder into your skin, just enough to break through and cause a stream of red to slip out. He falls silent with a sharp inhale of air.

“I hope you agree before I run dry, Jisung. You want me to be a psychopath so badly? Let’s fucking play. Ten seconds until I cut again, and this time it’ll be vertical, so I sure hope you realize the stakes now.”

“You think your boy toy in the corner over there will sit still as you kill yourself to prove a point?”

“From where I’m standing, it seems like neither of you is in any sort of position to stop me. Five seconds, Jisung.” A drop of scarlet falls from the tip of the knife to the floor. Jisung watches it splatter, eyes calculating and careful as it moves, then he blinks back up to look you in the eye.

“I’ll tell them to cancel the reprogramming and send your Berserker back to my ship.”

“That’s not good enough,” you reply without missing a beat. The knife careens back towards your arm, and Jisung lunges forward in his cell as you shift, a desperate attempt to stop you from continuing the damage. He can’t fit a hand through the bars with the shackles around his wrists though, and he’s left to hiss out a complaint when the knife penetrates your skin again. It’s closer to your elbow this time, a deceptively shallow slice the runs parallel to the bone. Red blossoms over the line immediately. “You go in there, get them to cancel the reprogramming, then bring him out yourself to deliver him to this ship and this ship only.”

Jisung doesn’t respond right away, prompting you to lift the knife again in threat, and he snaps into action at that. Scarlet trails down the blade.

“Fine! You can even send some fucking lackeys with me to make sure I get the job done.”

“I’ll save you the trouble of trying to fuck it up while out there; I will go with you, along with our Berserker Jongho just so you don’t forget what you’re supposed to do out there.” It’s hardly your place to make such decisions or plans in place of Hongjoong, but since he’s otherwise preoccupied at the moment and you have this chance before you right now, you are going to do the most with it. And if Hongjoong has any issue with that? You’re willing to take the consequences of your actions later.

“If that’s what will make you happy, then so be it. My intention has always been to help you recover your lost crewmates.”

“Even though you were the one who kidnapped and sold them in the first place?”

“Did you think I would make things easy for you, Y/N? Come now… don’t let my kindness fool you. You haven’t even thought to ask about the other one — the Spectre, was it? Here I thought he mattered to you. You were oh so concerned when I spoke of him before.”

“I’m fucking getting there, Han. You’re in no position to be impatient,” you hiss out through gritted teeth. Jisung merely laughs at the fire in your tone.

“I’m hardly impatient, doll. In fact, I have all the time in the world. However—” he hesitates to lift one of his shackled hands and points a finger directly up “—that Spectre has a countdown looming over his head, does he not? Countdown to the hard reset? I wonder what stage of regression therapy they’re at by now. Or maybe he’s already given in? My men told me that he was… so responsive whenever your name was mentioned. I wonder if he’ll beg like the mutt he is when it comes time for him to break.”

That tips you over the edge you’ve been teetering on since entering the brig for a second time. You drop your knife to the ground, letting it clatter and fall away from where you’re squatted in front of Jisung, then you thrust your bleeding arm through the bars to close your fingers around his throat where the band of his collar can’t reach. The strain and pull on your skin burns and causes the wounds to split a bit further. It doesn’t stop you from squeezing Jisung’s neck until his face turns purple.

“Run that by me again, Han Jisung, and see what happens.”

It’s that slight insanity creeping back up your neck and into your mind — the same craze that overtook you when Taskmaster Cara stabbed San back on Echidna.

“What? Is this not a fun game for you? You were enjoying it so much not too long ago. Do you not enjoy it not?” You taunt as you twist the blade in her.

“Y-You’re a fucking – fucking psychopath.”

The smile returns to your lips. You pull the knife out of her leg with haste then move forward so that you can squat down in front of her.

“I’ve heard that before too,” you mutter as you twirl the knife in your grasp. The smile coating your lips dissipates. “But only by the people who deserve their fates.”

It terrified you then, made you fear who you were and what you could become. Now? Your mind fights the urge to kill Jisung as best it can, but it’s a losing battle, because no matter how hard you try, you cannot peel your hand away from his neck. It’s like a voice is playing on repeat in the back of your head, saying ‘kill kill kill’ over without cease.

Your ears ring with the blood thumping through your veins. If you squeeze just a little tighter then—

“Enough.”

Your hand pulls away from Jisung’s neck with such haste that you slam it hard against the bars as you’re trying to withdraw it from his cell. You scramble back from the cell full of a terror that can only be directed at yourself because you don’t know what came over you in that moment. The figure creeping up on your left doesn’t even register until he is in your space and squatting beside you. A hand overlays one of your trembling ones and pulls your arm out until your injured forearm is exposed.

“Reckless. What else should I expect from you?” It’s then that you finally decide to look up at the owner of the voice, finding none other than the captain standing over you like you’re nothing more than a petulant child who can’t learn a lesson. Still, his tone holds far more softness than anger, and you don’t get the sense that he’s truly enraged by your actions. “Go see Yunho and get these cleaned, hm? You’ll need to be in top condition if you’re heading out on yet another mission tomorrow. Though we’ll have to discuss your tendency to jump the gun on planning things without orders in the future as well.”

Ah, so he’s been present for a while if he overheard that bit as well. Then he had every opportunity to stop you from harming yourself or making any propositions with Jisung the entire time. It’s almost touching in a way knowing that Hongjoong allowed you to have that moment of control — a moment to take matters into your own hands — even if he’s all but told you that there will be consequences for said moment.

You offer a hesitant nod in response, glancing over at Jisung one last time before Hongjoong helps you to your feet. You are about to step past the captain when he yanks you back by the elbow in a similar fashion to your earlier stand-off with him outside his quarters. He presses so close to you that you smell the distinct musk of a fresh shower on his skin.

“Yunho’s still upstairs so don’t bother dropping by his room.”

You don’t understand why he had to whisper that fact to you like it was a closely guarded secret, but you are not going to point that out either. Instead, you murmur a quiet thank you and turn to climb the ladder out of the brig. Just before you reach the top, you dare to cast one more glance down to Hongjoong. He has moved to assume your previous position in front of Jisung’s cell, squatted low enough to be eye level with the man, and he holds your forgotten knife between two fingers. The scene is telling enough, but you can’t help but wonder what Hongjoong saw when you had your hand wrapped around Jisung’s neck. If he saw the way you started to pull apart at the seams and become slightly unhinged, that is. An even larger part of you wonders if perhaps what he saw was frightening enough to cause him to step in when he did.

The thought does not dwell for long; you put the brig behind you and leave Hongjoong to his own devices in there, deciding it better to not think about whatever he plans to do or say until he inevitably mentions it later to the crew. And even if he deems it unnecessary for the crew to know, you would accept that as well. Either way, you wish to leave what just happened behind you, bury it in the recesses of your mind like it’s a memory that does not belong because you wish it didn’t.

Your hands continue to tremble by your sides for the entirety of the walk back to the Hongjoong’s quarters.

I fear I will lose my mind if I cannot bring him back safely soon.

✧✧✧ a/n: here we are again i really played myself and said yeah this will be under 10k so i LIED to mYSELF um yeah wow okay i never know what to say after finishing a chapter i just go brrr i have a lot of energy tho feeling good about this chapter bringing back the survey bc it’s been a minute and i’d love to hear how we’re feeling nowadays and as always let me know how you feel in the comments replies whatever you wish just bring it on let’s GO hit me with the theories and thoughts!

if you would like to, you can take the survey here! if you would like to be added to the taglist, just let me know!

taglist: @faeriewoobin @sugarrimajins @atinyinwonderland @sparklychangbin @jeong-uwu @jeonartemis @anothershorthuman @xxbluestrifexx @haotheheckk @noonawriter @lostscenarios @nlost21 @mirror-juliet @okokokok123-45 @purple-aeon @theoinkypiglet @toothlessshiber @atinyarmyx1 @simpforhyunjin @hwangwoosan @softyubi @drumboydowoon @chatsgotmytongue @just-a-starfruit @babydolljo @scintillating-souls @khjssss @rawrrainn @hewwo-from-the-other-side @icekdy @eggteez�� @bangtanxberm @uglychildd @lucymultistan @revehosh @choistan @vampyrejimin @unminuit

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theseerasures · 3 years

Note

watch Winter not even be in the elevator with Marrow watch her have covered her ass that he "escaped" from her god why is she LIKE THIS why are we seeing Winter at her absolute best right before we're going to see her at her absolute worst—

GOD okay look

there’s this common sensical thing that people say sometimes, that in moments of crisis you find out who people REALLY are, and i’ve always thought it was bullshit for the same reason i’ve always thought “being drunk reveals who you are” is bullshit, which is that “who you really are” encompasses all of you, and not just whatever uninhibited survival lizard brain emerges in specific situations

but i do think it’s a fabulous tool for fiction, because (most) fiction relies on consistent characterization, so moments of crisis CAN be a precise distillation of All That You Are, in a way that’s contiguous to who you were before. this season has been nothing but one crisis after another, and accordingly we’ve learned who these people are when pushed to their limit. Ironwood is a perfect example of this, but Ruby’s another great one, because what we’ve learned about her is what we’ve always suspected about her: that there comes a time when even her boundless compassion and idealism run dry, so that moments of Ruby at her best--vaporizing the Hound, saving Penny--are interspersed with moments of Ruby at her worst, which are basically...just an overwhelmed seventeen year old girl still grieving for her mother.

and what this season has shown about Winter, who has been in the (literal!) trenches of the crisis, is that Winter is remarkably consistent.

i don’t just mean consistent DURING crisis, the way that her boss has been consistently awful. i mean that you can draw a line for Winter that extends through the current war with Salem, through her outburst at the dinner table, through “you stole an Atlas airship,” all the way to when we first met her, and she almost immediately got into a fight with Qrow. what we’ve learned about Winter through all of this is that though she tries (poorly) to mask it, though she has learned to sometimes use it to her advantage, she is never not the precise distillation of All That She Is, at that exact volume.

Winter’s mind is always in crisis; she spends her entire life anticipating where the next blow will fall--whether on herself, or on someone else. i’ve already waxed poetic on this elsewhere, so i won’t belabor it too much, but. the point is this: i don’t think it’s so much an issue of “Winter’s at her absolute best, therefore she will be at her worst later,” as it is “Winter is always at the same extreme,” which means Winter’s absolute best is never not her absolute worst at the exact same time.

don’t get me wrong: there is a certain euphoria in seeing Winter act in the way she does in Risk. she IS the best of herself there. best in the way James Ironwood defined it when he first took her on as his protege and bodyguard, because she acts quickly and decisively, while even the AceOps are still frozen. but she’s also best in the radically compassionate way that perfectly aligns with the show’s moral thesis, which is why all of us still root for her, even now: Winter does not actually believe in leaving people behind. not absolutely, and not forever. (and we’ve always known this, because we only meet her through Weiss.) i joke about her compulsively imprinting on anyone younger than her, but i think that if it had been Elm, Vine, or even Harriet in Marrow’s position Winter would have done the exact same thing. that’s just what Winter does, and Winter is never not turning her entire identity into a verb.

Winter is at her best here because she achieved a good outcome, the one she was aiming for. but Winter is also at her worst here, in the same way that she has CONSISTENTLY been throughout the show, which is that Winter refuses to take responsibility for anything outside of the immediate instance, and when she does save people, it’s only in a way that does not disturb the status quo. it’s telling that she saved Marrow’s life by attacking Marrow--Marrow, when she could have attacked Ironwood instead--knocked the gun out of his hand, knocked him to the ground, tossed him to the brig, called off the bomb...

but she couldn’t have, really. not only because some part of her still loves James Ironwood, but also because while everyone was looking at Marrow, while no one was looking at her, Winter was triaging the way she always does. and the conclusion she reached is the one she always reaches, which is: she can’t rely on anyone else. certainly not in this situation, when Marrow is the one who NEEDS help, when Elm and Vine stood by and watched as Ironwood raged, when Harriet was the one who turned his ire on her in the first place, when they are all her subordinates, and so--she is alone. and, the part of her that’s still the child in the Manor says, she can’t win this. she can’t do anything.

Maria once told Ruby: you don’t give yourself enough credit, and: that wasn’t a compliment. the same, i think, holds true for Winter, but the difference is that Ruby still tries in big ways, even when she can’t acknowledge the fruits of her labor, while Winter...Winter had the trying beaten out of her a long time ago. that’s why she saved Marrow’s life in that way, and that’s why the coin of what Winter is gonna do after still feels like it’s flipping in the air. maybe she isn’t in the elevator because of what you said! maybe she is, but because she was GENUINELY going to put Marrow in the brig, because at least there he’d be safe. maybe they’re both there and ready to defect. maybe neither of them are on the elevator at all.

predicting what’s gonna happen next this season is as always a ludicrous venture, but (*puts on my jester’s hat in preparation for being wrong*): much as i’m loathe to ruin everyone’s excitement over team BRAS, i don’t think Winter is leaving Atlas Command. that’s the whole point of doing what she did; she’s evacuating the boat, not rocking it. that’s what she’s always done: we’ll drop you off as close as we can to the monster. i’m giving you a head start. a head start so no one will catch them, but also a head start so that she can remain behind, watch their backs. women and children first. everyone else first, including--even now--the man she wishes was her father. and only then herself.

and when it comes to Winter in the end, likely more alone than we’ve ever seen her...we are going to see the worst of her, but only because we always do. it’ll look less like a Final Choice, and more like the non-choices she’s been making coming home to roost. sooner or later Ironwood will realize that part of the reason he’s running out of pieces to play is because of her, and sooner or later Winter will realize that at some point you’re not leaving me has turned into i’m not leaving.

it turns out when you make enough non-choices, they slip into choices anyway. and Winter has only ever made one kind of non-choice, an infinitesimal sidestep to avoid disturbing the universe, so the outcome of these things depend entirely on the context. the outcomes so far have been favorable, so it’s possible (probable?) that, like with Ironwood last season, we’re due for a reversal. at the same time, though, Ultimatum introduces the obvious wrinkle: that an outcome good for the world isn’t necessarily good for Winter. it’s possible that that will hold true again for her in the end.

or it’s possible that the reverse will be true instead.

#alexkablob #winter schnee #rwby #helen writes meta #watch alex hurl a live grenade into my askbox and me dance around the issue for more than 1k worth of bullshit!!#dancey dancey dance #the point is that she's not leaving military dad yet okay #she left his side for several life changing roadtrips and the minute she came back she took up the same bodyguard position as before #the one she hasn't taken since cordially invited when this all began #that means something #(it means she's gonna kill him)#haha remember how we were introduced to their dynamic #he snapped her name and her blade stopped just shy of piercing someone's throat #'why'd you bring that up helen?' oh no reason just feelin' random #(c’mon winter i’ve been pulling for you to kill him since last june #(don’t let me down!! you’ve let everyone else in your life down but i’m your biggest f—okay well that’s definitely not true #i’m your most pretentious fan!!)

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ikroah · 3 years

Photo

Whiskey river, take my mind, don't let her memory torture me. Whiskey river, don't run dry, you're all I got, take care of me. —“Whiskey River,” Shotgun Willie (1973)

It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’ #15 - Vegas Outskirts

Collaborative Issue! Guest Colorist: @malpaislegate / @socksual-innuendos

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Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:

Notes:

MAN that’s gotta hurt!! Volume 2 kicks off with a bang, literally if you count the gunshot and honorifically if you count Socks’ knockout color job on this issue. Look at those lovingly rendered bullet wounds!! Muah!!!

It’s been a relief having a month off from the comic as I handled a bunch of other things but there’s a lot to look forward to in Volume 2, as you can probably tell from that very forboding fist clench at the end there. Will Agnes and Cass get the revenge they’re looking for? Can they make it big in Vegas? Will it keep right on a-hurtin’? Find out next ish as Cass leads Agnes to meet the first of their new “friends.”

Original Pencils:

The pencils for this issue are like an autopsy report of all the things that can go wrong with your art if you don’t plan ahead and pay attention. Listen, friend, to my tale of woe, and learn from my mistakes so they don’t become yours!

First, you can see a lot of places where there’s floating objects, empty backgrounds, and incomplete heads. Part of this is because I always intended to just copy and paste repeated elements across each panel instead of drawing them multiple times, but other times I was forced to just because of my lack of planning. The top three panels on page two, for example, required me to draw the background I’d use for them on a separate page.

Second, you can probably tell that I actually had to flip the two raiders around in the final lineart because I forgot to keep the hands their were holding their guns in consistent—and since I couldn’t flip the middle panel on the second page without ruining the composition, I decided to flip all of their other appearances so that they’d be lefties. I doubt you even can seamlessly wield those particular guns left-handed.

Third, the size of the cart that Agnes and Cass are kneeling behind changes CONSTANTLY and is dramatically oversized from the third page onward. After inking these pages, it took a lot of work to correct the inks and shrink that cart in each panel, but fortunately it came out looking good.

And finally, I completely redrew the second panel on the fifth page because it wasn’t until I had already handed he pages off to my colorist that I realized having a second profile shot of Cass so soon after a first one was just...redundant and lazy-looking. So I went back to my sketchbook and whipped up a much more unique, striking angle (I also just wasn’t satisfied with the quality of my art on that panel, so I’m very glad I redrew it). But again, my failure to plan ahead bit me in the ass and my redraw attempt wound up taking up a lot more space than I thought it would, so after inking it I had to basically surgically remove it from the other inks.

I’ll be honest with you folks: part of the reason that I work in such simple, thick, high-contrast lineart is because it’s very easy to make corrections and adjustments with stuff you could technically color in Microsoft Paint.

Transcript:

EXT. SOMEWHERE IN THE MOJAVE, morning. AGNES SANDS and ROSE OF SHARON CASSIDY stand over the wreckage of a caravan, scattered over a dirt road.

CASS: Hell.

EXT. SOMEWHERE ELSE IN THE MOJAVE, midday. Looking over a second wrecked caravan, at the bottom of a ditch.

CASS: Fuck.

EXT. PRE-WAR HIGHWAY OUTSIDE OF VEGAS, mid-afternoon. AGNES and CASS survey a third wrecked caravan.

CASS: Shit. The proof is in the pudding. Or the pile of ash, rather. These attacks were done with Van Graff guns for Crimson Caravan caps. I'm sure of it.

As CASS explains her theory to AGNES, a short distance from the caravan two RAIDERS peer at the two of them from inside a barn at a ruined farmstead. They have snake-bite tattoos on the sides of their shaved heads and are holding rifles.

CASS: The scorchmarks and residue in the wreckages? That's energy weapon shit. Plasma and laser. Silver Rush special. Not like it'd be the Brotherhood. And Crimson Caravan must have bankrolled this fucked-up little hunting trip themselves.

The RAIDERS move out from the barn, sneaking up on two passers-by who’ve stopped at the caravan wreckage.

CASS: That explains why they bought me out...they needed the last loose end to saddle up back west with a tidy sum.

(NOTE: *Agnes delivered it and Cass signed it in IKROAH #7—Lou.)

CASS: It's a racket, Agnes: torch the local competition and it's win-win for both the f—

SFX: KRAK

A gunshot rips out from one of the RAIDERS’ rifles and sears across CASS’ shoulder.

CASS (gasping): —uckers.

CASS slumps down beneath the overturned caravan wagon on the road, clutching her shot shoulder.

CASS: —Aaggghghhhhhhh.

AGNES: Cass! Are you—

CASS: Fuck! Agnes, get down you moron!

AGNES ducks behind the cover of the wooden caravan wagon just as another gunshot splinters the top lip of it.

SFX: DTHWAK!

The RAIDERS advance on CASS and AGNES’ position, firing at them from off the road.

SFX: KRAK

AGNES leans over the top of the wagon with her pistol, returning fire.

SFX: BTAK BTAK BTAK

AGNES lands a shot right in one of the RAIDERS’ guts, and she drops her weapon and falls down.

SFX: SPLUT

CASS, leaning out the side of the wagon, takes as careful of aim as she can with her shotgun by holding it with her good arm. Trembling, she fires, connecting with the other RAIDER.

SFX: KBLAM

The would-have-been RAIDERS are dead.

AGNES: ...were those the Van Graffs?

CASS: No. Just some vultures.

CASS leans back behind cover to sit against the bottom of the overturned wagon again, wincing from her shoulder injury.

CASS: Ugghhn.

AGNES (slipping off duffel bag): Cass, your shoulder—

CASS: Yeah, it's been shot. I'm pretty fucking aware.

AGNES (unzipping bag): Quick, can you take your shirt off—

CASS: What!?

AGNES: —so I can dress the wound, Cass!

CASS: Oh! Good! So you weren't coming onto me on what remains of Griffin Wares Caravan.

CASS starts removing her shirt while AGNES produces a bottle of something from her duffel bag, and dampens a rag with its contents.

CASS: And since when are you a fucking field medic, anyway?

AGNES: 2269. NCR Certified.

CASS: What?

AGES: Yeah. I've been one kind of doctor or another since I was six.

CASS: What?

AGNES: Now hold still, this is antiseptic.

CASS: Since you were six!? I...shit, wait, hang on, Agnes—

AGNES pressess the rag onto CASS’ shoulder wound, and CASS winces instinctively. But, confusingly, there isn’t any pain.

CASS: ...isn't this supposed to sting like hell?

AGNES: No, not really. It's an acetic acid solution. Vinegar, basically.

AGNES begins cleaning the wound with the rag.

CASS: I thought you put alcohol on wounds to clean them.

AGNES: That's...a common misconception. It's good for tools, maybe, but too strong for skin. And it can complicate healing if you apply it directly.

CASS: So you're telling me, all my years, I've been wasting good whiskey only making my boo-boos worse?

AGNES: I mean...it's better than nothing in a pinch, but...

CASS: Well, then. Thanks for the lecture, doc. Can you just pass the whiskey anyway? Shoulder still hurts like hell regar—

AGNES hands her the whiskey bottle. She’d already gotten it out.

CASS: —dless. Oh. Thanks.

AGNES unspools a roll of bandages in her hands, then begins wrapping it over CASS’ shoulder and across her chest..

AGNES: So. It's a relatively minor wound, more of a deep graze than a real gunshot.

CASS: You'd know all about real gunshots, huh?

AGNES (unfazed): Uh-huh. I can suture it if necessary, but for now, these bandages will be fine. Just hold still. How do you feel?

CASS: I feel fucking pissed, Agnes!

AGNES recoils, taken aback slightly.

CASS: As I was saying before I got shot in the shoulder—which, however "minor" the wound, is real fucking close to my head, Agnes—this wasn't some random attack. These caravans, my caravan, got hit by the Van Graffs and Crimson Caravan. It ain't just some tragedy anymore. Now I've got names. Places. Faces.

AGNES resumes bandaging CASS.

CASS: I told you—ow! Don't pinch my tit, dammit—

AGNES: I said hold still.

CASS: —I told you, when you told me about this guy who shot you...when I let you drag me out of that fucking outpost...and when we went to Boulder City...that I would do the exact same thing in your shoes. Now, it is the exact same thing. This fucker shoots your eye out, these fuckers ash my caravan...these same fuckers I sold my own goddamn name to on a piece of paper. I mean...what else are we doing out here, Agnes? Getting shot at by Khans and Raiders just for kicks? Are we just fucking around?

AGNES finishes bandaging CASS, then leans back, pensive.

AGNES: No...no, I really guess we’re not.

CASS: That's what I thought. Your friend in Vegas can wait. Help me get mine, and we can get that shitheel together, and that's a prom—

CASS raises her arm to shake her fist as she speaks, straining her shoulder injury.

CASS: —mmmmmmghhhh. Ooww, oww, oww, oww...

CASS grabs her shoulder in pain while AGNES looks off in the distance and stands up. She looks out towards the horizon—towards VEGAS, and the pre-war casinos and hotels that still gleam and glitter in blinding sunlight.

Her fist clenches. Her brow furrows. Her body tenses, all over, staring at that city, that place.

The caravan wreckage remains alone on the highway, brahmin bones long picked clean by scavengers.

AGNES SANDS IN: IT KEEPS RIGHT ON A HURTIN’

VOLUME 2: MAKE IT BIG IN VEGAS

#fallout new vegas #fallout #courier six #rose of sharon cassidy #volume 02 #15 #ikroah archive

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juniorgman187 · 4 years

Text

i ♡ u (Spencer Reid Imagine)

Summary: Reader and Spencer are trapped in the office during a storm.

Category: Smut, Fluff Content Warning: cussing, unprotected sex/creampie, thunderstorm Word Count: 4.5k A/N: I don’t really like this imagine tbh so don’t be afraid to share your opinions

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“It was a dark and stormy night just like this one . . .” Reid said with a spooky voice. Thunder clapped in the distance and lightning flashed, adding to the mood of the room. Reid waited for your reaction, but you didn’t have it in you. You pressed your fingers to your temples, hoping that moving them in a circular motion would somehow stimulate your brain and magically generate logical thoughts that weren’t clouded by your weariness.

“Sorry, Reid. I’m listening. Keep going.” You didn’t want to discourage him with your fatigue. You were the only one who would consistently give Reid the time of day, and you never faltered in that. At times, you were the only one who’d let him finish speaking.

“You usually love my campfire scary stories,” You knew without even looking at him that Reid was pouting out of disappointment. “I really think you should go home. I’ll call you if I find something or if I need you.”

“No, no you shouldn’t be working on this alone. I’ll be fine.” You slapped your cheeks gently to wake yourself up and forced yourself to refocus on the case.

Hotch and JJ had to fulfill parenting duties, Prentiss was away doing a custodial interview for a couple days, Rossi and Morgan both went home a few hours ago because they could barely keep their eyes open, and Garcia was most likely knocked out in her bat cave. The team had been working on this case for 24+ hours straight and it was draining, but you weren’t about to leave Reid alone to work on it by himself. It wasn’t a contest or a way to prove that you were somehow a better agent if you stayed up working with him, but you genuinely didn’t feel right delegating all of the responsibility onto him. It happened too often where Reid’s good heart and great work ethic was taken advantage of.

“Have you narrowed down the comfort zone?” You sipped at your lukewarm coffee, wincing at the unpleasant taste but grateful for any burst of energy you could get.

Reid nodded, drawing a large red circle. He was in the middle of explaining when his words started sounding like complete nonsense. “Interstate 55 miles true North latitude triangulate.”

You almost thought you were hallucinating or something to that effect, but Reid saw the genuine fear in your eyes and quit his prank. “No, you’re fine! You’re fine! I was just saying random words to play with you. I thought it’d scare you enough to realize you need to get some sleep.”

“Reid!” You chucked a pen at him that he successfully dodged. This only made him laugh harder. “You’re not gonna get rid of me that easy.” You told him.

“When was the last time you slept?” He asked seriously.

It was a huge red flag that it took you somewhere around a minute to come up with the answer since it had been so long that you couldn’t remember. You waved your hand in the air to rid him of his concerned expression. He had no reason to worry. “Really, I’ll be fine. It’s less dangerous to be running on less than 8 hours of sleep than it is to leave one person to solve an entire case by himself. I’m not going home, Reid. I’m here to stay.”

He noticed your stubbornness and thought of a new approach to neutralize the situation. “What if you and I both call it a night right now and then wake up in a few hours?”

Now, this sounded like a plan you could get behind. Without any resistance, you set an alarm for 5 a.m and flopped onto the couch just beside the round table. Reid joined you, slipping into his rightful spot behind you. You’d had plenty of platonic sleepovers that constituted sharing the same couch/bed with him, so this was nothing new. With your back barely touching Reid’s chest, you shut your eyes. It didn’t take more than ten minutes for both of you to drift off.

BEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEP!

A loud blaring noise filled the room. It made you and Spencer wake up at the same time.

“What is that?” His voice was all raspy from where he just woke up.

The sound was weirdly familiar, but you didn’t know where you recognized it from. That’s when you looked out the nearest window and saw that it was still dark outside.

“I don’t know, but it’s not our alarm.” You pointed out. That’s when Reid eyed the clock on the wall.

3 a.m.

You quickly felt around in the dark, reaching inside your purse for your phone. When you pulled it out, the ear-splitting noise got louder, making you realize it was your phone after all, but you were right. It wasn’t your alarm.

“It’s just a flash flood warning.” You relayed to Reid, squinting at the brightness of your phone. No wonder Reid didn’t know what the sound was - his ancient phone didn’t have the feature. You grumbled, falling back onto the couch.

“There’s no way I’m gonna fall back asleep after that.” He groaned.

You hummed in agreement. “Yeah, I’m wide awake now.” Stupid flash flood warning.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes while Reid stretched and got up from the couch. Checking the notifications he’d gotten on his phone, he said, “Garcia left while we were asleep.”

“And then there were two.”

Everyone was probably catching z’s while you two were catching the killer - or trying to at least.

So, if it was just going to be Reid’s brain and your brain functioning to work on the case, you needed some coffee.

“I’ll be back.” You walked down to the kitchen with your mug in hand and just as you were about to grab the coffee pot, a huge flash of lightning struck outside and suddenly the office went dark. The lights went out and the gentle hum of the generator shut off.

“Spencer!” You screamed out of fear. You heard the pitter-patter of his footsteps rushing to you. That’s when you saw Spencer using his archaic phone’s flashlight to find his way to you. He pulled you into a quick hug asking if you were okay, and you answered you were fine, just spooked. When you came down to pour coffee, you didn’t remember seeing anyone else, but now your stomach turned thinking about how someone might be in here with you - listening to you.

“Take out your gun,” He whispered. You did as he ordered you to, pulling your gun out of the holster. “Turn on the flashlight.” You clicked it on and handed it over to him, remembering that he didn’t have a flashlight on his gun because he had a revolver.

“Stay behind me.” He commanded. You moved back, basically hugging him from behind. You thought you were actually going to pass out from fear if you didn’t hold onto him for dear life. He did a quick pass with the flashlight, revealing no one else was in the bullpen unless they were hiding.

BANG! BANG!

You yelped in fear. “It’s just the thunder, Y/N,” He reasoned, reminding you of the ongoing storm. Oh right, there was a thunderstorm happening, too. Great. “Here take this and go back to the conference room.” He gave you his revolver and kept your gun, ushering you to walk back to the round table.

“What? Why? Where are you going?” Your small voice had never sounded so shaky.

“I’m gonna check the power box and see if I can fix it.”

Your first instinct was to shake your head disapprovingly, but then you remembered that he couldn’t see you in the dark. “No way! You’re not leaving me alone in a dark room. I’m coming with you.”

He didn’t argue against it probably because he was just as scared as you were. Reid did another quick survey of the room, using the beam of your flashlight to double check that there was no one else around.

As you clung to Reid, you made yourself sick just by thinking of all the horrifying possibilities that could happen. For all you knew, a whole group of unsubs was waiting for you at the power box, knowing you and Reid would check there as soon as the electricity went out. Would whatever happened to you two tonight become a campfire scary story that other FBI agents would talk about just like how you and Reid talk about them? The odds were not in your favor. No lights. Storm outside. 3 a.m. Just the two of you, and no offense to Reid, but if this were a horror movie, he was probably the last person you wanted to be with. Top of the list was easily Morgan, because at least if Morgan was scared shitless by the predicament, he wouldn’t show it.

While Reid led the two of you through the pitch black darkness, both of your hands were holding onto his upper arm. You’d taken cover behind him, poking your head past his shoulder just far enough to see what he was seeing but only so far that you could duck quickly if you needed to. Frankly, Spencer didn’t even seem to mind that you were clinging onto him for protection. It kind of made him feel good actually.

When you reached the power box, you released your grip on him, only realizing just how tight you’d been clutching him when you saw imprints left on his shirt from where you’d been holding on.

“Take this.” He handed you the flashlight while he used both of his hands to pry open the box.

You watched as his fingers grazed over the wires and fiddled with the buttons. Would it be weird to admit that his hands were kind of attractive? You’d never realized the largeness of them or how veiny they were, but there was something about them that made them so sexy to you.

He made a disapproving sound after further inspection.

“What’s wrong?” You weren’t actually wondering, but if you asked him, it would seem like you were actually paying attention to the situation at hand and not his hands.

“It looks like the power shut off from a larger source, meaning there could be a blackout citywide. That also means I can’t fix it.”

Hearing you’d be in the dark with no heat source was enough to snap you out of your trance.

“I have an idea.” You led Reid to Garcia’s bat cave, after a memory of Garcia showing you her collection of glow in the dark figurines replayed in your mind.

When you opened the cabinet, you smiled instantly at the sight of all the toys brightly lighting up the inside of the drawer. You knew that spending hours with Garcia listening about her toy collection would pay off eventually. Both of you carried all the toys you could and headed right back into the conference room. You placed them sporadically so that the entire room was dimly lit. Had these been candles instead of luminescent toys, it would’ve been ambient and romantic, but again - they weren’t candles.

Unintentionally, you shivered audibly when a loud wind crashed just outside. The generator went out along with the lights, so it was awfully cold in the room.

Reid was about to give you his sweater when you stopped him by walking right up to him and stealing his body heat in a hug. Rather than embracing him around his sweater, you snaked your arms under the cardigan to really feel his warmth. And as if Reid was trying to kill you with kindness, he pulled the sides of his sweater to stretch around your back and swaddled you into his sweater with him. You smiled against his chest. Not much could make this moment sweeter.

“Better now?” He asked, peering down at your face.

You silently nodded, closing your eyes as if removing your sense of sight would heighten your sense of touch. You wanted to feel his affection as deeply as you could.

“Tell me when you want me to let go.”

“Not yet.”

He laughed at your childish desire to be swaddled like this, but he was enjoying the warmth just as much as you were.

“We can’t do much work with the power out so let’s just try to get some more sleep.” He walked with you to the couch, keeping his promise of not letting go until you told him to.

With the storm outside and the flash flood warning, you two would just have to stay in the conference room until you had the all clear. You weren’t opposed to this entirely, though. There were much worse things you could do than listen to the rain in the arms of Spencer Reid.

“Okay, you can let go now but just for a second.” Your baby voice made him chuckle. He loved how you unabashed you were when asking for his attention. Reid laid down just as he did before, with his back on the backrest of the couch, and instead of having your back to him, you cuddled right up to him. While still wearing his sweater, he covered you in it again, drawing you even closer.

For some reason, even though you were beat and you knew you needed the sleep, you couldn’t seem to shut your mind off and rest. You were awake for what felt like hours. You would’ve tossed and turned all night, but instead, you kept very still so Reid wouldn’t wake up.

You’d be so focused on trying to fall asleep yourself that you didn’t even notice when Reid did. When you looked up, you saw his mouth was slightly agape, his eyes were shut and would occasionally flutter, and when you pressed your ear to his chest, he was breathing much slower than he was earlier.

“If you stay still for 15 minutes, you’ll fall asleep. Just lay in the same position and don’t move.” He mumbled. So he wasn’t asleep? And he knew you weren’t either?

“I have been staying still, but it’s not working.” You whined.

“Just try.” Reid murmured again.

You shut up and sighed, closing your eyes. This time, you made a conscious effort not to move a muscle. You even counted to 60 in your head 15 times, but after those 15 minutes, you were still awake. You weren’t even sure what was causing your insomnia. It was really peaceful to have the sound of the rain cascading down the window and the occasional boom of thunder outside. Being in Spencer’s arms was cozy, too, but there was still something keeping you up.

“Spencer? Are you awake?” You scooted up so you could see his face.

The only thing the moon was illuminating clearly was his lips. There was a distinct beam of silver light casting on his mouth, almost like it was lighting them up specifically. Like some sort of sign. A sudden urge possessed you, so without reason, you brought your hand up to his face and grazed your thumb over his bottom lip. Even with the gentle touch you were using, you were still able to feel how soft it was. You slowly dragged your thumb in a downwards motion, watching the elasticity of his lips cause it to bounce back up into its place. You nearly giggled at the sight. You moved your thumb to the corner of his mouth and followed it upwards to the natural curve of his upper lip. If you weren’t so observant before, you wouldn’t have noticed how Spencer very subtly parted his lips wider for you. Curiosity overcame you and you slowly inched closer to his mouth with your own.

“I think I want to kiss you . . . Can I kiss you?” You spoke in a soft voice, with each of your lips ghosting over his.

A moment of stillness. Maybe he was asleep. Then, a small, very small nod of Reid’s head. You smiled as he let you take control. With your hand already along his jaw, you lifted his face slightly so you could feel the full force of your kiss. You pulled him in closer to relish the soft feeling of his puckered lips. He released his grip on the sweater that was still swaddling you so he could press the small of your back, forcing your hips to drive into his. The need to be even closer was translating into the kiss. It grew hungrier - more passionate and needy. Spencer raised up from the couch, propping himself up on his forearm so he could hover over you. You followed his lead and shifted to be underneath him. With his body over you, he was able to push off his forearms and onto his hands. They were on either side of your head, forcing you to sit up with him so your lips wouldn’t leave his.

“Wait, wait,” He muttered, pulling away. You followed him with your mouth is desperation, until you couldn’t anymore, making you sit up entirely while Spencer backed away.

“What’s wrong?”

“If we don’t stop now, I don’t know if I can stop later . . . I won’t be able to control myself.”

It was in this moment you realize why you were often the only member on the team who’d actually listen to Reid. Nothing he could say would ever turn you off. Any word that escaped his lips was something you wanted to hear. His confession of being uncontrollable was no exception.

“Do you know what I want to do?” There was a newfound confidence in your tone that shocked the both of you.

“What do you want to do, Y/N?” Apparently, Spencer’s tone was just the opposite. He sounded like he was trembling with fear with anticipation.

“Guess.” You flirted.

Even in the dark, you could see Reid’s gears turning as he tried to find the right answer. He read your expression for a hint and made his guess by planting a chaste kiss on your lips.

“You’re cold.”

He quickly caught on. You were making a game out of this.

Hot and cold.

Reid made his next move with uncertainty. He slowly started moving forward to resume the position he had before he pulled away. As he came closer, you followed his lead and leisurely fell back. Every inch he would advance closer to you was an inch that you’d move back further until finally your back was pressed against the couch again and Spencer was hanging over you once more. With each of his hands beside your head, you smirked. “Getting warmer.”

This boosted his confidence. He was heading the right direction, and there was nothing Spencer loved more than to get things right.

The same moonlight that was streaming onto his lips earlier was dancing on his eyes. The hazel color glimmered in the silver light. You could see they were asking, ‘Can I?’ You answered his look with a silent nod.

Spencer reached behind him, following his hand with his eyes as he watched his fingers brush along your thigh. Looking back up at you for permission, which you granted, he peered back down, watching his fingers slip underneath the hem of your skirt. You lifted your hips up so he could raise the skirt all the way up. As if he was uncovering lost treasure, his eyes lit up when you were finally uncovered.

“Fuck me.” He cursed under his breath. This made you ooze with confidence.

You sat up to align your lips right beside his ear. With a breathy voice, you whispered,

“Hot.”

He’d finally figured out what you wanted.

The satisfaction he had in winning your little game gave him the confidence he needed to finally make a move.

Hurriedly, he dragged your panties off, leaving prominent scratches from his nails on your thighs. He threw them somewhere behind him, while you frantically unbuttoned his dress pants. You almost giggled with glee when you saw just how hard he was. You barely did anything to provoke him, but he clearly enjoyed what little you did do.

“I don’t have a -” You cut him off with a hasty kiss.

“You don’t need to worry about that.” You needn’t explain more. He got the message when you reached down and gave his shaft a few shallow strokes.

“Oh-” He was immediately caught off guard by your forwardness. “Wait, wait shouldn’t I . . . um, help you first-”

You smiled at his stutter. “Spencer, please. I need you now.”

There was that unabashed ask for Spencer’s attention that he loved so much. He made small movements until he was properly aligned with your entrance.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you.” He breathlessly uttered, while gradually pushing in.

You thought you would’ve regretted not letting him finger you before in preparation but the bliss was far greater for some reason.

The sensation was definitely new to Spencer when his eyes widened. “Oh fuck. You’re so tight.”

Meanwhile, your face contorted at the feeling of him stretching you out. It was actually more painful than pleasurable.

“Wait, Spencer - I need to change positions.” You panted.

He instantly retracted, looking incredibly sorry. “Here,” He helped you up to your feet while taking a seat on the couch. You didn’t need an IQ of 187 to figure out how to position yourself, so you straddled Spencer, hovering over his erection. Taking charge now that you knew you’d feel more comfortable like this, you reached below you to align his length. Instantly, euphoria washed over you when you lowered yourself all the way until you were practically sitting on his lap. Spencer let out a heavy exhale now that you were able to take all of him in this new position. You moved your hands out from under you and put them on Spencer’s shoulders as a way to stabilize you each time you’d come up. After a few cursory movements, you found a comfortable pace. Spencer couldn’t contain himself, he had to grab your hips in his hands and buck up before, his pelvis meeting your ass before you could even fully lower yourself again. With the tempo of motion increasing drastically because of Spencer’s participation, you couldn’t even adjust to his length anymore. Every time he’d pull out was temporary relief for the ever-growing knot forming in your stomach. You bit back a moan when Spencer curled his hips to thrust into you at a different angle. This stroke mercilessly hit that knot in your stomach, forcing a strangled noise out.

“Don’t stop, Spencer!” You were surprised at how you were even able to put together a cohesive sentence since your brain felt like it was short circuiting.

With Spencer’s curved thrusts, the knot in your stomach grew bigger and bigger. You even felt yourself clench around Spencer. He felt it, too and his head instantly lolled back in pleasure. His eyes rolled to the back of his head with him. Your skin felt prickly as sweat started dripping from your forehead. If you didn’t know any better, the generator was working again because the heat in the room was thick. Spencer’s strokes were growing slower in anticipation. You picked up the pace for him and made a conscious clench around him to help him reach his peak.

“I can’t control myself, Y/N. I need to pull out now.” He sputtered.

You made an indistinct noise that communicated your disapproval. It was the only thing Spencer needed to hear to know that it was okay if he came.

“Cum for me, baby.” You moaned, knowing you were going to follow close behind.

He dug his nails into your hips, bringing you back to reality as if it was his way of pinching you to tell you it was real. From the pain of his hands clawing into you, you almost couldn’t feel him coming, until you felt it dribble down your inner thigh. Suddenly, it felt like his warm essence made electricity surge through your body and course through your veins. With a speed faster than light itself, the knot in your stomach released. You cried out as his seed mixed with your own and cascaded down like the relentless rain outside cascaded down the window. The euphoria of your orgasm brought you to a complete stop.

“Holy fuck.” You swallowed hard. The inside of your mouth was dry from where it hung open for so long.

Spencer was at a loss for words. His silence was so unfamiliar you had to giggle.

“You okay?” You lifted yourself off of his lap to gain some clarity. He gulped hard.

“Am I dreaming?” He sounded genuinely dazed and confused, it was adorable.

Garcia’s glow in the dark toys helped you to find a box of tissues. You took one from the box and wiped yourself before pulling your skirt back down. Meanwhile, Spencer zipped up his pants and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Spencer,” You laughed a little. “You’re scaring me. Are you okay?”

He hadn’t changed his spot on the couch so you straddled his lap again, this time with more pure intentions.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in his neck, while his hands rested on your hips again and his lips were pressing on your shoulder, leaving quick pecks.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” He confessed against your skin. You leaned back so you could see his face and kept your hands behind his head to play with the hair on the nape of his neck. Enjoying your soothing touch, he closed his eyes and tilted his head to lay against your wrist. He was so precious like this. With Spencer’s head cocked to the side, a distinct beam of light was revealed. This time it was shining onto your face, almost like what it feels like when you accidentally walk past a projector screen and look at the projector light. In this instance though, the light wasn’t nearly as blinding. It was soft and ethereal. It lit up the rain falling on the other side of the window. It even displayed signs of steam coming from the inside. You could see condensation running down the pane. It had gotten so hot in here because of you two that steam was produced. That felt like some sort of accomplishment. You mirthlessly chuckled and leaned forward. With this sudden movement, your chest was pressing against Spencer’s. He was forced to lift his head back up from your wrist when he wanted to examine what you were doing. You leaned past the backrest of the couch and exhaled a hot breath onto the window to make it fog up. Spencer watched you do this over his shoulder, trying to figure out what you were doing. With the glass fogged up, you started drawing a heart with your index finger. You lazily shaded in the heart and looked back at Spencer to show off your creation. It wasn’t pretty by any means, but it meant something.

Spencer pulled a hand away from your hip to use his fingers to add to the drawing. To the left of the heart, Spencer drew a vertical line with a dot above it, and then to the right of it he drew a small horseshoe shape. You pouted your lips when you finally got the message.

i ♡ u

You looked at him before blowing another hot breath onto the already existing fog to extend it. You drew a number right beside it.

i ♡ u 2

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

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