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filmtv2022 · 7 months

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Ineffable Agony

Pairing: Aziraphale x Platonic!Reader x Crowley

Synopsis: One quiet night, Aziraphale and Crowley's world is rocked. A fallen angel is dropped on their doorstep. Their very presence shoves the reality of their Earthly partnership back into view and calls into question the very stability of Heaven and Hell. Aziraphale and Crowley struggle not only to understand the depth of the situation they've found themselves in but also to save the reader.

Warning: bleeding/blood loss + death.

A/N: I tried my best to use gender-neutral language in this one. The reader does have hair, but other than that, I think their physicality is fairly nondescript. As always, I apologize for any mistakes. It's getting late & I'm super tired.

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Warm light spilled out of the wide windows of A.Z. Fell and Co: Antiquarian and Unusual Books. Inside, surrounded by unruly shelves and half-empty bottles of red wine sat the oddest and most right pair in celestial history. Aziraphale had long since set aside his glass of wine, forgoing further intoxication for a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Crowley on the other hand had continued to sip away, which glass or bottle he was on remained a bit unclear.

Feeling his head turning fuzzy, the demon slowed his pace of consumption, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion and inebriation. In the days post averting the apocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves settling into this new life. One free from apparent oversight from both Heaven and Hell. The two indulged in human luxury wherever and whenever they liked, unencumbered by the pull from their respective head offices. For the first time in millennia, they felt truly free to live as they liked, and what a life it was.

“How does breakfast at the Ritz sound, Angel? I think I could do with a nice morning out, feeding the ducks, fancy tea… or perhaps we'll pop over to France for some crepes?”

“That sounds lovely. ” Smiling sweetly at Crowley, he swallowed the last bit of his drink before standing to return the dirty cup to the sink in the back.

A sudden burst of white light flashed like the sun, flooding the space before being replaced by the wretched orange and red of hell fire, stopping him in his tracks. Inky darkness replaced the flare as fast as it happened. Snapping his attention to the entrance, Aziraphale stood in observation waiting in anticipation for something more to happen. Having seen, the display from his seat, Crowley stood and joined the Angel.

“What’s going on?”

“I…I don’t know. There was a…”

A sudden thump of something heavy smacking into the door forced him to stop speaking. To the human senses, nothing seemed out of place, the world continued to move just as it always had, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The air began to thrum with energy, the waves pouring into the store erratically, their intensity growing stronger the longer it went on. Crowley hissed, a guttural reaction to the feel of pain that roared through them both. Fighting to stay upright, Aziraphle gripped the demon’s shoulders as he doubled over in pain.

“Are you all right?” Pushing aside the ache that filled his own head, Aziraphale struggled to focus on the present, caught between concern for Crowley and whatever… or whoever was causing this to happen.

“I’m fine, just dandy, but I’d be better if my insides weren’t twisting around knots.”

“Yes, of course.”

Closing his eyes, the angel searched for a miracle, one strong enough to put an end to the horrific suffering that flowed freely into the room. Celestial magic hummed over his skin but died as he worked to make it so. Trying again, and failing, dread bubbled hot in in Zira’s chest.

“It’s not working!”

“Obviously!”

Groaning, Crowley clutched at his stomach as Aziraphale whimpered next to him. The angel’s head was full to the bursting point as if his mind was being ripped apart at the seams.

“I… I don’t know what to do!”

Forcing himself to stand to his full height, Crowley removed himself from the angel’s hold, “Fine, I’ll finish this myself.”

He too searched for a miracle. The darkness of his own magic flooded over his senses as he worked, but nothing happened. The lick of heat that always accompanied his miracles ran cold, leaving a chill over his skin in its absence. Aziraphale’s knees buckled as the pressure in his skull intensified. Dropping to the ground with him, Crowley held onto his angel.

Then as quickly as it started, the vibrations ceased to exist. Panting hard, the pair stood up on shaky legs. Crowley’s hand stayed firm on Aizraphale’s back, helping the Angel along as well as grounding himself. Stumbling toward the door, Zirh’s fingers trembled as he reached for the handle. Glancing at Crowley, he waited for some sign of reassurance, which was freely given in the form of a nearly imperceptible nod. Opening the door, their eyes immediately fell on the torn figure slumped face down on the ground before them. Slashes cut through their jacket and pants, the flesh below ripped to shreds and bleeding heavily. Ichor coated the surface of the stoop, pooling in a wide swath before spilling down the step. Kneeling down to see things more clearly, Aziraphale gently rolled over the stranger, the gore staining his hands red.

“They’re an angel.” Laying them on their back, his fingers felt for a pulse. It was weak, barely more than a flutter, but it was there.

“Not anymore.” Crowley gritted his teeth as he spoke, the realization of what had happened hitting too close to home, “They’ve been cast down.”

“Cast down? But Heaven they’ve… they’ve taken…”

“Taken their wings, yes.”

“That’s not supposed to happen?”

“And yet it did.”

“Why?”

“Why not? It certainly makes a statement.” Reaching for their hand, Crowley slowly unfurled their fist, removing the gore-soaked paper from within.

“A statement for who?”

“Us.” Peeling apart the folds, Crowley read the smeared words aloud, “To the attention of one A.Z. Fell & Anthony J. Crowley. Your actions have consequences that reach far behind the realms of Heaven and Hell. You’ve set something in motion that must be stopped.”

Locking eyes with the demon, Zira struggles to find words, “What does this mean?”

“I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

Scooping the fallen angel into his arms, Crowley deftly made his way toward the second floor of the bookshop. Finding the first door on the right partially open, he pushed it open with his foot. A couple of strong strides had him standing next to the bed, scanning over their face for any sign of familiarity. Finding nothing, he placed them down on the mattress on their side before turning his attention to the wounds. Trying yet again to use his magic, Crowley reached out in search of a way to staunch the flow. The stream slowed slightly, but not nearly enough.

“The bleeding won’t stop.” Waiting for an answer, he pushed his palms into the worst of the gashes, but when no response came, he shouted for assistance, “Angel, a little help here!”

“Oh, yes!” knocked back into reality, Aziraphale made his way to the bed, his stained hands once again reaching for the being before him. Using what little magic he could muster, he managed to lessen the bleeding to a trickle.

Feeling it still running between his fingers, Crowley’s head dropped between his shoulders, a deep exhale releasing as he tried to let go of the panic coursing through his system. It was an unnatural state for the demon, one that he’d only felt a few other times in his 6,000 years of life. He’d done a keen job of compartmentalizing the memory of his own fall, relegating it to the deepest depths of his mind. This, however, hit too close to home. While he’d been lucky enough to keep his wings, the transition from Heavinly Being to a Demon of Hell was horrific at best. The darkness, the pain… the loneliness. It was all too much to think about even now, all these years later.

Letting go of his hold on their wounds, Crowley gingerly placed them on their back, hoping the pressure who stop the rest of the bleeding. Sinking down beside the bed, he rested his head back on the mattress and closed his eyes tightly.

“What could they possibly have done to deserve this?” Aziraphale’s voice cracked as he spoke, his eyes never leaving their face. Brushing his fingers over their hair, he pushed the blood-coated strands out of the way.

“We better hope they wake up so we can find out.” Standing up, Crowley stalked out of the room, pounding down the hall toward the bathroom.

Turning on the water, he let it pour from the faucet until steam rolled from the stream. Hot enough to scald, he scrubbed vigorously at his hands. The red of the gore was replaced by the angry color of his skin beneath as he fought to rid himself of the stains. Standing in the doorway to the bathroom, Aziraphale watched in concern, his brows furrowed at the sight before. Losing control of himself, Crowley snapped off the water, slamming his fists down upon the porcelain and letting loose a rage-filled growl. Pushing his way past the angel, he pounded down the stairs toward the front door.

Following in his wake, Zira called to his demon, “Where are you going?”

“To find out what in the hell is going on?”

“But what if something happens… I-I should come with you.”

Snapping around, Crowley’s yellow eyes stopped Aziraphale in his tracks, “Stay here, take care of the angel… demon… thing. I’ll be back, I promise.”

Nodding in agreement, Aziraphale watched Crowley drive away, the Bentley tires screaming along the pavement.

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Agonizing flashes of pain radiated from the jagged wounds as cold sweat coated your skin turning into a slick mess of drying blood and perspiration. Spasms racked your body, each one more powerful than the last. You were dying, or so you thought. But what did that really mean for angel turned demon? You were even really alive to begin with? Where would your ‘death’ leave you? Certainly not in Heaven, they’d made it quite clear you were no longer welcome amongst their kind. So that left two other options. One being an eternity in Hell, rotting away with the other demons. The other was much more frightening… nothingness, your soul relegated to the black void somewhere between the realms. Alone. Cold. Unneeded… Unwanted. Stuck in purgatory for all time.

Time ceased to exist, and all sounds and feelings apart from the physical and mental torment fell away as you were trapped in the endless cycle of pain. Giving into it all, you allowed yourself to fall further away from the light. The beacons of Heaven were only a dim glow on the horizon. Their cool white was replaced by the furious red of the gates below. It was warm, welcoming even. It would have been so easy to let go, to surrender, and yet some small part of you keep a firm hold on the life you’d had before. Unable, or perhaps unwilling, to relinquish it fully.

The gentle press of a hand against your cheek pulled a quiet whimper from you, the touch kind and comforting. A tender voice spoke in a low mumble, their words unclear, but their intentions certain. There was something familiar about it as if a long-lost friend had come to visit.

“I’m so sorry, but this is going to hurt.”

Undoing the buttons of your shirt, the person gingerly pulled you into their chest, your forehead resting on their shoulder as they removed your top. A strangled groan fell from your lips at their ministrations.

“I know, I know.” Smoothing over your hair, they laid you back on the bed, this time on your side so they could access your body.

Walking around to the other side of the bed, they began the delicate work of cleaning the wounds. Rag and after rag came away crimson, and the cloths were discarded nearby on the floor. Slowly, but surely, the gashes were stitched and covered. Finished closing the wounds, they began to wash away the rest of the blood as best they could. The task was slow and tedious.

“There, that’s better. Now. let’s get you some fresh clothes.”

Standing from the bed, Aziraphale sought out a pair of his pajamas. Returning to your side, he slipped the jumper over your head and shoulders, taking great care to not bump your most tender spots. Moving on, he carefully peeled away your trousers, the white was splotched with darkening red. Dropping them on the pile of used rags, he then shimmied the plaid bottoms over your frame. His hands were unsure and timid as he moved.

Once again laying flat on your back, Zira pulled a blanket over you. Taking a moment to adjust the pillows, he sank back down into the spot next to you, his hands wrapping warmly around your own.

“Who are you?”

The previous question was barely more than a whisper, making the utterance of a name from your lips even more surprising. With eyes closed tight, and no other signs of consciousness, a singular word tumbled out for him to hear.

“Aziraphale…”

Zira was left speechless. What about him? Why were saying his name?

In a measure of cosmic timing, the telephone downstairs began to ring. It’s incessant trill bounding off the walls, calling to the angel. Leaving his spot, he was forced to let go of your hands. The loss of his touch caused a pained look to contort your features.

“I’ll be right back, don’t you worry.”

Silence fell over the room, as Aziraphale quietly closed the door behind himself, leaving you alone. It was as if in his absence the darkness began to creep back in, closing the distance between you and the void. Black hands reached for you, threatening to drag you away from the world of the living. Fighting against their searing grip, your body twitched and thrashed on the bed. Soon the motions were followed by gasping screams, the sounds shrill and bloodcurdling flew down the stairs toward Aziraphale. The pounding of footfalls was masked by the blistering screeches from Hell that rang in your ears. Soft hands gripped your shoulders, calling to you through the panic.

“I’m here, I’m…” Placing his palm on the side of your head, the heat rolling off your skin nearly burned him. Knowing he needed to act quickly, he flooded your mind with celestial light. Instantly, your body began to relax and your temperature dropped.

Falling limp against the pillows, your chest rose and fell in rapid succession. Sweat had soaked through the collar of the shirt, staining it darker than the rest. Aziraphale’s fingertips ran in soft arcs down your face as he continued to murmur words of comfort. Fearful of leaving your side again, he yanked the chair from the corner of the room to the side of the bed. Clasping your hand in his, he took a seat and waited. Crowley would be back soon enough, he’d promised.

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Hours passed and eventually, sleep overtook Aziraphale. Slumping back in the chair, he managed to keep a hold of your hand. Returning to the bookshop with little to no information in hand, Crowley made his way upstairs in search of his Angel. The door to the first guest room was flung wide open, and he was greeted with the image of Zira fast asleep, the lines of worry still creased between his brows. With his promise to return in mind, Crowley softly shook the angel awake.

“You’re back.”

“I promised, didn’t I.”

“Of course, What did you find out?”

“Not much. Nothing seems out of place, and the lines between Hell and Earth are quiet. Whatever this is, it’s either from Heaven alone or somebody’s going to dangerous lengths to keep it hidden.”

“Hidden? They were dropped on our front porch! How is that hidden?”

“You’ve got a point, but it doesn’t change the fact that there's nothing on the radar.” Turning to look at the stranger on the bed, Crowley’s tone softened as he spoke again, “How are they doing?”

“As best as can be expected… there was so much blood.” Shifting forward, Aziraphale adjusted his grip on your hand, “They spoke in their sleep while you were away. It didn’t make sense, but they spoke.”

“What did they say?”

“My name…”

“You name? As in Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, giver of the flaming sword and forestaller of the end of days”

“That’s what I’ve said isn’t it?” Impatience touching the edge of the question.

“Yes, but how would they know your name?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea…”

Crowley’s thoughts raced at the realization of what that could mean for Heaven. If they had fallen so far as to mutilate those they cast down then things were much worse off than he’d ever expected.

“Perhaps Heaven’s become more like Hell than they’d ever care to admit.”

Stunned into silence, the pair sat quietly for a while, observing the rise and fall of your chest. The steady movement was just enough to ease some of the worries that festered.

“There was one other thing they said while you were gone?”

“Yes?”

“The phone rang while you were out, when I left to answer, they… they started to scream—terrible screeching wails, as if… as if Hell itself was coming for them. And when I returned, their skin… it was burning like fire. Between the screams, they were calling for you.”

“Me?”

Nodding yes, he continued on, “Over and over, begging… pleading for you. They know us Crowley, and yet I’m sure I’ve never seen this face before.”

“Neither have I.”

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Morning broke over the quaint yet busy street, and the rumble of cars and voices floated in from outside. Your eyes fluttered open, and the unchecked sunlight beaming into the room assaulted your sensitive eyes. Hissing at the daggers of light, your whole body recoiled. Slamming your lids shut again, you scrambled back to retreat from the intrusive light. The mangled flesh of your back crashed against the headboard in your attempt to flee from the light. The sudden movement sent shockwaves through your body as the stitches in your wounds tugged sharply. Hearing and feeling your stir, Aziraphale and Crowley sat bolt upright in their respective positions. Zira in the same chair as the night before, and Crowley in the vanity chair across the room.

Catching your attempt to flee from the overwhelming sensations, Aizraphale reached for your shoulders and tried his best to push you back down into the pillows. His sure hands were commanding and gentle as they kept you from hurting yourself further.

“You’re all right. Careful now or you’ll rip your stitches.”

Simultaneously, Crowley was up out of his chair, his own hand coming up to grip your chin, holding your face in his direction. Your eyes flew open again as if called to look by some hell-born bond. And what he saw brought a moment of hesitation. The whites of your eyes were flooded with a sickening crimson as if every blood vessel had burst. While your pupils were blown large, covering nearly the entirety of your eyes. Shaking off the unsettling nature of your appearance, the demon deftly removed his sunglasses and placed them on your face.

“It’s their eyes, they’re not used to the light.” Stepping back, Crowley reached out a hand to Aziraphale, pushing him away from you, “Careful, Angel, emotions can be a bit unsteady.”

“It’s all right, Crowley. As you said, they’re in pain, why don’t you let me help.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Nonsense!” stepping back to your side, Aziraphale’s fingertips aligned with your temples as a gentle light filled the room.

Your breathing began to slow as the ache faded both mentally and physically. Slowly, you opened your eyes, finding that the dark lenses made the world around you much more bearable to view. Weakness replaced the pain leaving you incapable of moving, your power sat dormant, but hot beneath your skin. The heady mix of emotions melded together in what was certain to become an explosive combination.

Pushing down the flames, you spoke as if greeting old friends, “Crowley… Aziraphale… finally.”

“How do you know our names?” Zira’s question was far from accusatory.

“Oh Aziraphale, I’ve known you for thousands of years… the same goes for you, Crowley.”

“Who are you? Why do you know us?” Crowley on the other hand couldn’t help the accusation that threaded over his words.

Tilting your head to the side, you focused on him. The yellow of his snake-like eyes glinted in the sun, strong and fierce in demeanor.

“It was my job, to know you, to follow your biddings here on Earth. Like a celestial watchdog, I suppose.”

“Watchdog?” Crowley tensed at the very thought of Heaven having watched him for millennia after his fall.

“Yes. It was my job to track your movements, particularly in the years since your delivery of the AntiChrist. Well, you and Aziraphale. There was some… hesitation regarding the pair of you, given your shared history of questionable decision-making. Need I mention your flaming sword and apple debacles?” Your voice was weak and breathy as if speaking drained you of what little energy you’d recouped.

“All right, no need to rub it in. Enough about us, you’ve yet to answer our other question, demon. Who are you?”

“Well, I don’t know how this works exactly, but I suppose my angelic name will do for now. I’m Y/N.”

“And why are you here… Y/N?” Aziraphale uttered your name sweetly as if to encourage you to continue.

“It’s simple really, I’m the same as you, Crowley. I asked too many questions… I doubted the ineffable plan.” Sinking further back into the pillows, you turned your head to look at the demon.

“You what? Why?” Aziraphaled asked in shock.

“Because… you were happy.” Shifting your body slightly so that you could gaze at him, you felt a warm hand wrap around your own, “And the more I watched you here on Earth enjoying your lives together, the humanity … it made me think. Why were we going to end it all? And after such a short time as well? I saw how you looked at the world and couldn’t imagine it ceasing to exist. But even more than that… I couldn’t bear the thought of…”

Your voice caught in your throat as a fresh spasm racked your frame. The tightening of the muscles along the expanse of your back ripped the air from your lungs causing you to gasp and groan. Folding forward at the waist, the glasses slipped down your nose exposing your eyes to the blinding rays once again. Desperate to block it out, you pressed the heel of your palms into your eyes knocking the sunglasses onto the blanket covering your lap. Steady vibrations rolled through the space around you as your power spilled out unchecked. A blood-curdling wail tore from your lips as your skin flushed hot from the touch of Hell once more. Shocked by the sounds, Aziraphale took a few steps back, putting some distance between the two of you.

Crowley had returned to your side, his strong hands holding tightly to your biceps. The heat of your skin burned and blistered his palms, and yet he remained unfazed.

“Y/N, Y/N, listen to- listen to me. You’ve got to push away, you’ve got to fight against it!”

Gripping you tightly, he watched as your body spasmed beneath his touch. Blood soon tinged the light cream of the jumper you were wearing, the sudden movements having torn the stitches from your flesh. Furthermore, the heat radiating from within you singed the fabric, leaving behind blackened holes in its wake. A wet gurgle accompanied your labored breathing as if you were drowning on dry land. Coughing and choking, a blackish liquid oozed out the corners of your mouth, the scene grew more horrific as the substances ran down the exposed column of your neck. Crowley’s palms smoothed over it, wiping away the mess as best he could, but it just kept coming. Every wet hack brought more of it flooding out to replace what he’d tried to clean up.

“Crowley! Crowley, what’s happening?” Stammering, Aziraphale was frozen to his spot.

“They’re dying, the transition is consuming them.”

“But I thought-”

“Whatever you thought about this was wrong, Angel. This is the reality.”

“But I… what we can do?”

“There’s nothing we can do except ease their pain and hope for the best. It’s up to them now. Either they find the strength to fight against the darkness or it consumes them.”

Trembling, Zira moved to your side and eased himself down onto the bed. Cautiously, he reached out to touch you, his hand brushing over Crowley’s as he sought out your temples.

Turning his head to look at the demon, Aziraphale whispered one simple word, “Together.”

Understanding what he meant, Crowley nodded his head silently. Placing the pads of their fingers along your hairline, the two worked to rid you of the pain. A calming wash of peace flooded over you, chasing out the panic and terror. Your hot skin now sat cool to the touch, and the blisters covering Crowley’s hands began to heal. Slowly, your breathing regulated and the crackling wetness ceased to hinder your lungs. Serene peace settled over your features as they untwisted from the pain. Sensing that the limit of help and available miracles for this situation had been reached, both Crowley and Aziraphale sat back. Their eyes never left you as they watched for signs that their magic had failed. Zira was the first to speak

“What do we do now?”

“We wait.”

“For how long?”

“Not long now I think.” Crowley’s voice was thick with emotion.

Tracking the rise and fall of your chest, the pair watched as the movement became more erratic. The time between inhales turned more inconsistent and further apart the longer time went on. Eventually, it stopped altogether, and the last vestiges of pain fell from your features leaving behind a mask of perfect peace.

“What do we do now?” Zira asked in shock.

“We find out who the hell is responsible and we make them bleed” Looking Aziraphle in the eyes, Crowley's own brimmed with emotion, “But more importantly, we live, we live for them.

#aziraphale fanfiction #crowley x reader x aziraphale #aziraphale x reader x crowley #good omens fanfiction #good omens #crowley x reader #aziraphale x reader #crowley fanfiction #whumptober #whumptober 2023

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fahrni · 7 months

Text

Saturday Morning Coffee

Good morning from Charlottesville, Virginia! ☕️

It looks like we’ll be getting heavy rain all day with chances of flash flooding. I think we’ll be fine where we are as far as flooding goes but I wouldn’t be surprised if we lose power.

Good thing my coffee is brewed and in hand. 😃

Sarah Vogelsong • virginiamercury.com

Youngkin declares state of emergency ahead of Tropical Storm Ophelia

So, yeah, this is why we have a state of emergency here in Virginia. Overnight we got a bit of rain, enough to have standing water in the yard, but we’ll be fine. I feel for folks in lower lying areas. The town of Staunton often has flooding issues. Here’s hoping everyone stays safe and dry today. 🤞🏼

Nathan Edwards • The Verge

Mastodon, the federated microblogging platform, has been updated to version 4.2, which comes with massive improvements to search and the web interface, particularly for logged-out and first-time users.

The tiny open source crew behind Mastodon continues to deliver excellent features and they do it right unlike Space Karen’s company.

While I wish some friends would leave the bird place I’m still extremely happy to have this space to share and have wonderful conversations with amazing people every day. ❤️

Paul Sutter • Space.com

The loss of dark skies is so painful, astronomers coined a new term for it

This is pretty sad, isn’t it? I read this great piece in The Bitter Southerner a few years back that talked about a small town in Georgia Astronomers love because it’s so dark out there. 🌚

Joe George • Den Of Geek

The Star Trek Next Generation Story That Connects the Borg to The Original Series Crew

My question for Star Trek fans, do you love this or hate this?

I like it! 👍🏼

Vjeran Pavic • The Verge

Apple recently extended its deal for Qualcomm modems despite years of effort to develop its own — now we know why. According to a detailed report from the Wall Street Journal, Apple’s attempt to develop its own in-house 5G modem has been stymied by issues resulting from the iPhone maker underestimating the complexity and technical challenges of the task, and a lack of global leadership to guide the separate development groups siloed in the US and abroad.

This is a surprise to me. I can’t see it being because of the technical challenges. I could understand them saying “It’s just not ready.” But a technical challenge? Perhaps? 🤔

Joel Chrono • joelchrono12.xyz

This post was inspired by Rob Fahrni’s post, Saturday Morning Coffee. It has absolutely nothing to do with the content itself, but I got up, served myself a coffe, and wrote all this…

Hey! I inspired someone to write on their blog! That’s never happened before! It’s really wonderful and I hope Joel continues to write and bring us interesting content. Thanks for the love, Joel! ❤️

Ageist

I believe we’ve got retirement wrong. Hear me out. In the early 1990s, I attended my first business trip as a fresh-faced 23-year-old eager to make my mark in the world. I found myself at a workshop, listening to a speaker discuss the concept of retirement. At that age, retirement was a distant, almost foreign concept. Still, one statement from the speaker stuck in my mind: “People know to prepare financially for retirement but don’t know to prepare mentally.” He revealed a startling fact: mortality rates increase dramatically within the first three years of retirement. This revelation has stayed with me ever since.

Right. Do not retire and live like Blue Zone folks live. I actually love this idea.

Not retiring can take on different forms so go read the piece. Folks that know me know I want to write my own software if I ever achieve the financial stability to do it. I’ve considered doing part time work for someone like Starbucks just to socialize a bit. When we lived in Exeter I would frequent Exeter Coffee Company and hang out with a ragtag gang of folks. That’s living in my book. 👍🏼

Robert Harrington • palmerreport.com

What does it mean should Trump’s bail be revoked? First it’s important to recall he’s out on bail on four different felony charges in the first place. In other words, “out on bail” means he’s free and at liberty at the pleasure of four separate jurisdictions. If that bail is revoked in any of those jurisdictions, US marshals will be sent to wherever Trump is at the moment and summarily drag him out — in handcuffs — and take him to jail.

I know some people don’t believe a former President should be indicted of a crime much less be prosecuted or spend time in jail if convicted. I’m certainly not one of those people. TFG is a criminal and as such deserves a bit of time in the clank. 🚓

And, yeah, even at the risk of violence. If we allow certain people to get away with anything we don’t have a democracy or the rule of law. 🧑‍⚖️

Catherine Thorbecke • CNN

Alyssa Henry, the CEO of Square – a unit of Jack Dorsey’s fintech company, Block – will leave her post at the company next month.

I wonder if Jack plans to sell Block off to Space Karen so he can realize his everything app? 🤣

Valerie Ettenhofer • /Film

While you won’t find a “Joker” alternate ending available to view online, rumors about one persist thanks to a tidbit shared by filmmaker Kevin Smith on his “Fatman Beyond” podcast (via CinemaBlend). In a discussion of the film, Smith explains that he was told about a proposed original ending for the movie in which Arthur himself is revealed to be the Wayne family’s killer, and Bruce Wayne ends up in his crosshairs.

This would’ve been an amazing ending for Joker! The only problem with that is we couldn’t have sequels where Joker and Batman tangle.

I want so badly to see a Batman movie or series of movies that feature Joker exclusively. That may be too much to pull off so at the very least give us A Death in The Family in movie form. In Superman vs. Batman we get a glimpse of Robin’s — Jason Todd — armor in a glass case with Jokers writing on it. Great Easter egg.

Dave Rogers

The second night I was there, two more of our classmates joined us. One was a retired Air Force E-9 who’d worked in meteorology his whole career. The other is a highly trained engineer. Climate came up again, this time from the engineer. He’s convinced we can solve the crisis. Our host told him not to ask me, because he wouldn’t like the answer. But our Air Force friend was in my camp. It was interesting to me to listen to his take. Our views differ somewhat, but our conclusions are the same. It’s too late to avert a general collapse of civilization, likely before this century is out.

I like Dave’s writing a lot. He’s very open in what her shares and is extremely concerned with the state of the state of Florida. It’s a complete nightmare to live in if you’re an empathetic, caring, person. The GOP lead government doesn’t care about anyone or anything.

Dave’s take may seem a bit dark but I think he’s hit the nail on the head. We have screwed ourselves in the name of capitalism and investor return. And we’ve screwed future generations. 🤬

Bradley Brownell • Jalopnik

The United Auto Workers strike has expanded from three facilities to 41, as contract negotiations continue to slog on. Ford and the UAW have come together to form a tentative agreement, and while there is still a lot of work to be done, the union has chosen not to expand its striking efforts against Ford facilities.

Here’s an industry where we need radical transformation, now. I know the piece is about workers and I hope they’re able to negotiate and get what they need to survive and thrive.

At one point Detroit was a model of the middle class because of the automobile.

James Robins • defector.com

Musk’s life and personality, it turns out, is not so hard to contain. It is flat and shallow and open for all to read. The difficulty comes when Isaacson tries to impose some fabricated complexity on a not-very-complex man, and uses that illusion of knottiness as an excuse to paper over a much truer and more interesting story.

Space Karen isn’t the genius everyone thinks he is. He’s a bully who needs someone to smash his nose a few times so he’ll understand that treating people like crap has consequences.

Garbage human who managed to con his way into crap tons of money.

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spinchip · 3 years

Text

It’s Not That Bad

Wordcount: 2400 Ship: Mountaingshipping, Cole/Zane/Kai Warnings: Broken bones, blood, violence, injury

Summary: Zane hides an injury.

The fight can’t even be classified as a real fight, in Coles opinion. It’s a street brawl, raw knuckles and split lips- the remaining members of the SOG are brutal when they catch the scent of blood. Without leadership the gang has devolved into troublemakers and men itching for violence, and they’ve gotten bolder- the fight taking place in broad daylight near the center of town. Two weeks ago they’d taken Jay down in the middle of a scrap, a bat to the side of his temple when the group had been separated (he’d been laid up in bed in the dark for days afterwards with a concussion) and since then they’d gotten cocky about the Ninja's weakness.

Lloyd had been adamant about showing a united front- the Ninja team had to be unflappable, rigid and strong to show the growing gang that they were not so easily beaten. They couldn’t afford to give them another inch, which is why it’s so frustrating when they get separated once more. There’s a new player on the gangs side this time, a big man hefting a hammer that could hold its own against Coles. He’s not particularly fast, but the others in the group keep them occupied while the man swings his weapon with bone breaking force. His presence was not something they could ignore, splitting their attention dangerously, making their formation too easy to break.

And it’s not Jay this time, but Zane, who is pushed into a throng of enemies all looking for blood.

Cole doesn’t see what happens to get them to this point, he misses the moment Zane is surrounded, but Lloyd urges the others to make their way to him over the clash of fists. Zane’s always been capable, and today is no exception- but just like before when it had been Jay, there are too many, and it’s not long before a lucky shot sends Zane to the pavement. A sloppy leg sweep Zane wasn’t expecting, going sprawling onto his stomach. It’s simple enough to recover from just fine.

Except the big man swings his hammer before Zane can get his hands underneath him. Down down down in a deadly arc-

There’s no warning Cole can give, no speed or strength to stop it, random men pushing him away from his friend but not crowded enough where he can’t watch it happen. The head of the hammer hits the base of Zane back and the sound it makes- Cole can feel the impact in his bones, his stomach churning and nearly making him gag. The crack of the anvil on metal makes him feel ill.

Zane doesn’t yell or scream, his fingers dig into concrete so hard they leave gouges, and then he goes completely limp. He looks dead, lying facedown on the pavement. The gang members hoot and holler, their fight rejuvenated, and they jump into the fray with more vigor than before.

Slowly, the man brings his hammer up and Coles realizes he means to hit him again. He pushes frantically through the fight, blows glancing off his shoulders as he barrels through. Nya appears at his side, hair askew, and throws waves of water that sweep several people off their feet, dumping them clear of the path. Cole slams into the big man's side before he can deliver another blow, knocking him back from Zanes still form. Before either of them can get to the downed nindroid, new adversaries file in to try and beat them back, the fight resuming- but the ninja now scrambled and panicked at the loss of one of their own, and the gang member reveling in it.

The man with the hammer, he’s got thin blonde hair and dark eyes, manages to keep up with Cole. Despite Coles obvious skill and experience, he’s making stupid rookie mistakes. Internally cursing, Cole urges himself to focus- rushing into the fray to protect Zane would mean nothing if he fell to the man's hammer too, but it’s looking increasingly grim. The man is pushing himself faster, sweat beading on his brow, and he’s strong.

A smaller man darts past the two of them in a planned maneuver. The big man steps back and Cole is thrown off kilter as his hammer swings wide, and realizes too late that the smaller man has a knife- he can’t avoid it now. He twists, steps back, tries to minimize the damage- and then the man’s legs slide out beneath him and he hits the ground hard, head bouncing off the ice-slick pavement. Zane appears at Coles side and throws ice hard, frost and big chunks of ice invigorated by the wet pavement from Nyas last attack freeze the big man's legs to the road. Cole falls into place at his side, the two fighting off a few more before the gang realizes Zanes back on his feet.

Their bravado and cockiness vanishes. One man turns and runs, and at that the gang scatters- the one who are able to, of course, and are not frozen to the sidewalk or knocked unconscious.

Cole spins around to face Zane, who’s surveying the scene silently, “Are you alright?” He asks, hovering his hands over Zane as if to feel out the injury by aura alone.

Zane’s eyes are trained on the alleyways the gang members disappeared into, mouth a thin and calculated line, “I am alright. The Sons of Garmadons strength is dwindling.”

Cole blinks, frowning. It was almost like Zane wasn’t speaking to him, but the backs of the men hiding away in the dark corners of the streets. As if he was making a point.

The cops show up and begin to load the remaining men into Police Cruisers or ambulances, depending on their state. The ninja did not always pull their punches, especially after Zane hit the ground.

Zane watches as the man with the hammer is loaded onto a police cruiser.

Lloyd motions the two of them over, the others are gathered near a throng of policemen milling about, and Cole reaches out and sets a hand of the small of Zane's back to lead him- Zanes shirt is soaked through and ice cold. The moment his fingers make contact, Zane jolts forward with the barest intake of breath between his teeth. Cole jerks his hand back, the pain flashing across Zanes face almost impossible to catch, but Cole knows his boyfriend better than anyone. A blank mask slips over Zanes face as he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the act, striding across the pavement before Cole can comment.

Cole trails after him, and now that he’s really looking he can see a dark outline of what looks like water straining the back of Zanes gi. In the heat of battle, if Zane got a particularly bad scape, he’d do some emergency first aid and patch himself up with ice like a scab. The hammer hit him hard, it must have jostled something loose- Cole tries not to worry too hard, Zane is still standing and had even fought with him. They just needed to wrap this up quick and get him home. He has half a mind to scoop the nindroid up gently and carry him back right now- but Zanes' words from earlier hang around his ears. Treating Zane like a delicate injured flower in front of any of the new SOG was bound to encourage their violence, just like in the aftermath of Jay. Like Lloyd wanted, a united and unbreakable front is what they needed to project.

Zane is hiding an injury, and for the sake of reputation, Cole has to allow it.

The police chief is standing with the others, and by the time Cole catches up Zane’s already reassuring everyone, “I am fine.” he says gently, Kais worry coming off of him in waves, “Is there anything we can help with?” He directs his next question to the police chief, clasping his hands in front of him.

Cole, along with the rest of his little family, zeroes in on the way Zanes hands are trembling.

His face is completely serene, his gi is soaked through as his ice patch job struggles to stay frozen, and he’s shaking badly enough for even Nya to notice, shooting him a concerned glance as the Police Chief thanks them. He drones on about safety measures and clean up and other things Cole wants him to shut up about so he can bundle Zane up in his arms and kiss and make it better.

Finally, once the conversation draws to a close and they can excuse themselves from the scene, they unconsciously box Zane in as they walk back to where the bounty is parked. The ramp is down and they surround him protectively as they trek up it. Zane still doesn’t hint that anything is wrong, the silence stretching over them tense as they wait for something to happen.

Nya lifts the bounty into the air, and still Zane doesn’t say anything as he pensively stares over the edge of the railing. Cole can’t stand it anymore, he turns around as the city disappears beneath the clouds, “Zane-” he starts.

“Cole.” Zane gasps, grabbing at Coles shoulders as his knees buckle, the calm mask cracking down the middle as he collapses. Like on the pavement before, Zane clenches his hands and bunches Coles gi in his fingers. Cole, startled, grabs Zanes waist- he gasps and whimpers, and cold fear snaps across Cole's mind. He’s never heard Zane make that noise before.

“Not there,” he shakes his head, Cole moves his hands up to cup under Zanes armpits, and while he doesn’t seem to be happy he doesn’t make that awful whimper again.

Jay and Kai are at his side, fluttering their hands in a panic. They want to help but Zanes reaction makes them reluctant to put their hands on him.

“How can we help? What’s hurt?” Jay asks as Cole pulls Zane closer, pressing them together to help stabilize him.

Zane doesn’t attempt to stand on his own, “Shut me down,” He pants, “It’s- the hammer. He broke my spine.”

Jay pales dramatically, weaseling between the two of them to gain access to Zanes chest compartment. He pried it open quickly, reaching it with practiced ease and resting his finger on the switch off button.

He hesitates, under normal circumstances Jay was to never use this button, “Are you sure?”

“Jay.” Zane stresses each letter, and tears spill over his eyes.

He goes limp- again- as Jay pushes the button, his forced shutdown stealing the iron grip from his hands and the tension from his body. He ragdolls in coles arms, slumping bonelessly into his chest. With no ice to keep him stable, Coles can feel the way his body- it’s… it’s not quite right, the break in his spine sending intense warning siglas to coles head where he’s laid against him. The same bone deep wrongness he’s felt once, in dance class when he was 12, and a girl landed wrong doing a complex dance move and her hand had twisted the wrong way- it’d made him sick, seeing the new bend in her wrist where there wasn’t supposed to be one. It makes him feel sick to carry Zane down to the garage when the dock at the monastery, legs trailing behind him and waist a little too loose where the rigid metal casing was snapped.

Jay's prognosis is, “It’s better than It could have been.” Which is not reassuring to Cole, but Nya seems to lose a bit of tension at.

Zane's artificial spine worked much like Cole or Kais, a bundle of ‘nerves’ and wires and other tubes strung through it to keep it safe. The blow had broken through the outer protective metal but the main cord and delicate wiring was largely unharmed. A few pinched and torn wires, mostly- Zane's ice brace kept the wound from deteriorating drastically. Jay wouldn’t comment on how much pain an injury like this would heap onto their friend, but Cole remembers the way the blood had drained from his face at Zanes confession.

“The fact that he could even move…” He mutters to Nya in awe, delicately and oh so gently maneuvering wires. Nya nodded, mute.

Once their repairs reach completion it’s nearly dark out, Jay flips the on switch back up, and they wait for Zane to turn on.

He wakes up with wet eyes, a few stray tears slipping down his face as the leftover pain signals work their way out of his system. He twists over the edge of the table, looking for relief from the hazy pain, nearly taking himself to the floor if not for Coles gentle hands steadying him.

He clutches at Cole again with a low sound of pain, and slowly his eyes clear.

Cole holds him as Zane buries his face in the soft of his gi top, hiding his eyes against Cole's collarbone. Kai moves in and starts to pet his hair soothingly, warmth spreading through his hands.

“You should have said something.” Cole murmurs, “This wasn’t a loose tube or a scrape, this isn’t something you should have powered through. You should have stayed down.” Cole doesn’t dwell on how much it must have hurt for Zane to get back on his feet, and how if he hadn’t the grunts knife would have struck home.

“I could not.” Zane breathes, pulling a way to readjust so he’s resting his cheek against Cole and his face is bare, “If the SOG knew they had hurt me-”

“We would have dealt with it just fine.” Kai says firmly, “Zane, this- you can’t hide an injury that bad. Watching you collapse, knowing how badly you were in pain…” He can’t finish his sentence, huddling closer and clutching at both his boys.

“I apologize,” Zane mutters, his eyelids flutter.

“We can discuss this tomorrow.” Cole says gently, “But I think we’re all exhausted. Let’s go to bed.”

Kai looks like he wants to say something else, but Zanes dazed and sleepy expression makes the words die on his tongue. He runs a hand through his hair, and Cole watches the weight of the day fully settle on his boyfriend's shoulders, “...Yeah, that sounds good to me.”

Cole carries Zane up to bed, Kai immediately taking up a spot at their boys' side. Zane curls into the warmth of Kais embrace as Cole turns out the light and crawls in behind him. Cole cuddles into Zane, who’s already asleep again, and idly traces the near imperceptible scar on his back where the hammer had split metal.

He stares into the patch of darkness where Zanes head is, and thinks about Zane lying prone on the pavement. He pulls him closer, wraps him up in his arms and holds on tight.

He closes his eyes, and sleep doesn’t hesitate to come.

#mountainshipping #cole ninjago #kai ninjago #zane julien #ninjago #spinchip fic #broken bones #blood #violence #injury #angst #hurt comfort

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acnelli · 3 years

Text

Hiding

This is my entry for the Hinny FicFest 2021 hosted by @clarensjoy. Thank you for organising it! There were so many lovely prompts to choose from and originally I wanted to write something really angsty for this one, but then decided to approach this in a much more lighthearted way.

Thank you @accio-broom for beta-reading! You are the best!

Prompt 2: Ginny gets sick and won’t admit it Rating: GA Pairing: Harry/Ginny Summary: Ginny had a bad day, including an unfortunate injury, which she tries to hide from Harry.

Also available on AO3 and FFN.

Ginny walked out of St. Mungo’s with a limp and a glare that would put Hermione’s cat Crookshanks to shame. The world was against her these last couple of days; she just knew it.

It had started with a horrendous loss against a team the Harpies were positive they would never lose to; the Chudley Cannons. The orange excuse of a professional Quidditch Team had beat them, and it wasn’t even a close match. They lost 590 to 120—an absolute disaster.

Of course, her insufferable brother had lost his mind, along with all the other Cannon fans in the stands. It had been the first time the Cannons won in what must’ve been years, which resulted in the players not even hearing the referee’s whistle, signalling the end of the game.

Ginny had given Ron the tickets to this match as a birthday present. As long as the Cannons lost every single time, and she could greet her brother with a smug grin, she was okay with Ron switching his Harpies jersey with her number on it to his orange Cannon one. This time though, Ginny found it nothing short of traitorous, and even her family, including Harry, had the gal to congratulate Ron. Her brother would make sure she would never forget this day, no matter how many times the Harpies would kick their arses in the future.

The Harpies, quite demoralised from their previous match, had shown up at training the next day, as usual. After a pep talk by their coach, the team had pepped up, flying different manoeuvres and acting out the strategies for their game against Ballycastle the next day.

Enjoying the wind on her face, as well as the feeling that only flying so high up in the air could provide, Ginny had forgotten all about their loss and solely concentrated on getting the Quaffle inside one of the three loops from every possible angle. She had been so engaged in training that she noticed the dangerous wheezing of the Bludger one second too late. Although she could dive away to avoid getting hit in the face, the ball collided with her left ankle, and the next thing she knew, she was lying on a stretcher as a medi-wizard treated her injury.

A broken ankle usually could be treated by the team’s healers, but the young man insisted on transferring her to the hospital as he suspected a more complicated fracture. And because it was Ginny’s lucky week, he had been right eventually.

The healer who treated her advised Ginny not to play against Ballycastle as the Skele-gro would cause a great deal of pain, and painkillers were strictly forbidden at Quidditch matches, especially pain-relief potion which had strong side effects, and therefore, were a danger to herself and others while on a broom.

Against the healer’s strongest protests, Ginny refused the skele-gro and asked the middle-aged woman to stabilize her ankle and give her some light painkillers that would wear off until tomorrow.

Ginny needed to play tomorrow. A few days ago, Oliver had tipped her off that the national trainers would be watching the game against Ballycastle, and there was just no way she would pass this chance to show them that she was the right choice to play for England. Even if they only let her join as a reserve Chaser, it would be her ticket to play international Quidditch.

While the discussion with the healer had been annoying but without any chance for the St. Mungo’s employee to change Ginny’s mind, the real battle would be at home. If Harry got even the slightest hint about his wife’s injury, a fight would break out, fitting these infuriating last two days.

Harry, usually being blissfully oblivious to most things, immediately noticed when something was up with Ginny. While most times, this little fact warmed her heart, it was rather unfortunate today. And ever since Harry joined the Aurors, he had become even more of a bloodhound when he sensed a secret.

Ginny was determined to try her best to appear normal when she carefully walked out of the fireplace and into the living room of Grimmauld Place. As she expected, Harry sat on the settee, reading the sports section of the Daily Prophet.

“Hey, Gin,” Harry greeted her, looking up as she walked over to where he was sitting, “How was training? Did Rodgers let you off earlier today?”

The painkillers still in effect, Ginny leaned down to kiss her husband, carefully lifting her weight off her injured ankle. Kissing Harry always made her feel good, but after her dreadful day, it simply felt like heaven.

With one swift movement, Harry pulled her down with him on the settee. She cuddled up against his side, inhaling his scent as she trailed kisses down his neck. As their kisses became more heated, Harry rolled on top of her, and just as she was about to sigh because of the sweet friction, a pained whimper escaped her when Harry hit Ginny’s foot with his leg.

He immediately jumped up, eyes going wide, and Ginny knew that she lost her little hiding game. Carefully sitting up, she waited until Harry crouched down in front of her, looking at her worried.

“Are you hurt? What’s wrong with your foot?”

“Just a small accident at training today,” Ginny tried to reassure him, “Nothing serious.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Why does it still hurt then? Your medi-staff can heal most injuries in a heartbeat.”

“I said I’m fine,” Ginny said, cursing her bloody Weasley genes as she felt her ears turning red. As graceful as possible, she stood up, heading for the kitchen. Besides the fact that she didn’t want to have this conversation, she was also hungry.

Of course, the conversation was far from over because Harry followed her into the kitchen, watching her with a raised eyebrow as Ginny made herself a sandwich. When she turned to face Harry, she tried to casually stand on her good foot, pretending her ankle wasn’t throbbing in a more penetrant manner now. Obviously, the painkillers had already started to wear off.

“Why are you hiding this, Gin?” Harry asked, sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs, “Why didn’t you just go to a healer?”

“Because they would give me skele-gro and a pain-relief potion, meaning I wouldn’t be able to play tomorrow.”

“So? Ginny, I know you are amazing, but I’m sure the Harpies can manage one match without you.”

“Yes, they sure can,” Ginny huffed in frustration, “But if I don’t play, the scouts for the English national team possibly won’t take me into consideration.”

Harry stood up and walked over to his wife, leaning down to get on eye-level with her. “To quote your brother: Are you fucking mental?”

“It’s my career, Harry! Playing for England is the dream, and I refuse to let this silly little injury get in the way.”

Instead of commenting on this, he gently took Ginny’s hand, leading her to sit on a chair. More out of discomfort because of her increasingly throbbing ankle than the willingness to sit down, Ginny complied anyway.

“This is far too dangerous, Ginny. You can’t possibly hold yourself on a broom for-”

“This is not up for debate,” Ginny interrupted him, her tone clipped and her face now red from anger, “I’ll just grit my teeth long enough to play some of my best manoeuvres, and then I’ll ask for a timeout and Rodgers will put me on the bench.”

“And you think Rodgers will be alright with you playing injured? Or are you planning to hide it like you tried to hide it from me?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Harry sighed in frustration at her trademark Weasley-stubbornness but he took Ginny’s hand anyway.

“Okay, let’s put this into perspective, alright?” Ginny wanted to interrupt him, but Harry just kept talking. “You want to play in a game, most likely showing only a mediocre performance because of your broken ankle. Ginny, these scouts don’t have to see you play in this particular game. They know exactly who you are and what you’re capable of already. If you’re not playing in this match, they’ll watch you play in the next one. Assuming they want the very best for the national team, they’ll sure enough not write you off because you couldn’t make it to this match.”

Harry could tell that Ginny’s resolve was already crumbling, but he knew better than to stop here. “There are also your brothers, and more importantly, your mother. Molly will kill me if she learns you hurt yourself even more, despite me knowing of your injury.”

“But I’ve been looking forward to this game for so long,” Ginny sighed, frowning at the unfairness of it all.

“I know,” Harry said, leaning forward a little to softly kiss her pouting lips, “But you can’t play. It’s not just dangerous for you, but also for your teammates and Ballycastle.”

Harry’s words destroyed every resolve Ginny still had standing. The last thing she would want is someone getting hurt because of her stubbornness, and certainly not her beloved Harpies.

“Since when are you the voice of reason.” she groaned, letting her head fall against Harry’s chest and draping her arms around his neck.

Harry took this opportunity to swoop her up into his arms before walking towards the fireplace.

“Let’s get you to St. Mungo’s then.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, sighing at the prospect of the knowing look the healer will give her when she comes back.

Before Harry could floo over to the hospital, Ginny leaned up and placed a hot kiss against his throat.

“If I have to stay at home all day tomorrow, you better keep me company, Potter.”

#hinny #hinny ficfest #harry potter #ginny weasley #hp #hp fanfic #hinny fanfic #hinny fanfiction #harry and ginny #ginny and harry #ginny x harry #harry x ginny

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honeymoonjin · 4 years

Text

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ot7 x reader || ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 11.3k || ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: smut - rated 18+

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:

Sick of unsatisfying hookups, boring relationships or the company of your own hand? Apply today for the chance to be on bangasm.com’s very first reality show! Seven attractive young gentlemen will be vying for your choice of who is best in bed. All from different backgrounds, these men claim they’ll be able to rock your world, so don’t hesitate! Apply now!

Congratulations! You’ve been accepted as the Lady in the first season of The Gentlemen.

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banner designer @jamaisjoons | many thanks to @joonsrack for her translations and @jooneggs for beta reading

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: just a heads-up, there is French in this chapter. it isn’t translated because y/n does not speak French and thus has no clue wtf goes On BUT if you want the goss, feel free to use google translate or ur Local Translation Engine. explicitly sexual content, cursing, voyeurism, exhibitionism, filmed sex, spanking, dom!jimin obv, sub!reader, public (not sex-sex but sexytimes in public), shoe kink, dirty talk, humiliation, degradation, use of safeword, teasing, bondage, gagging, use of sex toys, fingering, multiple orgasms, forced orgasms, overstimulation, crying during sex, unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, a sexy sliver of aftercare before yn zonks it

FAN FAVOURITE

On the sixth Day of every Week in the game, the Audience Fan Favourite vote is released for 48 hours following the post of the fic. Please note, this is NOT the elimination vote, which is taken on the seventh Day of each Week.

Please vote for your favourite member in the house according to Week One only. Vote here. Multiple votes are allowed but please do not spam the voting as this is an overall audience pick. I’m very excited to see what the results will be ! Voting is closed! Thank you for participating!

DAY SIX

You wake up early in the morning to a sore throat. Though the arm that rests heavy on your waist and the breath that tickles the nape of your neck tempt you back to sleep, you can’t even swallow without wincing, and the only solution is a cool drink and some pain meds.

Namjoon doesn’t react when you slip out from under him, sliding your pillow under his arm. He simply lets out a satisfied hum and curls it closer to him. Still, you dress in breathy silence, tiptoeing out and leaving the door open a crack for your return.

Downstairs, the blinking numbers on the microwave read shortly before 6am and you groan. The chance of you getting any more sleep after this was slim.

You pour some water and swallow some basic pain meds with a sigh. If you were honest, quiet moments like this were rare. Past the glass sliding door which leads to the outdoor dining area, you can see glints of reddy golds and flaming orange, pooling between trees to warm the concrete patio. This villa was truly beautiful, and you knew you’d never stay in a place like it again. Not only the house itself but the company you shared was invaluable. All the guys had such a personality to them, and you were surprised at how quicky you’d grown accustomed to them all. Fond, too.

Yoongi’s thoughtfulness, Jungkook’s energy, Jin’s stability. Taehyung who was so giving and Hoseok who never let the mood falter. And more recently, Namjoon becoming more confident and Jimin revealing flecks of heart behind the stone facade. Everyone brought something to the villa that made it a truly magical place. You feel like you’d be happy even without the mind-blowing sex. As the elimination day draws painfully close, your stomach turns with the thought of turning someone away. Of removing them when they’d only just gotten settled. The Lady was the hardest job in the game in many ways.

Finishing your glass, you set it in the sink with a wet clink and roll your shoulders, arching your back as the last of your sleep leaves you in a final yawn. You turn to leave, squeaking when you’re met with a solid body coming out of nowhere.

“Woah- Jimin?” The last person you expected to be up so early, you cringe as your voice raises in disbelief.

The man in question grins, eyes twinkling even in the relative darkness of pre-dawn. “Going so soon?”

“I-” You find yourself at a loss of words, feeling caught somehow, and you clear your still-aching throat. “What are you doing up?”

“Looking for you, little mouse. Or did you forget I’m next in line?” He speaks as light and melodic as a music box, but his lips are twisted in a grin as his eyes roam over you, wearing the same clothes as last night. “Has our Namjoonie finally popped his cherry?”

The way he plays with every syllable has you feeling so vulnerable, so under his control, and your gaze falters, looking instead at his odd attire. Like he’d gotten up in a hurry, he’s wearing a mix of pyjamas and clothes. His legs are tightly clad in glossy faux leather, blacker than black, and his top half is a silk pyjama top, sinful red trimmed with black, and with only a single button done up in the middle of his torso, exposing his lower stomach and the top of his chest. You suck in a breath at the expanse of skin, and what looks like the black sliver of a...tattoo?

“Cat got your tongue?” he questions, drawing your eyes back up as he licks his top lip slowly, purposefully.

“It’s none of your business,” you reply, cursing the way your voice catches throatily, clearly affected by him. “And if you’re going to take your turn, can we at least go somewhere a little more comfortable? It’s six in the fucking morning.”

Like a switch is flipped, his face darkens, the humour gone. You swallow the lump in your throat as Jimin’s mouth sours into a scowl, but you can’t deny the heat that pools between your legs at it too. “I knew it,” he announces, voice acidic.

“Knew what?” Your fate sealed, a streak of confidence rises within you. You’d ruffled him. And every part of you is screaming to make him react again.

His eyes are molten power as they focus on you. “Five days and you’ve already become a spoilt brat.”

Your mouth drops open. “Fuck you! It’s your job to fuck me.”

“Why should I fuck you when you haven’t done a thing to earn it?” Jimin takes a step forward and reflexively you back up. “You’re an ungrateful cockhungry slut, little mouse. If you want me, beg for it.” He takes another step and again, you shuffle back, heart picking up.

“I shouldn’t have to beg,” you counter, though your voice isn’t as firm as before. Jimin simply raises a brow, continuing to walk you further into the kitchen until your lower back strikes the countertop. You swallow again, wishing you weren’t so easily affected. “If you don’t fuck me, I’ll just send you home.”

“You could,” he gives dismissively, lips twitching into a sneer at his following words, “but I don’t think you will. I don’t believe you’d send me home if I didn’t fuck you. Because you want to know how it feels.”

You bite your tongue, glaring up at him, at the way he’s so indifferent about it. “Fine. Then fuck me.”

Jimin tuts reproachfully, his arms leaning forward to prop himself up on the bench behind you, caging you in. Your heart stops beating, the throb felt between your legs instead as he’s close enough to touch, his mouth close enough to kiss, not that you’d dare. “That isn’t begging,” he whispers in disapproval.

“I don’t beg,” you insist, even as your hands clench, fighting the urge to touch him.

Suddenly, the shadow over his face disappears, and he pushes up, creating some distance between you again. “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he says airily, causing you to frown in confusion. “We aren’t at the begging stage yet. You know what you need first?”

You stare at him blankly, giving him a shake of your head.

Jimin grins, and you swear you see his eyes flash. “Punishment.”

“You can’t be serious,” you breathe, though instead of sounding offended as you intend, you just sound needy. Fuck Park Jimin and his iron grip on your arousal.

His grin broadens like the Chesire Cat. “You’ve been very bad, little mouse. You’ve been demanding and impatient, you’ve used vulgar language and I seem to recall the night you interrupted my sleep because of how loud you were next door. I can’t let it slide,” he divulges with a solemn shake of his head, like your poor behaviour pains him, “I just can’t.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you say with a disbelieving laugh. “You can’t punish me like a child.”

“And that will be another one,” Jimin says instead, perfectly calm, rich blue hair catching the light as the sun continues to rise just outside.

“Another what?” you fire back, beginning to tire of so much talk and so little action.

“Another spank,” he deadpans. Were it anyone else, any other situation, perhaps you would’ve laughed at it. Instead, you stare wide-eyed at the stoicism on his face. “That makes it five for swearing to me in this conversation alone, four for being impatient, and five for keeping me up that second night. Should we round it up to twenty?”

You stay silent for a moment, desperately trying to process it. You shake your head slowly. “You can’t make me,” you point out.

“Of course I can’t,” Jimin gives with a chuckle, running a hand through his hair as if to demonstrate how calm he is. Your eyes are magnetised by the silver rings that glint on his fingers, unable to keep yourself from imagining how they might feel on you. “You can always use your safeword, and I’ll respect it,” he continues. “But I doubt it. Whether you like to admit it, little mouse, you want this. You think I haven’t worked out that you a little pain with your pleasure?” He stands back, just a step, but the extra distance makes you feel suddenly unanchored, and you hate it. “I’m going to give you three seconds to turn around and bend over. If you don’t, I’ll walk away and you get nothing. If you take your punishment like a good girl, then we can talk.”

You huff, pressing your lips - and thighs - together in an effort to stay strong.

“One,” Jimin begins, eyes alight with bemusement. You don’t move, just sighing in annoyance again. “Two.”

Your incisors are clamped on your tongue so tightly you can almost taste blood as you glare intensely at his mouth. He draws it out cheekily, letting you wait painstakingly as he wets his lips and finally opens his mouth, the pink of his tongue pressing against his teeth as he-

Before you can process it, you’re flipping yourself around and pressing your upper chest against the counter, eyes squeezed shut in humiliation as Jimin begins to chuckle.

It’s far too loud for the stillness of the early morning, and you muffle a sob in your forearm - not regret, but neediness. A week he’d deprived you, and the smug fucker was right: you’d take what you could get, and love it too. Blessedly, he doesn’t seem to notice the sound, the air filled instead with his triumphant peal of laughter at seeing you presenting yourself to him just like he knew you would.

“Oh, little mouse,” he coos. “What would the others think if they saw you like this, hm? Bent over for me in the middle of the kitchen where anyone could walk in.”

You take in an unsteady breath, feeling your pulse race with excitement as his fingertips - still cold from the morning air - slip under your waistband, as he painstakingly slides it down, revealing your ass. You let out a small whimper when the toe of his shoe catches your ankle, pushing to widen your legs apart. You bite your lip, cheeks heating, core heating even more.

Jimin runs his palms flat over your bare ass and you hiss through your nose at how icy his rings feel. While his hands are smaller than those of other guys of the house, you feel no less under their control, shivering at the contact. “Was it twenty we agreed upon?” His tone is light, playful. He knows he’s got you, and one final burst of defiance bubbles up through your chest.

“Fuck you,” you spit. “Does that make it twenty-one?”

You’re jumping before you even feel the lacing of fire on your right cheek or hear the smack that echos in the room. You choke on a moan, unable to deny how the pain settles into a low-burning pleasure that adds to the wetness between your thighs.

From behind you, you hear Jimin sigh heavily and quickly, like he’s trying to calm himself. “I want you to count them,” he instructs, and you flinch as his hand comes down on you again, but this time his slaps are weak, light swats that warm your skin to prepare it. “Twenty starting now. Understood?”

You bite your lip, but pull yourself up a little to free your face, propping yourself up with your elbows. You feel so vulnerable like this, just your ass bared, legs spread and at his mercy, but all you can think of is feeling his hand on you again. Blearily, you nod, and a pleased hum comes from his throat, barely audible.

Jimin makes you wait for it, holding the silence so that your ears strain, fighting the urge to glance ba-

You jerk with a shallow cry as your other cheek stings with his smack, core clenching. “One,” you announce quietly. With every moment of sunrise, the room gets lighter and lighter, and you squeeze your eyes shut at the thought of someone walking in on the two of you. Was that dread in your stomach or excitement?

He doesn’t speak, only smoothing the skin to cool it before laying another blow, waiting for you to call out a shaky “two.” He’s wearing at least three rings, and you can feel them, more unforgiving than his flesh and painfully ice cold. You wonder in the back of your mind if they’ll leave marks. You can’t help but hope they do.

You’ve made it to eight strikes before your knees begin to shake slightly. Every lick of pain simultaneously hurts more on the raw skin of your ass, but pools as liquid pleasure between your legs faster as you grow accustomed to it. Your pussy aches for contact, and you arch your back after the ninth spank falls, presenting yourself to him even more in the hopes that he’ll be tempted, but Jimin just tuts in disapproval.

“Look at you, little mouse. Soaking after a few spanks. You love this, don’t you? No part of you can deny it anymore.” You pant and bite down hard on your lip, wanting so bad to beg for it. Still, you refuse. Jimin just hums at your attempt at stoic silence, amused more than anything. “Almost halfway. It’ll be over so soon, don’t you think? We should make the most of this.”

You frown at his words, more so when you feel the heat of his body leave you. You crane your neck automatically, spine lifting to stand, but his voice freezes you.

“Fucking face the front and keep position,” he seethes, “I never said you could move.”

You sink back down, widening your legs and lowering your chest so it rests on the edge of the countertop, eyes locked onto the splashback in front of you. With ears straining, you shudder at the sound of a drawer sliding smoothly open, and the various clinks and thuds that follow as he rummages. Once the drawer shuts again and Jimin returns, you can barely breathe, goosebumps breaking out on your thighs and arms.

He pats something against you, then slowly runs it over the heated skin of your ass, the slight friction making you hiss. “Do you know what this is? Feel it.” He continues to brush it around slowly, and you wrack your mind. It’s not metal or plastic - the texture is a little too rough and it isn’t as cold as his rings were. You hiss when you feel it dip down between your thighs, too low to touch you were you need it most. The shape is a tall oval, flat on one side but concave on the other, and you let out a low moan, back arching lower as you work it out. Jimin laughs, bringing it back up to tap it teasingly on your cheek. “I think you do,” he remarks. “Shall we continue?”

You bite your lip but it can’t fully cover the needy moan that spills out. He’s really about to spank you with a wooden spoon, and you’re really dripping for it. “Ye-yes,” you gasp out, a cry ripped from your throat at the first hit. It’s far sharper on your skin than his hand, whistling through the air and landing with a resounding smack. The sting lasts longer too, almost like you can feel the exact outline of the spoon on your skin. “Fuck, ten.”

When Jimin speaks again, his voice is rich with sadistic amusement. “Do you like it, little mouse? You should see yourself. The outline of the spoon just now, the marks from my rings-” he drags a single nail down one of the aforementioned marks, and you keen, the raw pain sent straight to your core, “you mark so beautifully for me. This perky little ass of yours is so red, you know? Should we make it even redder?”

Without waiting for your answer, he lands three smacks in quick succession - right, left, right again. Your body’s instinct takes over and you pull your body forward, tucking your ass in as if to escape it, even as your core throbs with need and your nipples press stiffly against your shirt.

Jimin won’t have it, though, and you moan in a low keen as he wraps an arm low over your hips and tugs you back down, pressing the middle of your back with the fist and clenches the spoon so that you arch beneath it, dropping down that hand to run his knuckles lightly over your abused skin. “Shh,” he hushes firmly, “we aren’t done here yet. If it’s too much for you, you know what to say.”

Your heart warms at his reminder of your safeword, but you have no intention of using it, already melting under the additional physical contact. Instead, you lean back into his grip, presenting yourself for more.

You sense rather than see his grin, but it makes you shiver nonetheless as the amused breath escapes his nose, his cool fingers running over your flesh, thumb and pointer as the rest wrap around the stem of the wooden spoon. “Are you gonna count them then, little mouse?”

Your mouth drops open to answer, but you pause, having to really think back. “Mm, uh, twelve? Eleven?”

Jimin chuckles, returning to those light teasing pats of the wooden spoon, just to make your thighs shake. “Thirteen, actually,” he reveals in a rakish tone. “If you wanted more, you just had to ask.”

Before your brain can process a retort, the spoon comes down again, an audible thwack that jiggles the flesh of your ass with the force of it, and you keen, knees buckling for just a moment. The contrast of intense stimulation of the fiery skin on your ass and the complete neglect of your needy core is infuriating but addictive nonetheless. “Fuck, Jimin, fo-fourteen.”

You automatically suck in a breath in the sudden lull as Jimin rears his hand back, but the quiet reveals a different noise, the laughing and joking and thud-thud-thud of people coming down the stairs, and you’re choking on the air in your lungs, freezing as two familiar faces round the corner and come to a halt as they witness the scene you’re in.

Your legs shiver but your core throbs still as Jungkook and Taehyung watch you wide-eyed, eyes dancing in unision from Jimin, to you, to your ass and the spoon in Jimin’s hand. The cheeks of your face are somehow hotter and redder than the others, but regardless you stay frozen in position, waiting for someone else to make a move.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Jimin who speaks up first, the only one of you four unbothered. “She has six hits left, boys,” he offers up, patting your hip like you’re a ride to have a go on. “Any takers?”

Taehyung steps forward first, Jungkook’s mouth still hanging low. As you watch his slender fingers wrap around the handle of the wooden spoon, you shiver, and he chuckles at your reaction.

“You know,” he muses casually, replacing Jimin behind you as the older man steps away to lean against the bench beside you, “I think I’m starting to warm up to this whole situation, petal. Where else would I get to walk in on a sight like this? And Jimin-hyung is so generous to let us help out. Thank him, Y/n.”

A breath rushes out of your throat, one you hadn’t even realised you were holding. Humiliation rushes through you, but it’s cloudy with arousal, and your tongue is loose with it. “Thank you, Jimin.”

“Good girl,” Taehyung coos shortly, and that’s the only warning before he’s swatting you harshly with the flat back of the spoon, and you let out a strangled moan. Your ass won’t stop stinging between hits, but you obediently call out ”fifteen, sixteen, seventeen,” until you only have three to go.

Taehyung relinquishes his turn reluctantly to Jungkook; the youngest contestant in the house eying you up strangely, almost like he can read and understand the pleasure in the welts on your ass and the tremble of your knee. Almost like he’s been where you are, or somewhere close. Judging by the apparent variety of his streams, you don’t doubt it.

Like Jungkook’s testing the waters, his first hit is the weakest, barely making you flinch. You exhale lowly in disappointment. “Eighteen,” you say, swallowing down the drool that threatens to gather.

Before any more land, you instead feel fingers at your hairline, brushing back strands that have covered your face. Small but strong points of pressure light up on your jaw as Jimin pulls your chin to look up at him, his eyes swirling with deep satisfaction.

“I wanna see the look on your face,” he announces quietly. “I want our Jungkookie to make these last two hurt. Will you take it for me?”

His voice brooks no disagreement, still dripping with authority and control, but you know that he’s once more giving you an out should you wish to use your safeword, so you nod shakily, eyes fluttering. “Please.” You’ve still received no friction - or contact at all - on your pussy, and you feel yourself going crazy. The pain is addictive, licks of pleasure that seep into your veins after every spank, but you can’t handle how you drip down your own thighs, soaking your panties even as they rest hooked just above your knees. Two more hits and you’d finally get what you needed.

You haven’t seen Jimin’s face this close, and certainly not seen his eyes in such intense detail before, and instead of anticipating the next hit you find yourself blinking up at him dazedly. His hair, the deep glossy navy that you’d never seen on somebody before, is swooped gracefully over his brow, which is still a natural black, and below it his eyes are molten with lust and satisfaction, watching your face intently. His hands are hot on your face, the rings cool points of unforgiving contact, and you can’t help but wonder if the plush pillows of his lips are warm like his hands or cool like his rings. They’d feel softer against yo-

“Fu-fuck!” you cry, eyes squeezing shut as two sharp hits strike you not on the already-red skin of your ass, but the tops of your thighs instead, just below the swell of flesh. It’s more painful than you’d expect, but you’re so turned on that your mind just screams better and more. Caught up in it, you belatedly gasp out a “nineteen, twen’y,” and feel yourself sink against the countertop, held up by Jimin’s hands on your face and jaw.

“Little mouse,” his voice calls out, and your brows knit together as you struggle to decipher his tone. “Little mouse.”

You force your eyes open, breathing heavily through your mouth as everything except the burn below and Jimin above fade away. “Jimin,” you whisper, lips barely moving.

His give a twitch, pleased. It warms your heart to see the flicker of approval. “What do you say, hm?”

You don’t even think, but your body knows the answer. “Thank you, Jimin.”

“I’m not the only one,” he remarks, though a pleased grin is evident on his face and in his voice.

Truthfully, you’d almost forgotten the others, but as you thank them, eyes still locked on Jimin, you feel your toes curl at the realisation that you’re surrounded by three extremely attractive men. Men that are all here to-

The dopey smile of anticipation is struck from your face when Jimin abruptly lets go of you, pushing off the countertop. You stumble, catching your legs under you and fumbling to pull up your jeans reflexively. “Where are you-?”

You jump at the dull clang of the wooden spoon being tossed in the sink, Jungkook’s hand free as Jimin discards the tool. You watch openmouthed, panties and jeans barely on as the former rest uncomfortably soaked against your core, as the eldest of the three rolls his shoulders and sighs happily. “So, boys; should we make some omellettes for breakfast? I feel like cracking a few eggs.”

Taehyung grins and Jungkook’s gaze slides to you in uncertainty but the two agree, casually retrieving ingredients and utensils like you aren’t sitting there with a stinging ass and your jeans unbuttoned.

“Jimin,” you mumble dumbly, and to your surprise he acknowledges you this time, walking over to stand in front of you with a congenial smile.

“You’re done here, Y/n,” he announces. Unabashedly, his hands slip down and begin to fully slide your panties and jeans up, fingers slipping up the zip and buttoning them closed. “You didn’t want to beg, and I’m not going to make you. You took your punishment, so why don’t you toodle along? I’m sure one of us will call for you when breakfast is ready.”

Your mouth drops open, the final lusty haze of the scene evaporating fast enough to leave you reeling. “Are you serious? You aren’t going to do anything?”

Jimin’s eyebrows lower intently, voice hushing like he’s sharing a secret, even though Taehyung and Jungkook are right behind him in earshot. “Oh, little mouse. You know exactly what to do to get what you want.”

He waits expectantly, but your eyes dart past his shoulders to the other two boys. Begging was one thing, but in front of the others? You fight a pout, hoping your face looks angry rather than put out. “You’re an asshole, and I’m voting you out.”

His grin broadens, wolfish. “Well then,” he remarks with an unbothered lift of a brow, “I better hurry up and make these omelettes before I get sent home, now, shouldn’t I?”

And with that, he turns his back to you and begins chatting to his friends. You stay for one more moment of shocked silence, but soon turn tail, stomping back up the stairs with the wet fabric of your panties pressing coldly against you.

---

When you peek your head in the door, Namjoon is still asleep, so you quickly duck back into your room and change into some fresh clothes and underwear before going back in, content to chill on his armchair until he wakes.

You’d told him you would stay, and the way the fabric of your leggings rubs against your sore ass when you sit only reminds you of the fact that you’d been gone longer than anticipated already. He looks peaceful, though, clearly quite content with the pillow you’d left him with. Namjoon’s mouth is parted slightly, slack and half-pressed into his own pillow. He clutches yours with both arms, snuffling or grunting in his sleep every few moments.

You’re happy with just scrolling through your phone aimlessly for the half hour or so it takes before he wakes, back arching and neck cracking as he stretches. A beam broadens on your face at the dazed slow blink and wide yawn that he emits. “Sleep well?” you ask softly, not wanting to startle him.

He pats the pillow and mattress beside him in confusion, sitting up to stare at you with a squint. “You stayed?”

“I said I would,” you dismiss, a single thread of guilt wrapping around your heart at the memory of where you’d just came from. “I woke up a bit early and needed a drink. Sore throat.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen dramatically, the concern on his face ringed by a mess of tanged purple hair. “I’m so sorry! I should’ve asked…”

“You’re fine, Namjoonie,” you murmur. “I was actually wondering if you’d want to-”

You break off to the sound of what is undoubtably Jungkook belting out his lungs from downstairs, announcing breakfast is ready. Namjoon lights up, kicking the blankets off in a rush to get out of bed. “I’m starving,” he chimes, getting dressed without a shred of the self-consciousness you’d witnessed the night before. Hunger has seemingly stolen all his brainpower, and you follow his eager slipstream as he rushes down the stairs noisily, thumping into the kitchen.

Both your heart and your core throb in disappointment, your opportunity for morning sex lost by the offer of a hot meal. Your mood sours even further when you come face-to-face with the three youngest serving up omelettes, Jimin smiling brilliantly, still dressed in a barely-buttoned silk pyjama shirt and some black glossy pants.

He barely spares you a glance, even as he sits almost directly across from you. You take a seat between Namjoon and Jin, Taehyung, Jungkook and Jimin on the other side and the heads of the table kept by Hoseok and Yoongi.

You have to admit that the wafting smells of cooked egg, cheese and various spices have your stomach grumbling, so you vow to ignore the unsatisfied heat between your legs and the smug man across from you and tuck in, your knife cutting through the omelette like butter. It’s delicious, and clearly everyone at the table shares the same sentiment, moans of surprised enjoyment filling the air.

“I’m impressed, Jimin,” Yoongi admits, “the first time I’ve even seen you awake for breakfast and you make us this. It’s fantastic.”

His voice is melodic, teasing at your eyes even as you avoid looking at him. “Thanks, Yoongi-hyung,” Jimin replies warmly, “I was actually taught the recipe from one of my good friends who works as a chef in France.”

Hoseok isn’t impressed, and the way he scrunches his face up in annoyance makes you suppress a grin. “Let me guess, Remy the rat? If we dig around in that hair of yours will we find him tugging you around?”

Jimin ignores him coolly, knife twirling deftly around his fingers. “I haven’t seen Victor in several years, but his cooking lessons have always stuck with me. Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai qui tu es.”

“You are what you eat,” Namjoon muses, shoveling a wobbling stack of egg into his mouth.

Your eyebrows lift, turning to him with shock. “You speak French?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jimin straighten in interest at the man directly across from him, but Namjoon doesn’t seem to notice, cheeks bulging as he hurriedly tries to finish his mouthful. “Took it as an elective in university,” he explains once he’s done, “never actually been to France, though.” He turns to Jimin finally, eyes shining with the spark of curiosity that always seemed to smoulder there. “What’s it like?”

“C’est incroyable,” Jimin enunciates, the French dripping off his tongue like sparkling water. “Tu devrais y aller un jour. Mon ami a un appartement à Paris avec une chambre d’amis dans laquelle je séjourne des fois.”

Namjoon gasps, and you glance around the table, everyone bar the two of them looking totally confused. “Avec vue sur la Tour Eiffel?” The only indication it’s a question is the way his pitch rises, but the rest is incomprehensible to you, so you just return to your omelette, content to watch the conversation play out like a foreign movie without subtitles. Body language and tone being your only clues.

“Bien sûr,” Jimin replies easily, his head tipping to the side, eyes burning as he stares at the older man, “mais on pourrait peut-être parler de choses plus excitantes que cela? As-tu apprécié la compagnie de Y/N dans ton lit hier soir?”

You straighten up as you hear your name, glaring at Jimin in suspicion. You’d never regretted picking Spanish in high school instead of French more. Namjoon, interestingly, seems equally ruffled by Jimin’s comments. “That’s really none of your busi-”

“Tu vas me parler en Français, Namjoon, ou je vais commencer à te poser des questions en Anglais. Qu’est-ce que t’en dit? The choice is yours.” Jimin’s voice turns sharp, spitting out the syllables like jabs. The choice? In unison, everyone at the table turns to Namjoon in question as the academic flushes.

“Fine,” he says shortly in English, before switching back to French. “On n’est pas vraiment... allés jusqu’au bout. J’allais lui proposer ce matin, mais tu nous a appelés pour le déjeuner. .”

Jimin’s mouth curls slowly, deviously, making Namjoon swallow. You feel your own cheeks heat at the thought that they were very likely speaking about you. “Is that so?” Jimin asks in English, head tipping slowly. He takes a single bite of his breakfast, making Namjoon shift awkwardly in his seat at the wait. “Well; I do apologise for interrupting.” You look up between the two of them. Was he referring to him spanking you that morning? Or him calling you down just when you were going to make a move? Jimin isn’t done, sliding down in his seat just slightly, so he’s leaning back. “Laisse-moi me faire pardonner.”

Namjoon’s brows knit and his mouth opens to reply, but suddenly he goes ramrod stiff, eyes flying wide open. “Wh-what are you-?” His chest heaves once, his throat bobbing as he swallows down the rest of his sentence.

You frown, glancing down to see the shiny tip of Jimin’s shoe pressed firmly against Namjoon’s crotch, shifting back and forth. You look away, hoping to avoid attracting more attention to Namjoon’s predicament, but you can’t deny the hot rush of heat between your own thighs at the thought of Jimin getting Namjoon off at the breakfast table with just the sole of his shoe. You finish off the last of your omelette bitterly, hating the way that your mind wishes you were in Namjoon’s seat right now.

Like nothing’s happening, Jimin continues to converse with his elder, the others at the table seemingly none the wiser. “Ce n’est peut-être pas une une chatte bien chaude et humide, mais tu es un bon garçon, n’est-ce pas? Tu vas prendre ce que je te donne, non?”

“Jimin,” Namjoon croaks out, voice surprisingly steady even as it’s low with arousal, “i-is there any more batter left? I’d love another omelette.”

Jungkook pipes up, finally hearing enough English to be able to contribute. “There’s not much left, but I was actually thinking I kinda feel like some hash browns and bacon, so we could go for round two if anyone else is up for it?”

Yoongi and Jin, like they’ve been awakened with the promise of more food, drag their chairs back simultaneously to stand. “I don’t trust you with frying bacon, Jungkook,” Jin answers from beside you with a small grin, “let hyungs help.”

Half the table files away, Hoseok also joining those in the kitchen, probably because he’s hoping for some taste-testing, and you’re left with Taehyung being the only unaware party, on his phone as he mindlessly sips away at a glass of juice.

“Regarde-moi ça,” Jimin announces with melodic glee. “il y a moins de regards sur toi maintenant. Les autres sont dans la cuisine, Taehyung ne nous prête pas attention, et Y/N sait déjà ce qui est entrain de se passer; regarde-la.”

You glance up at your name but Taehyung doesn’t even react, mouth slightly open as he focuses on the video he’s watching silently, pinky finger tapping at the condensation on the glass absentmindedly.

Namjoon turns to face you, before glancing down at the shoe which rocks faster and broader between his legs, his cock tented and leaking a small wet patch in his trousers. He knows you know. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t-”

Jimin overtakes deftly, making Namjoon hunch over the table as the jerking of his shoe against Namjoon’s clothed cock speed up. Even as Jimin’s eyes are on you, he addresses the older man in lush French. “Est-ce que tu vas venir comme ça, hm? Crois-tu pouvoir rester silencieux?”

Your skin feels like it’s on fire, the heat stemming from between your legs as you wish you could’ve felt some contact from Jimin instead. Even just the sole of his shoe would be better than nothing, but it seems that Namjoon doesn’t share the sentiment, as his hand shoves at Jimin’s foot. “Rouge,” he gasps out lowly, and Jimin recoils like he’s been shot.

Sitting upright, feet to himself again, Jimin’s eyes widen at the word. Even with the little to no French knowledge you have, you can guess the meaning. Red. Namjoon used the safeword. “I’m so sorry,” Jimin croaks, and you’re startled at the vulnerability and genuine apology in his voice, “are you not-?”

“Juste parce que je suis techniquement vièrge, ça ne fait pas de moi un soumis,” Namjoon explains with a rueful smile. You wish he would’ve spoke in English, but his light tone at least reassures you that he isn’t mad or hurt or upset. He mostly just seems a little embarrassed and overwhelmed.

“Can we stop speaking in baguette?” Taehyung pipes up miserably, putting his phone away. “Oui, oui. Mercy. Oh reservoir. Anything more complex than that and you’ve got me lost.”

Namjoon frowns, bewildered. “Do you mean merci and au revoir?”

“Do I?” Taehyung questions rhetorically, eyes dazed. Namjoon just shrugs hopelessly, but that seems enough for the black-haired boy. He cheers up a bit and, glancing at Namjoon’s hunched figure, lets out a short sigh. “You look tense, hyung. Do you need some help relaxing?”

Jimin bites his lip with guilt, and you hate the way you’re drawn to that pillow of flesh, so pink against the white of his teeth. What you wouldn’t give to lean over there and see what it felt like to kiss him.

Namjoon, however, seems less concerned with Jimin. You get the idea that perhaps he’s not one to have a short temper or hold grudges. “It’s okay, I think I might have a quick shower upstairs before the second lot of breakfast is finished.” Displaying his characteristic shyness, Namjoon makes an awkward yet completely unsuccessful attempt to leave the room without revealing his tented crotch.

Taehyung’s eyes follow it out until Namjoon’s out of sight, his mouth hung open. After a moment’s thought, brows knitted tightly together, Taehyung turns back to the two of you at the table. “Do you think he’s turned on by food or something? He did seem pre-tty eager to chow down that omelette. I should go ask him.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jimin sinks his face into his hands as Taehyung scrambles after Namjoon, and you honestly don’t blame him.

You manage to make it to late afternoon before you encounter Jimin again. After the meal, he speaks quietly to Jin and the two disappear into the private rec room. For you as well, the day is spent inside, Jungkook asking for your assistance in spotting him at the indoor gym, mostly so he can explain to you and Hoseok the extremely elaborate plot of his latest anime show while he lifts weights. You and Hoseok, completely lost, ended up spending hours there trying to understand all the character arcs and plot twists and backstories, eventually moving up to Jungkook’s room so he could show you the first few episodes. By the time he let you go, you made your way downstairs with a bag of laundry, having almost spent a full week in the villa.

Unlike most of the house, the laundry feels very basic and surburban: a front-loader, a dryer and a sink with some cabinets are really the only pieces of furniture, so you perch on the dryer as you wash, and the washer as you dry your load of clothes.

Letting the regular thump of the drying machine lull you into a sleepy daze, you’re too zoned out on your phone to notice someone approaching until fingers wrap around your phone, pushing it down away from your face.

Jimin’s still hasn’t changed out of his red pyjama shirt, and as you sit up ramrod straight and focus onto him, you admire the way the lapels lay open to expose his collarbones. “Fancy seeing you here,” he announces with a grin, eyes raking over you as you sit atop the washing machine.

“What a coincidence,” you deadpan, crossing your arms. “I know what you’re doing.”

“And what would that be, little mouse?”

You fight the urge to press your legs together at the petname, Jimin’s eyes intelligent and self-satisfied as they watch you. “Coming here to seduce me.”

Jimin laughs, and your cheeks flush hot at the sound, his head tipping back to expose a graceful neck. “Oh, Y/n, don’t think so highly of yourself. I’m just here to do my laundry.”

Dubious, you keep your legs dangling over the side and your arms crossed as you look down. True enough, a basket of washing rests and his feet, and you wait bitterly as he brushes your legs wider so that he can turn on the machine, selecting the right settings and pouring in a scoop of detergent. You keep a stoic silence, biting down on your tongue at his actions, but he doesn’t seem to care about your eyes on him.

In fact, he appears to openly thrive on it, sinking into a crouch in front of the machine and blinking up at you innocently, his face in front of your aching crotch. Refusing to give in, you press your lips together while he opens the door and deposits his clothes, socks, underwear, everything he’s been wearing the past few days. Once he’s done, you feel yourself relax a bit, but then he lets out a thoughtful hum.

“I suppose I should wash these too,” he muses, fingering at the bottom edge of his shirt, and your mouth goes dry. That fucker. He doesn’t even look at you as he undresses, but the smirk on his lips speaks volumes.

Your hips long to writhe, but you force yourself still as he unbuttons his shirt, opening it up and chucking it in casually, running a hand over his now-naked chest, quite literally rubbing it in. The most skin you’ve seen on him yet, you allow yourself to drink in the sight. He’s more muscular than you’d expect, though it’s all lean muscle, graceful yet speaking to a corded strength.

Even though you know it’s coming, there’s nothing that can prepare you for the obscene sight of him pulling down the zipper of his black patent leather pants, revealing equally black boxers. He’s not hard, not even the slightest hint of a chub, and the thought infuriates you that he could make you so needy without even getting aroused himself, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

As he lowers his pants down, his thighs are revealed in all their glory, the thickest part of him. They flex as he lifts each leg, tugging off the pants fully and tossing them in. Though you hadn’t noticed before, now is the first time you’ve seen him without his shoes on, and you marvel at the fact that he loses none of his power like this, that it really comes from within, from his piercing gaze, knowing smile and confident posture. Chucking them in the washing machine too, he pauses for a moment, lip tugged up in a smirk, before his ringed fingers find the elastic waistband of his boxers.

Startled, a breathy, “Jimin,” falls from your lips unbidden, barely audible.

“Hm?” Jimin has no regard for modesty as he bares himself fully, cock twitching as you stare, wide-eyed. “What’s the problem, little mouse? This is a shared facility.” He chucks the slip of light fabric amongst the rest of his clothes and shuts the lid, pressing start. A gasp escapes you as the machine kicks into gear, already beginning to shudder and rock under you, sending vibrations to your needy core.

As you stare, Jimin stands in front of you, resting a hand on the edge of the machine, right between your splayed legs. His dick is slowly plumping up, the man completely unbothered as he lowers his free hand to press at the skin around it, sighing.

Your fingers clench into fists as your arms remain crossed, pussy thriving and dripping with the pleasure after so long, but cursing that his hand is so close yet so far to your clothed cunt. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you spit, leaning back and tipping your head up to stare stubbornly at the ceiling. The image of him, his naked body is still seared onto your eyelids and you let out a huff. “You have no shame.”

“Shame never seemed like a particularly useful quality to have.”

“I’m not giving you what you want,” you insist, voice trembling slightly - though you blame the steady jarring of the washing machine that runs from your core all the way up to your teeth.

“Then I could say the same to you,” you hear Jimin reply easily, before letting out a suspiciously low groan.

Your head shoots down and you gawk at the way he grasps himself, fully hard now, and runs the crook of his pointer finger over his weeping head. His cock is gorgeous, the hair above trimmed neatly and the tip arcing towards the ceiling, towards your shocked stare as he smears the glistening precum around his head, hissing at the coolness of his rings on the heated skin.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you utter in complete bewilderment. “This isn’t washing your laundry!”

Jimin hums, head tipped back and eyes slipping shut in indulgence. “I can leave to jerk off alone if that makes you more comfortable?”

You fall silent, eyes locked onto his languid strokes. That isn’t what you want at all, and he knows it. “Jimin,” you murmur lowly, captivated by the slow drags of his hand on his cock, rings glinting wetly. He makes a noise of response, almost lost in the mechanical whirring and thudding of the washing machine that stirs in your loins. Your voice is barely louder than his. “Jimin, why are you making this so difficult?”

His head tips back down, lips parted and eyes lidded. “Oh, little mouse,” he sighs, “do you wish you could touch? Do you wish I was inside you?”

You glance again at his hand, resting mere centimetres away from your core. “You know I do,” you admit in a small voice.

“Then beg,” he replies simply, hand slowly picking up speed on his dick. “The only thing that’s keeping you horny and unsatisfied is yourself. You could’ve cum three times already if you knew what was good for you.”

You sigh, licking your lips needily. A light ding echoes in the room; your washing has finished in the dryer. You ignore it. “Please, Jimin.”

Jimin’s eyes open fully, locking on you with a smirk. “Closer,” he answers, teeth exposed as he grins just slightly. Still, though, he continues to stroke himself, even going so far as to take a half step forward to rest the underside of his cock against the washing machine, groaning at the vibrations.

You huff when you realise he isn’t going to speak further. “You do realise I could just go get myself off, right? You don’t have all the power here.”

You know you’ve said the wrong thing when his cheeks lift, lips spread wide in a teasing sneer. “We both know that’s not quite true. Perhaps I don’t have all the power, but a little birdie told me that you’re no longer allowed to put your hand in your own pants. I don’t suppose that rings a bell?”

He knows about Hoseok’s deal. Perhaps they all do. In an effort to wipe the smug look off his face, you scoff, spreading your legs wider in a show of relaxation. “Well then, I guess I might as well go upstairs and ask Hoseok to fuck me. I bet he’d do a better job than-”

Like lightening, his hand leaves his own cock and lashes out, fisting your shirt in his hands and tugging you forward, hard enough that you have to quickly uncross your arms and grab onto him to stop your foreheads from knocking together. You gasp at the fiery look on his face, his voice a sharp growl. “If you think he can fuck you half as good as I can, you’re dreaming.”

“Wha-?” you make out, so close that your breath ruffles the wisp of hair that swoops over his brow.

Just as quick as he grabbed you, Jimin lets go, stepping away. “Your laundry is ready,” he announces lowly. “You’ll be waiting outside my bedroom door in two hour’s time or you won’t get anything at all. Clear?”

Startled, you nod, jumping down off the mid-cycle washing machine, your legs feeling wobbly with the sudden withdrawal of vibrations. Grabbing your washing out of the dryer, you rush out the room with one last glance at him before the door slams and locks behind you. All is silent in the hallway as you ascend the stairs, but internally you scream with excitement.

Two hours drags and stretches and then snaps, everything too slow and then too fast until you’re knocking on Jimin’s door, stomach swirling sickly with anticipation.

He takes his sweet time answering, heightening your heart rate, but by the time he does it takes your breath away. He’s in a different pair of black pants, jeans that are skinny enough to make his legs seem a million miles long. His chest is fully covered this time, but it’s a transparent white mesh singlet, a white pressed blouse with gold buttons and cufflinks unbuttoned at the top to expose it. His lips, plush as ever, are covered in a sheer gloss that glints in the light and his eyes are intense in the frame of thick lashes and a hint of shadow on the lids, warm and smokey. As usual, he’s laden with jewellery, his classic silver rings paired with a pair of thin dangling chains from his lobes that sway hypnotically when he tilts his head in greeting.

You, too, had dressed for the occasion, seeking out your prettiest pair of lingerie - a black lace set with embroidered vines and buds around the hems and cups. The only thing you’re wearing on top is a black silk robe tied lazily around your waist. Thanking your lucky stars nobody had wandered into the upstairs hallway while you were waiting, you step inside, the thick carpet under your bare feet muffling your steps.

Jimin is back in shoes, and you bite your lip when you recognise them as the ones he’d worn at breakfast just that morning. It feels like days ago, your heightened arousal the whole day stretching time into an eternity.

“Kneel,” he instructs shortly, pointing at the carpet in front of him. For a moment you hesitate, but you'd gotten so far and it would be foolish to test your luck and risk getting thrown out with nothing yet again. Besides, part of you wants to see what he'll do when you're actually good for him. You kneel.

His room is perhaps one of the largest excluding yours. His bathroom door is shut, but even just the bedroom has room for a queen bed, two nightstands, a dresser and a chest at the foot of the bed which you're facing. You wonder idly if he'd paid the staff off for the biggest room, but before you can ponder much more he steps in front of you, his crotch right at your eye-level. You glance up him, sucking in a breath at how perfect he looks glancing down at you.

You lick your lips in anticipation, and it draws his attention. "This pretty little mouth of yours," he muses, reaching out to run his fingers over your lips, tugging down the flesh to watch it bounce back. Your chest puffs in pride, mouth practically watering at the thought of sucking him off. You part your lips when he presses on the seam, and his first two fingers delve into your mouth, slowly thrusting so that the pads run along your tongue, making you drool around his digits. You widen your jaw obediently, eyes pleading. But his face changes, then, a frown clouding his features. "More trouble than it's worth," he decides stiffly, and suddenly your mouth is empty, Jimin wiping your saliva off on your cheek before he turns his back to you, opening the chest.

Your mouth stays slack and open, but for a different reason. From what you can see, the wooden box is filled with toys, slips of fabric and leather, metal chains, everything. Suddenly, something catches your attention. At the bottom right corner, the initial PJM have been gracefully engraved, painted in with a glossy black ink. This is his, you realise, what he uses for his shoots. You feel your panties dampening between your legs as he rifles around.

When he turns back around, you recoil slightly, recognising the buckled contraption he comes up with. A ball gag. He smiles wickedly at your reaction, standing over you and running his hand through your hair, combing it back from your face. "This is a good thing, little mouse," he explains, tapping your lips twice to indicate to widen your jaw. You obey in a daze, feeling the sphere of unforgiving black plastic fill the front half of your mouth, your teeth keeping it in place. "Now you won't be tempted to run your mouth. Isn't that thoughtful of me?" You glare up at him as the straps wrap around your skull, his deft fingers tightening the buckle just enough so you can't spit the ball out. Your breath comes through your nose now, huffing at him.

He chuckles, crouching in front of you. It's overwhelming, suddenly having his face so close again. The perfect swells of his cheekbones, the sculpted brows and intelligent eyes so intensely locked onto yours. "You can't speak now, little mouse. So your safeword is going to be non-verbal. Click your fingers once for yellow, and over and over as much as you can for red. Okay? Click now so I know you can do it."

You click your fingers, feeling your chest ease slightly with the reinforcement of your safety net. The moment you're done, however, that warm concern vanishes, and he straightens up, turning away from you yet again.

"You're lucky," his voice announces, leaning over to dig in his box of tricks, "normally I'm not so generous. Normally I wouldn't let you cum until you'd well and truly earned it. But those cries of yours on the Monday night..." He trails off, spinning back on his feet to face you, a pair of leather cuffs in his hand, unconnected with heavy duty silver loops dangling from them. His eyes pierce you with a hint of vulnerability that you don't think he even realises he's showing. "You drive me crazy, Y/n. I want to hear you cum over and over and over again for me."

No matter how much your chest rises and falls, you feel breathless, eyes wide. Unable to verbally respond - though you don't even know what you'd say - you just give him a pleading gaze, hips rocking against the bottoms of your feet in search of friction.

He lets out a breath, stepping forward. "Take off your robe," he instructs with a rough voice. Your fingers fumble with the slack knot, hurriedly shedding it and tossing it away, leaving yourself in just the lingerie. "Fuck," he says with a breathy chuckle, "you're gonna be the death of me, little mouse. Wrists."

You clench your teeth around the ball gag in a keen at his words, lifting your arms up to reach him.

One at a time, he fits on the leather cuffs. They're relatively wide, though not too thick, and once he does up the buckle on each one you feel your eyes flutter. Something you'd never felt before but it's divine, the way they wrap so snugly around your wrists, not only a physical anchor, but a reminder that you're his, letting out a low moan when he slips a finger in one of the silver loops, tugging to ensure the fit.

Jimin's lip twitches at your reaction, and instead of telling you to stand, he uses the hoops, pulling your wrists up by the cuffs until you stand to ease the pressure, stumbling slightly as you get off your knees without your hands to assist. He leads you to the head of the bed, where you see the two chains that wrap around the bars of the headboard.

"On," he instructs, letting go so you can clamber up, sitting as you await further instruction. "On your back, darling," he coos, pressing at your shoulder so your head rests back onto the pillow. Automatically, you lift your arms, pulling a smile from his lips as he loops the chains through the silver hoops of your cuffs, spreading your arms wide apart, knuckles brushing against the wood of the headboard.

"Don't go anywhere," he remarks teasingly before leaving you, retrieving a few things from the chest. You tug slightly at one of your cuffs, testing it, and muffle a groan at the feeling of being trapped, tied down and at his mercy.

When he returns, his hands are full, and he tosses the fruits of his labour on the bed beside your torso, getting up on the bed to sit between your legs. You gasp when he tugs your ankles firmly, making you slip down so that your arms are straight, less room to struggle. This way, too, you can barely crane your head up, chest blocking your few of the toys he's brought over.

"Now," he says with a patient sigh, fingering the hem of your panties, "let's get rid of these, mm?" You lift your hips obediently when he goes to slip them down, curling your toes at the sudden cool air on your pussy. "Fuck, look at you," he gushes lowly, his fingers running up and down your slit so light you can barely feel them, making you whimper. "So fucking wet, little mouse. I haven't even touched you."

You lift your head to moan at him, trying to get out your plea, though your words are unrecognisable through the ball gag.

He pouts teasingly, rubbing the flat of his palm over you, slicking up his hand. "Oh, poor baby. The mean old Jiminie kept teasing her, did he? Baby just wants to cum?"

You groan, eyes scrunching shut as you nod your head. Even the simple touch of his hand between your legs is so good you could cry.

You tremble when you feel two fingers slip inside your wetness, a tight fit but one that lets him in so smoothly with how much you're soaked for him. He finds your g-spot with an almost supernatural ease, rubbing at it with the pads of his two fingers, curling inside you. You let out a strangled groan which makes him chuckle.

"I'm being generous now, aren't I? Say thank you, Y/n."

You sob. He knows full well you can't speak, but you obey nonetheless, letting out an unintelligible garble of your thanks.

"Good girl," he coos, and your legs fall apart wider in bliss as he begins an indulgent pace, the cool bands of his rings when they plunge inside you addictive. The second his thumb lifts up and begins rubbing at your clit, you're already on the edge from being deprived so long, and you cum almost immediately, shuddering around his fingers at the deep but powerful satisfaction.

You come down from your high relatively quickly, but he's already slipped his hand out, and you glance down in confusion, only to choke on a moan when you see him, tongue poking out slightly in focus as he uses your own slick to lube up a dildo, a powder pink silicone one that's roughly the shape of a cock, but far smoother, getting wider at the bottom for a place to hold it.

Once he's done, almost without acknowledging you, he grips your knee, making it bend and your leg lift higher up the bed, spreading you wider open for him, the other one still flat on the mattress, splayed wide.

"That was your warm-up, little mouse, I hope you enjoyed it," Jimin remarks with a grin, and you breathe heavy around the gag, back arching as he presses the head of the dildo into you.

It's far wider than his two fingers, and the stretch dumbs you, making your mind slow to a halt to appreciate every inch that fills you, dragging against your sensitised g-spot. Jimin's knuckles bump your clit when he bottoms out, and you shiver, the dildo so deep inside you.

"Let's get started, shall we?" he declares rhetorically with a wolfish grin, and once again your eyes squeeze shut when he begins a bruising pace, every strike spearing you open and making your eyes water. Your spine hitches as you writhe beneath him, but his grip on your bent leg is too strong, and no matter how hard you clench he drives the dildo so fully inside you that your mouth is slack, wide enough that your teeth don't even clamp around the ball on your tongue. With an open mouth, more sound comes through, and you hear the room filling with the wet sound of him fucking you with the dildo, but also your own moans and hiccuped screams.

He fucks you to the edge faster than you can comprehend. There's so much pleasure on every stroke, and he's using so much speed that it feels like you can't take it, like you might explode, but still he pins you down, letting you yank at the cuffs that bind you as you're forced to cum violently around it, thigh muscles clenching as you try to clamp your legs around the intrusion.

"Fuck, that's it, don't stop cumming," you hear him growl, and you sob with pleasure as your orgasm morphs quickly into oversensitivity, but Jimin never lets up for a second.

Your eyes water, tears slipping down over your temples as he continues to fuck you, and suddenly you no longer feel his hand on your leg, it flopping down weakly as fingers tap over your hand.

"Don't forget the signal," he instructs as you sob and writhe, "I'm not fucking stopping without it."

It takes you a moment to process that he's asking about the safeword, but as overwhelmed as you are, you don't want him to stop. "Hngingn," you cry, his name coming out jumbled through the ball gag, and your legs automatically lock around his hand, seeking to stop the roughly thrusting dildo, but his spare hand just rips your legs away, one of his jean-clad knees pinning down your shin and your screams reach a new pitch when you feel fingers strumming at your clit, the pleasure like a million needles, making your hands fist.

After an eternity of going crazy with overstimulation, you pass a bend. The pain turns back into pleasure, and you settle, going quiet and shifting slightly to seek it out, eyes rolling at the rhythmic rocking of your hips as he fucks you with the dildo.

"That's it," Jimin guides, breathless with exertion, "I want you to cum again, little mouse. Clench tight for me."

You do as he says, eyes so blurry you can't even see anything but the patch of blue in your vision, his head bobbing slightly as he speaks.

Without thinking, you follow his instructions, and like clockwork a third orgasm rips through you, taking you by surprise as the extra pressure of the dildo on your g-spot plunges you over the edge. You hadn't even realised you were close, but clearly Jimin had, and you tremble beneath him, letting the waves of pleasure flood to every corner and crevice of your body, your fists tightening and your toes curling. You weep openly at how good it feels, whimpering when his fingers on your clit stop and the dildo slows, slipping out of you one last time with a slick noise.

You're sweating, twitching, trembling, but still you manage to blink away your tears and focus on him blearily as you feel him removing the ball gag from around your head, fingers gentle as they massage your jaw slightly, letting you close it and lick your lips, feeling the ache.

"Did so well," he praises, and you pant happily, a lazy smile stretching out on your face as your tears begin to dry. The sound of a zip makes you frown, so you glance down to see Jimin already fisting his own cock, just as red and needy as the last time you'd seen it. You whimper as he shuffles forward, lifting your legs up into the air to spread you wide for him.

Almost forgetting you can speak now, you whimper wordlessly for a few moments, before making out a weak, "Jimin," tone pleading.

"Shh," he coos, his cockhead tapping at your drenched entrance, making you shiver. "One more, little mouse."

"I can't," you sob, chest hitching as he slips into you, just bigger than the dildo. You let out a reedy cry at how he strikes you're abused g-spot, and his fingers massage the backs of your thighs soothingly.

"You can," Jimin insists, fucking into you slowly, making you hiss every time, "just one more for me. You have your word."

You sob at the overstimulating madness as his pace picks up, driving so intensely inside of you, but you don't use the safeword. There's a kind of euphoria bliss to being stretched to your limits, pushed so far, and you trust him to take care of you, want to do a good job for him.

So you shake your head, moans blending into cries blending into whimpers. "Fuh-fuck," you gasp as once more sharp stimulation turns warm again, and you near a fourth orgasm. You shiver under Jimin, his thrusts so deft and powerful, jerking your body in rhythm. "I ca- I can't cum again," you admit shakily, "'s too much, Jimin, I can't take it!"

Jimin grunts with the force of his thrusts, but his hands are gentle as they keep your legs spread. "You're almost there, little mouse, you're doing so well."

Your back arches violently when he drops one of your legs to rub at your clit, fresh tears streaming into your hairline. "Fuck, oh god, I'm gonna- fuck!"

You stream as your final orgasm takes you like a train, and a feeling you've never experienced rushes through you as you squirt, thighs clamping iron tight around his hips as he curses at the sight and spills into your trembling body.

Even in the throes of his own orgasm, you feel Jimin's hands pass up and begin releasing you from the headboard, your arms falling limply as he cups your face, barely even rocking into you as every slight movement plunges you into oversensitivity.

You gasp, trying to catch your breath with closed eyes as this thumbs brush away your tears, his cum hot inside you.

"God, Y/n, you were amazing, did so well for me," he confesses lowly in your ear, and you let out a whimper as he presses a single kiss to your cheek, the most tender he's been with you so far.

"Did well," you repeat mindlessly, "Jiminnie."

"You did," he promises, and you hiss as he pulls himself out of you carefully, the feeling of his seed mixed with your own cum flooding out down onto the sheets. "God, look at you," Jimin muses under his breath, surely not meant for you to hear.

Barely conscious, your eyes flutter, and the last thing you remember seeing is him stripping off his expensive white cotton blouse, cleaning you up with it so gently that you barely feel the sting on your clit.

FAN FAVOURITE

TAGLIST

Okay real talk doing 5 ppl per comment takes fucking AGES so imma just try 45 since last time 50 didn’t work.

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leo-interactive-fiction · 3 years

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Wait!! What about a mirror World scenerio where the ros meet their counterpart like alter E is a big bully or something and for more angst alter MC died to save the ros please ಥ‿ಥ

Haha, that’s an interesting ask! There might be some slight spoilers, so beware. I’ll just label them as Alt’X’ for each character’s mirror. Let’s see...

E: Though they bare a similar appearance, AltE carries a hollow glare over a blood-flecked face. Each step they take dispairs E, who bites back their sunken dismay. “What happened to you...?” AltE glowers, “Everything that didn’t happen to you. But I still have power, and I’ll use it to take back everything I lost.” “Our power wasn’t meant for that--” “My power is meant for whatever I need it for,” AltE interjects, readying their stance, “Kill me if you think you can. I’m not changing course otherwise.” “Wha-- No, I...I don’t want to kill anyone...” “Then you’ll die more pathetic than most.”

R: a figure dressed in a gold-lined suit passes their brimmed hat to their consigliere, causing R’s expression to sour. “Ran back to him, did you?” “A half-truth,” AltR crosses the threshold between them with a chilling levity, “The family isn’t something to disregard. Not when we all could benefit. Isn’t that what we wanted? A carefree life. Is the price of carrying along with a simple deceit really worth giving that up?” “I’ve heard that before.” “Our father did everything in his power to solidify our family’s stability,” AltR extends a manicured hand, “It’s not too late to return, you know. There’s plenty of uses for people like us, and no amount of comfort unavailable to you. Our father can assure to that.” R turns away the hand, “Your father, perhaps. I think I’ll take chances down my own road.” “I’ve yet to hear a truer misfortune. Your abilities were a keen reason to extend my hand, which makes this an unfortunate loss,” AltR turns away, waving to their partner, “Plan B. Get rid of the outliers.”

L: AltL approaches with a familiar Hospian blade in hand, its polished surface casting light into L’s eyes with a deadly sheen. “So you’ve chosen violence...” “I’ve chosen Victory,” AltL stabs their sword into the ground, raising their fingers to the laurel pin in their hair, “The wisest method of achieving peace is through that selfsame method. To conquer is to unify. This is the future I foresee, and the one I aim to bring about.” “I only see the destruction and pain you’ll bring.” “Then you’re short-sighted. Every fire begets flowers in the spring. The rubble I create will bear materials to rebuild for a better tomorrow.” “Any future built upon the sacrifices and anguish of the innocent, even in the name of a greater good, is one I can not abide by!” AltL reclaims their arms, “Abide in your grave! I see only one path before me, and you stand before it!”

V: V aims their pistol at the slender figure before them, a hesitance resting on their trigger figure as AltV stares at them with an expression of heavy grief, “They’ve done so much to you.” V steadies their hand, “Who are you? A spy? Why are you...” “Don’t you recognize yourself?” “You’re different.” “I never ventured over that hill.” V freezes, losing their hold on Silvy and allow the firearm to clatter unceremoniously to the ground. AltV takes a tentative step closer, a hopefulness in their tone, “I can give you a second chance! Don’t you want to see them again?” “Them...?” “You know...the Nomads. Our--” “No, no!” V covers their ears with an agonizing cry, “Get them out of my head! I don’t want to see it again! It’ll happen again!” AltV watches on in grim sorrow, “They’ve done so much to you...”

P: P’s eyes narrow on the golden wreathed spear their doppelganger carries, their tone very nearly spitting acid. “Seeing myself wield that so easily pisses me off...” “And seeing you still wallowing in your weakness makes me sick. I guess they never taught maturity in this world.” “Shut the hell up before I fucking pike you with that damn spear.” “Is creating a string of expletives the height of your vocabulary?” “You must not’ve gotten a good ass-kicking when you were younger if you turned into such a pompous little shit.” The two of them huff, their words crossing over each other simultaneously: “At least I’m not as insufferable as you.”

M: M’s brow raises at the anguished look their alterego gives them past their glasses, their own eyes gazing over the neatly tied hair and manicured outfit until the alter ego speaks up. “You look like an absolute mess! I don’t know how I feel seeing my own body in such an awful condition.” “I don’t...wear glasses...” “What? I’m...” AltM touches their glasses with a puzzled look, “...You know we’re far-sighted, right?” “I can...see fine...I think...” AltM comes close and holds their hand up in front of M’s face, “How many fingers am I holding up?” “...Four...” “It’s one finger.” “That’s...okay...” AltM gives a scrutinizing look, “Are you an idiot?” M gives a light laugh. “How many fingers...am I holding...?” They ask before sending a solid punch into their doppelganger's face. Wiping off the small patch of blood welling on their knuckle, they hum over the unconscious body, “You had glasses...so...I’m a little...surprised...you couldn’t see that...”

Ra: Raven paces around their alter-ego with a darkened glower. Mirroring them, AltRa backpedals with a fretting look. “Are...you okay?” “Look at you,” Raven seethes venomously, “Still being raised on lies, or maybe they’re now truths to you. By that witch.” “I was glad to have been raised by--” “Don’t!” Raven nearly pounces on them, shutting down their vocalization with their own vehement protest, “Don’t you dare say that name!” “What happened between you...?” “Nothing!” “Ka--” “No!” Raven looms over their cowering alter, their fingers tightening around the grip of their knife, “I’m -- We’re -- Raven, and...we’re going to have an...eventful discussion...”

S: S gives a hard look to the figure before them, adorned in a racing jacket emblazoned with a cogwheel symbol etched in gold. S reacts with a voice of clear animosity. “Well, would’ya look at that. Rightfully sponsored, and by Gear no less.” “Ya gunna get on me for makin’ good on an opportunity? Were ya plannin’ on livin’ in that hovel scrapyard forever?” “That’s home to me! That’s where all our family is!” “Our family was better relocated.” “What?” S’s shock gives way to a rising fury, “Ya sold out the yard?! That was...Everything. Ma an’ Pa gave everything to that place!” AltS’s brow creases into a stony countenance, “An’ it wasn’t workin’ out. Family ain’t just gunna pop our dinner into existence.” “Shut the hell up ya damn sellout. I’d rather starve.” “Guess this world ain’t one for common sense,” AltS mutters, taking off their jacket, “Ah well. Let’s get this over with, yeah?”

F: They cross their arms upon coming face to face with AltF, glancing over their baggy street clothes and unkempt hair with a displeasure at their mouth. They easily recognize the bow hanging over their shoulder. “You’ve come to the wrong place for sport, I’m afraid. Your hunt has ended before its begun.” AltF shakes their head, “I’m here for you. To appease you, as ruler of my own world.” “A ruler who would wrap themselves in pauper’s wear. A testement to the sorry condition of your nation, brought upon by weak ruler. But I will be different.” “You misrepreset me. We have relinquished much of our material wealth, but those still yet present hold spirit beyond their means. But such rulership that you anticipate will alienate our proud people--” “I’ll not have you lecturing me upon the finer points of my actions,” F snaps coldly, “Ruling is my birthright! In the progress of my livelihood have I carried the expectation of my duties, and I will spend the rest of it in assurance that I fulfill them, even should it come at a cost to the rest of the world. My duty is to Frenza foremost.” “I see now that it may be unwise to continue a discourse. You’ve blinded yourself to your place in the world, content to your familiarity.” “You think yourself more righteous than your station, Husk. Morality holds little place here,” F releases a self-satisfied smile, “Should my people call for injustices and bay for blood, who am I to refuse their pleas?”

Thank ya for the ask, it was fun to write though it took some time to come up with stuff haha. I hope ya enjoy

#triaina academy #romance options

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sincerelyella · 3 years

Text

Always Remember Us This Way Part 2

Book: The Royal Heir (AU)

Pairings: Liam x MC (Ella); Drake x OC (Alyssa Devereaux Walker)

Song Inspiration: Always Remember Us This Way by Lady Gaga

Characters belong to Pixelberry; MC Queen Ella Rys and Malia Rys belong to me; Alyssa Walker belongs to the amazing @burnsoslow and used with permission in this series.

Catch up here

A/N: In celebration of King Liam and Queen Ella’s baby girl being born in TRH2 I wanted to write something to commemorate it (kinda). Some things are canon, but don’t expect it to follow the book much.

Big thank you to @burnsoslow for reading over this and editing and making suggestions so I don’t sound like a crazy person.

Warnings: TW: angst; TW: blood; TW: childbirth complications; TW: possible major character death. There are mentions of real medical emergencies and procedures, if this is a trigger for you please don’t read any further. Also, I do not work in a maternity unit at my hospital so please excuse any inaccuracies.

Words: 2481

Liam sat in the corner of the suite that was originally assigned to Ella in the maternity unit. He sat next to his newborn daughter, Malia, occasionally checking on her if she whined or cried. The nursing staff had started checking on both him and Malia, feeding her formula or changing her diaper. He was thankful for the help since he couldn’t seem to function. He hardly spoke to anyone, he didn’t call anybody; all he could do was sit and stare at Malia.

He kept thinking about Ella; the last time he saw her smile, the last time he kissed her mouth, the last words she said to him, the last time he heard her sing.

So when I’m all choked up, And I can’t find the words

Every time we say goodbye, Baby, it hurts

It had been about an hour or so since he last saw his wife, he couldn’t get the last image of her out of his mind. She was extremely pale, unconscious, with her mouth open. Her beautiful face looked so … lifeless. Liam leaned forward in his chair, hands covering his face as he started to sob. He didn’t know how long he sat there crying; his whole body heaved as he tried to suck in air. She made me promise to save our baby. He knew this is what she would have wanted, but why? He wiped his hands on his jeans and looked at Malia again, reaching over to touch her little body. Somehow, being close to his baby girl made him feel closer to her mother, and it gave him some peace. “I’m sorry I let you down, princess,” he whispered shakily as he tried to hold back a sob. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. We were supposed to be happy together. We were supposed to take you … home … ” he trailed off and sucked in a breath to hold in the tears.

When you look at me, And the whole world fades

I’ll always remember us this way

Suddenly, his phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw Drake’s face on the caller ID. He swiped to answer and just held the phone to his ear, unable to say the words.

“Li?”

Liam mustered all the energy he could, but his voice still cracked as he spoke. “Drake.”

“Liam. What’s going on?” Drake could sense it; he heard the wavering in Liam’s response. Something wasn’t right, and his best friend had never called him and Alyssa after leaving for the hospital. He heard Liam’s erratic breathing on the other end of the phone. “Liam! What is it? Is it the baby?”

Liam broke down on the phone. He couldn’t speak; he just cried and didn’t give a damn who heard him. He could vaguely hear Drake on the other end panicking, then hanging up abruptly. Liam let the phone fall from his ear to the floor. I shouldn’t have answered that.

Drake hastily hung up on Liam. Why did no one call me?! What the fuck is happening? Drake fumbled with the phone. His mind was going a mile-a-minute after hearing his best friend lose control of his emotions. The always stoic king wouldn’t just display his emotions like that in public ... unless it had something to do with his family. He wasn’t sure what to think or how bad it was going to be. He dialed Bastien’s number and waited … and waited … and waited. He growled, cursing under his breath as he hung up.

“Drake? Why are you growling? Did you get in touch with Liam?” Alyssa walked out from the bedroom, seeing her husband’s panic stricken face, and her eyes widened. “What’s going on? Is it the baby?!”

“I-I don’t know! I called Liam and he …” he trailed off, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

“He what?” Alyssa’s heart filled with dread, the pregnancy hormones didn’t help matters. She hastily walked to her him and placed her hands on his cheeks to look at her. Her husband rarely cried, and right now, he was very close to it.

“I don’t know, Lyss,” he whispered. “I asked … about the baby … and he completely lost it on the phone.”

Alyssa gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, eyes immediately watering. “Oh my God, do you think it’s Ella? We have to go!”

Drake sprang up from the couch and fell into step with his wife who rushed to the front door. He grabbed his keys from the kitchen island, and the pair made their way to the truck to head for the hospital.

There was a knock on the door of the maternity suite, and Liam snapped his head up, opening his eyes. He blinked to refocus and saw Dr. Ramirez standing there, studying him with a worried look. Liam stood abruptly, trying to wake himself up. “I-I’m sorry … I must have fallen asleep.” He wrinkled his brow. “Where is my wife?”

Dr. Ramirez stepped forward. “Her Majesty was bleeding profusely. I apologize if you were removed from the room but- ”

“It’s fine, doctor, but my wife?” He punctuated the last few words. “I want …” He took a breath in and let it out slowly to control the overwhelming emotion building in his chest. “I … need … to see her.” He didn’t want words right now; he just wanted to see Ella.

Dr. Ramirez nodded in understanding. “I can take you to her now; the nurses will watch Malia here.”

Liam nodded and turned to Malia before leaving. “Daddy will be back soon; I love you.” He gently kissed his daughter on the forehead before following Dr. Ramirez to the intensive care unit, Bastien following close behind.

As they walked, Liam turned to Bastien.

“Your Majesty?”

“Please have guards outside of Malia’s room.”

Bastien nodded, “Yes, sir.”

Once they reached the ICU, Liam was taken to a large area that had no patients. “Why are all the rooms empty?”

“This wing has been cleared out so that Her Majesty is the only one here.”

Liam nodded, his anxiety rising as they got closer to a single area of the unit that looked like it was occupied.

Dr. Ramirez stopped in front of a door with a guard standing outside of it and turned to Liam. “She is stabilized for now; however, we admitted her here so we can watch her closely. I just wanted to warn you, Your Majesty” - Dr. Ramirez placed a hand on Liam’s arm to get him to look at her - “She has a lot of wires around her, she’s getting medication and blood, and she isn’t awake yet. It might be a little … overwhelming for you.”

Liam nodded and waved his hand so the guard would move. He slowly turned the knob and peered inside. He felt tears of joy, relief, and the pain from being so close to losing her fall from his eyes as he walked towards the bed and grasped her small hand in his. Liam leaned over to kiss her lips, cheeks, forehead … any part he could reach, he kissed. “I thought I lost you, I love you, don’t leave me again,” he whispered in between kisses. He vowed to himself that he would never take another day with her, his family, for granted.

He finally sat back in the chair next to the bed, put their intertwined hands on his forehead and thanked God she was still there with him.

A knock pulled him out of his moment and Dr. Ramirez walked inside. “Your Majesty, are you ready for me to answer some questions now?”

“Y-yes, I’m sorry … I just needed to … see her,” he croaked as the lump grew in his throat.

“I understand; please don’t apologize.” She pulled a chair up to sit in front of him. “So I’ll explain what happened. You can ask me whatever comes to your mind.”

Liam nodded.

“Her Majesty had a retained placenta. This means that the sac that held Malia was supposed to come out just a little while after Malia was born. But in Her Majesty’s case, it didn’t. A small piece of it was attached to the wall of her uterus.”

“How … did that happen?”

“Unfortunately, the causes are still unknown. There are risk factors for it, but she didn’t have any of them when I was seeing her throughout her pregnancy. The only thing that I can think of was that her labor was somewhat long and extremely difficult for her. That could have played a factor.”

“Okay, so she’s not bleeding right now?”

“Well, after childbirth she will be bleeding; that’s normal. The problem was that her placenta needed to be removed and that area cauterized. We gave her medication to stop the hemorrhage from that area. She was bleeding entirely too much, so much so that her blood pressure dropped to a dangerous level and her heart rate spiked.”

“Is that why she was …” His eyes welled up again, and he clenched his jaw to stop them from falling. “Is that why she was … unconscious and pale?”

Dr. Ramirez nodded. “Yes, the blood loss made her pass out, and that’s the reason her blood pressure was so low. She had a lot less blood volume in her body than normal, and her heart was beating faster to compensate.”

Liam nodded again.

“She has a blood transfusion going right now. We’ll see how she does with that and recheck her.”

“When do you think she’ll … wake up?”

“It’s hard to say, her vitals are stable right now; and we took her off oxygen a little bit ago.”

“Thank you … so much for saving … my wife.” His voice hitched at his last words, and he cleared his throat. “I thought I’d lost her …”

“Please don’t thank me, Your Majesty. This is my job, and it’s an honor to be her doctor.” She gave him a small smile. “She means a lot to all of us as well.” Liam smiled in understanding. His wife took the hospital on as her personal project when she became queen. She made it her mission to assist with quality assurance and worked with many doctors and nurses to improve hospital flow and policies. Dr. Ramirez paused and cleared her throat before she got emotional. “Now, you know how to get in touch with me should you have any questions or concerns?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Dr. Ramirez curtsied and left the room, while Bastien poked his head inside. “I’m sorry about this, sir, but Drake has called me nonstop. What do you want me to tell him?”

“I’ll call him and tell him what happened.”

Bastien nodded and closed the door behind him.

Drake and Alyssa ran into the hospital, looking for the maternity unit.

“There!” Drake yelled and they rushed to the front desk.

“Excuse me,” Alyssa said, out of breath, to the secretary at the desk. “We’re here to see Queen Ella. We know she went into labor earlier this morning.”

“How are you related to Her Majesty?”

“We are her best friends, practically family. I expect you’ll see us on the security clearance list.” Alyssa said in a firm tone, setting her lips in a hard line. “King Liam hasn’t been answering our calls. W-we need to see her!” Her voice cracked, the tears in her eyes threatening to fall.

Drake gently held his wife and rubbed her shoulders.

“I need to check with protocol, ma’am. I’m very sorry about this, but … the royal family have certain security measures in place.” The secretary gave them an apologetic look.

“It’s fine, thank you. We’ll wait over here,” Drake coaxed his wife to sit on one of the chairs in the family waiting area.

“We’re her family, Drake.” Alyssa wailed. “We should be able to see her!”

“Shhh, I know, but if something happened to her or the baby, they’re going to be extremely cautious.” He regretted his words immediately as he watched Alyssa begin to cry into her hands. He pulled her into his arms and stroked her back as he let her cry.

“D-did you try … calling Bastien … again?” she sniffled into his chest.

“I’ll try again, baby,” he assured her, as he dug into his pocket, fishing for his phone. He pressed Bastien’s number and hoped that damn man answered his phone this time.

“Drake.” He heard Bastien’s lowered voice on the other end of the line.

“Bastien! What the fuck is going on? Why haven’t you answered my calls?!” Drake forgot where he was as he shouted; his voice carried through the halls.

“I’m sorry, Drake, but we … didn’t have any answers and His Majesty was-”

Drake sighed in frustration. “Just … where is he, Bastien? Where is Ella? And the baby?”

Drake heard a beeping on his phone and looked down to see that Liam was calling him. “Bas, Liam is calling-”

“You need to answer that.” Bastien promptly hung up, and Drake answered Liam’s call.

“Li. Where are you? Lyss and I are here in the maternity unit.”

He heard his brother sigh on the other end of the phone. “I’m in the ICU … with Ella.”

“Th-the … what?!”

“I’ll explain everything when you get here. We’re on the fourth floor.”

“We’re on the way.” He hung up and slowly met Alyssa’s stare.

“What did he say?”

Drake took a deep breath in and let it out. “Liam is on the fourth floor-”

“Why? What’s on the fourth floor?”

He paused for a moment, looking at his wife. “He’s in the ICU … with Ella.”

Alyssa’s jaw went slack. “THE ICU?!” Faster than he had ever seen her, she bolted up and ran for the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly.

“Alyssa.” Drake grabbed her hand and held it. “Don’t panic! It’s not good for you or our baby.”

“Don’t panic? Do you know what the ICU is?!” Her lower lip trembled.

“Liam actually was able to actually speak without crying, Lyssa,” he said, trying to calm her down. “I’m hoping that means things are better than they were when I first talked to him.”

The elevators dinged open and they both filed in, pressing the button for the fourth floor. As soon as the elevator doors reopened, Alyssa raced to the nurse’s station.

“We’re here for Queen Ella; the King called us!” Alyssa panted, gripping the counter tightly.

Drake grabbed her quickly and pulled her to him.

“Hey guys.”

Drake and Alyssa turned to see Liam, standing there with puffy, bloodshot eyes, shirt wrinkled and untucked, and his hair disheveled … like he had been running his hands through it all day.

“Wh-where is she, Liam?”

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patchies · 3 years

Text

Shadows

Pairing: Dream x Reader x ???

Summary: An apocalyptic world where creatures of the night roam all around it. Searching for living beings to satisfy their hunger. Vicious creatures they are. It’s said that one person called upon their wrath in revenge. You awake in this place with another human being at your side. No memories whatsoever of the life you’ve had prior to coming here. In search of a way out, and your memories, you stumble upon multiple people with many personalities. Some can’t wait to meet you. If you take it the friendly or hostile way is up to you, but worry not... Nothing can hurt you. Or can it, now?

Warnings: slight mentions of amnesia and returning memories

Word Count: 1.5+k

Author's Note: the story's a bit changed now and as you might notice, I deleted the third, fourth and fifth chapter, because I plan on adding more things into the story line that are behind their events. I hope it doesn't bother you, guys, but I promise there won't be anymore changing. Fingers crossed.

Wattpad link: here

story masterlist - main masterlist

previous ↣ current ↣ following

Chapter 3: The Art of War

You both decide that the best course of action is to take advantage of the daylight and get to work on fortifying your base with items you'd found beforehand. Nick proves to be lot of help as you dance around each other in sync and ask for assistance whenever it's needed. You didn't think that you'd be working as a unit even after knowing each other for barely twenty-four hours. The chemistry between you is uncommonly good, but it might be because of the events of last night.

You sometimes bump the other's arm, but Nick has an exceptional number of questions and requests thrown your way every time it happens.

Though, one of his requests seems unusual.

“Hey, mind handing me the paint brush from the shelf?”

Your gaze shifts from his figure and the aforementioned item quizzically, wondering what he'd need it for. Although your confusion seeks answers to your silent question, you slowly move towards the shelf, not daring to turn your back towards him as the neutral and almost bored look his face sports tells you he has something mischievous on his mind. Or strange.

The feel of the brush is surprisingly very familiar in your hand, light as a feather. It's as if it was speaking to you, tempting you. Foggy memories buzz around your mind space and as a spark flies through your head, you grimace uncomfortably. Nick gives you a worrying glance, but doesn't approach you further. Nor does he speak to you since he can see the slight pain going across your features.

With a noticeable shake of your head, you push the thought away, opting to focus on the matter at hand, “What exactly is it that you want to do with a brush that serves for painting the walls?”

“I was thinking–“

“That's dangerous for you,” you interrupt, “don't want your brain to fry, do we?”

“As I was saying, I was thinking,” he playfully glares at you, “that we could paint few signs with threats to ward the intruders off.”

“Nick–“

“Hold that thought,” he advances towards you with a grin, waving his hands to help himself articulate his plan better, “I know it sounds stupid, which I don't think it does, but let's go with that, you gotta trust me. How many people would decorate their outer walls with childish signs that warn them?”

“Exactly–“

“Nah-uh! It does sound dumb when I say it like that, but it's worth a shot, ain't it?”

You sigh loudly and, with the acceptance of loss, hand him the tool. He squeals a small 'yes!' in victory and pumps his fist into the air, doing a little dance. You huff out a laugh, finding the situation funny despite him asking for a small and unimportant thing.

“Indeed. Truly a child at the heart, aren't you?”

“I'll take that as a compliment, thank you very much.”

With his small victorious moment over, he bounds from your view and you can hear the ruckus of pans and pots banging in seconds, only imagining the man-child ransacking the whole kitchen for who-knows-what. You return to your assigned job and wait for him to come back, opting to busy yourself with work as he searches for what he supposedly needs for his plan.

• • •

After what feels like an hour, Nick returns with buckets of various colours. Three hanging of each arm as he stabilizes his body to prevent the disaster in the form of bright pink, purple and red along with their neon variables. He motions towards the buckets with his head, prompting you to help him get them down. You cross your arms across your chest, sassily pointing to the sofa you've moved to the corner of the room, “You can put it there, can't you?”

“Oh, damn. That's what I get for helping you?”

You roll your eyes, but go slip the heavy containers off of his arms, carefully putting them on their respective spots on the ground near the wooden boards, “Where did you even find these, Nick?”

He puts his finger to his mouth, shushing you in the process, “A magician never reveals his secret, does he now?”

“You're not a magician, dude.”

“Let a poor guy dream, will you?”

Rather than answering his rhetorical question, you squat down before flopping onto the floor on your bottom, beckoning him to do the same. Nick follows, unhooking another brush from his belt hoops and presents it to you with the handle pointing towards you.

“Why thank you for this beautiful stuff I can wield with exceptional power,” you take the tool from him and instantly bend forward to tap both his shoulders with the bristles, “I now pronounce you as the Majesty's guard.”

“Who's the child now?”

“Still not me,” you press the handle to your sternum proudly, mischief flashing across your eyes, “We better start painting or we'll never get anything done. How exactly do you imagine the finished product to look?”

“I don't know,” he shrugs, “Improvise.”

“The instructions I, oh so, craved,” you shake your head, dipping the brush into the bright red absentmindedly. Nick slides one board over to you and you apply the first stroke, paint gliding across the surface smoothly.

The same faint memory flickers in your mind.

This one is clearer and you can even distinguish an image forming.

Confusion etches onto your face unknowingly to you, but the man across you catches onto your expression when he lifts his head. His eyes observe your own clouded orbs and he gently sets his brush on the floor, cocking an eyebrow as yours furrow together. He watches for any signs of you returning back to the present despite him not knowing what's going through your head.

He'd very much like to know, but of course, he'll wait until you will be ready tell him what's up.

Before he knows it, you're shaking your head to get rid of the picture in your mind. Nick gives you a worrying glance, silently asking you if you're okay with a quick raise of his chin.

“I'm fine, don't worry.”

With your disorientation and slower reaction time, you hardly get to register his movement and it takes your brain a couple more minutes (having to cross your eyes to confirm his actions, too) to realize he's booped your nose.

With neon pink paint.

Neon.

Pink.

Paint.

Instead of an outburst like he seems to have expected, you let your face stay stoic.

Silence envelops you both, sitting there and waiting for the others' move.

Few of the birds you have around the neighbourhood happily chirp and only after a while does a sinister smile appear, “I see. A death wish.”

Nick scrambles to his feet as quickly as he can, but you're faster, curling your nimble fingers around his ankle and harshly pulling him back down to the floor.

He lets out a small 'oof!', eyes wide with fear when he gets a glimpse of you.

For a reason, might you add, as you swing your arm at his head with a bright red paint brush in your hand, striking the right side of his hair.

An offended look crosses his face, “You did not.”

“Oh, but I did.”

“You'll pay.”

“Bring it,” you challenge and have just enough time to duck out of the way, barely missing his attack of purple. You crawl away from him on all fours, before standing up swiftly and booking it down the stairs, Nick's yells following you as he chases after you with a readied brush.

Though, just before you get to the stairs, he tackles you to the side and sits on your back to prevent you from running away. You feel the paint glide across the back of your thighs, “Another point for me.”

“We're doing points now?”

“You better catch up, slowpoke, or else I'm going to destroy you–”

The answer he gets to his call-up is a strike of red to his torso and a laugh as you dash down to hide, the signs left forgotten.

• • •

By the end of your small war, you come out with multiple colourful splotches on both the back and front of your thighs and few on your arms and face. You have basically come out unscratched compared to your human counterpart.

He's very close to being a living highlighter.

You have mainly struck him with neon colours and the occasional red that he rightfully deserved. His whole torso, chest and back now adore beautiful variants of pink and purple with some places being neon red.

His painted arms are actually not your doing, despite him throwing the blame at you in the heat of the moment. With how he had declared the war in the first place, you were surprised he was the one who called truce in the end.

After washing up (which, to be truthful, didn't do much), you went to tidy everything up and got back to building defences as the sun has not gone down yet.

At the end of the day, you've done quite a good amount of work on your base, but you can't take away the fun Nick made with the paint war you had. You can only hope it'll be enough to keep away the Shadows and not attract more attention than you can fight off.

You fall asleep quite easily, exhausted to the brim from the day's events.

#technoblade #dream #sapnap #apocalypse au #reader insert #mcyt x reader #mcyt #techno #dream team #dream x reader #dreamwastaken #l'manburg #shadows #??? x reader

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zabrak-show · 3 years

Text

When the Sun Comes Up | Maul x Reader

A/N: This was a request from @botherbother-blog using a prompt from this list. #33 “Everyone thinks I should stay away from you because you’re dangerous.”

I started this awhile back, but was hit with a bit of a block. I quite like the story and hope to continue it.

Word Count: 2.4k

Summary: Reader orphaned at a young age seeks vengeance. A strange man in dark robes prowls their city and an obsession blooms.

Warnings/Tags: Pre phantom menace, past trauma mentioned, loss of family, burns and scarring, disfigurement from burns, blood mentioned, no planet mentioned use your imagination and insert any that you like, gender neutral reader, morally gray reader, all set up pretty much so far.

AO3

Salty sea spray misted your face and the wind drew out your hair like wicked curlicues. Toes dipped into the wet sand, water pooling between them, the ebbing water’s edge dampening your hem. The gray sky mirrored the dull ache in your chest. The roaring of the waves allowed a small reprieve from the cacophony of voices swirling around your mind.

The man in black robes clung to your mind like seaweed wrapped around the driftwood on the shore. It was a mess. Impossible to distinguish where it all began and how to remove it without making a bigger mess in the act. Was the wood better or worse off with the seaweed? The seaweed would be fine either way. The seaweed gave no care in the world if the driftwood was there or not. It could find something else to cling to or float in the water on its own.

A speeder rumbled in the distance. The intensity of the moment grew as the buzzing of the speeder drew nearer and nearer. The beating of your heart thumped into your ears overtaking any and all other sounds. The thundering roar of the speeder was no match for your wicked heart. Even the ocean’s violent waves turned into background static.

You didn’t have to turn to feel his glowing amber eyes boring into you, into your soul. The sand cemented your feet into place, there was nowhere left to run. You turned to glimpse him, only a bit of his face shone under the dark robes now rustling in the sea breeze. Your stomach knotted and your breath hitched. His alluring mystery was more than you could stand.

For a moment, you imagined walking out into the sea. Letting the water have its way with you and disposing of you as it pleased. Ridding you of the utter madness of these thoughts, and these nightmares.

You’d followed him for weeks, studying his movements. Trying to make sense of someone whose sole life purpose was to take another’s life away. It was what you craved, after all though. It didn’t take long for him to catch you following him. The cat and mouse dance between you two was coming to a climax. Your guts, now replaced with bricks of uncertainty and eager anticipation of what was to come.

Duty called, revenge was so close you could taste it. You pushed the chaos out of your mind for the time being as you knelt down to pick up your side bag and shoes.

Revenge is all I need. Revenge is all I shall focus on from here on out.

He nodded his head, it was enough to know what he wanted.

You climbed atop the speeder and wrapped your arms around the man in black robes. You couldn’t ignore the warmth seeping into your hands from underneath his robes as you squeezed his middle for stability. You breathed in the smell of his musk; spicy, primal, and metallic. His recent kill still fresh on his skin and robes.

He was an assassin. Exactly the kind you imagined had killed your entire family and enslaved the rest of your clan. Pure dumb luck spared you. A tiny thing you were back then. The spaces between the walls were your playground. Hiding and scheming, dreaming up ridiculous pranks to play on your siblings. You’d barely made it out of the house on time when it went up in flames. Your body still holding the scars and disfigurement as proof.

For so long you had been alone on this dirtball. Alone with your thoughts of loss, sorrow, loneliness, and the ache of retribution that seemed so far fetched, yet was all that kept you clinging on to life. The others around you would never understand the ache in your belly. The ache that felt worse than any hunger pangs you’d experienced. Worse than the burns that never quite healed right across much of your skin.

“Stay away from the man in black robes.”

“He carries dark chaotic energy. A pure monster.”

“Cares nothing, but to kill.”

Whispers on the wind about the mysterious man who clung to the shadows and wielded power like none you’d seen before. You had to know more. This could not be a coincidence. Either he’d come back for you, to finish what he’d left all those years ago. Or he could lead you to who did.

You gripped him tighter still as he rounded a corner narrowly avoiding the cliffs on either side of you. He was firm and unmoving no matter how hard you squeezed it seemed. Not something you wanted to test exactly. You were only clinging to him for survival, of course. You would never choose to be so physically close with someone so...so evil. Yet you breathed him in, melting a bit into his back.

The speeder bike slowed and stopped with a soft clatter. You were slow to unhook your arms from him. Somehow the comfort of the moment had clouded your mind, but he stood and shook you off of him. Reality pooled back into your thoughts as you made your own way off the speeder.

He had taken you far away from anything and anyone. No one could hear you scream out here. There were cliffs flanking either side of you and the wind whistled through the crevasse, prickling your skin with the chill it carried.

He advanced with a smirk on his face. He was enjoying that he frightened you. This is the kind of thing that got him off, you supposed. What else would get an evil person so delighted.

“You may think I am evil. I am not. I am efficient.” He snarled out past grime-covered teeth.

“I...I don’t...I don’t think-”

“Why are you following me? Are you working for the Jedi?”

“A Jedi?! No, no I don’t know any Jedi. Why are you here? Who have you been killing?”

The words tumbled out of you in a rush. You looked down at the dried blood on his robes and back up to his glowing eyes. Instincts had you back away from him in fear. Afraid of what his answer would be. Afraid of his reaction.

He stepped towards you with a slow conviction, never breaking eye contact, until he was less than an arm’s length away. He grabbed your chin with a gloved hand and pulled your face up close to his. The leather of his gloves smelled new and it was soft and cool against your skin. His hold was firm, but not painful. A grimace overtook your features and you imagined spitting into his face, but held back out of fear.

“Now, you will quit following me and go back to doing whatever it is you do here.” He pushed you back with such force you half tumbled onto the rocky ground. He turned with a growl and started to mount his speeder.

“Wait.” you croaked out. “Wait, 18 years ago. Were you here 18 years ago?”

He paused atop the speeder and half turned towards you.

“Why?” he snarled.

“My family… someone, someone like you killed my entire family 18 years ago. That’s why I’ve been watching you.” It was a bold move. Laying all your cards on the table for him, but you had nothing left to lose. If he left you out here, defenseless as you were, you could die just as easily as by his hand. And if he’d wanted to kill you, he could have done it by now.

He remained in his half-turned seated position to respond, “No. No, I have never been here. And 18 years ago I was a small boy. I did not kill your family.”

He turned back to stare ahead of him and to turn the speeder on.

“Wait!”

You rushed to him, feet scrambling on the uneven terrain as you grabbed his arm.

“Please can you help me find who did?” His eyes grew big as he stared down at your hand clutching onto his arm through several layers of fabric. Stars, did he wear a lot of layers!

“I don’t have time for your problems. Hop on and I’ll take you back to where I found you.” He shook his arm free from your clutches and you climbed back on the speeder and held him close to you. He hesitated before taking off.

“But then you will leave me alone.”

You made no response and he took off.

The day was growing old and the night was settling in. Darkness crept all around, you could barely see where he was going, but trusted that he must. The warmth radiating off him took away the bite of the chill air whipping around you. You hugged him from behind, pressing your entire body and face against his back. Your eyelids weighed down and you blinked slow, each time harder to open them back up. It had been such a long day on the run and you were so tired if only to rest your eyes for a moment….

*******

You awoke alone. Cold and dark on a metal bed with a thin sad excuse for a mattress and no blanket. Your body ached and convulsed with shivers. You sat up on the bed and looked around to get your bearings. It appeared you were on someone’s ship. How could that be? The last thing you remembered was, oh him. What had you gotten yourself into now?

Footsteps approached clanging on the metal floor plates. You looked down at the black leather boots now standing right next to you. Your eyes traveled up his black robes to his crimson face with intimidating black tattoos. You studied the designs for a moment, noting how they accentuated his already frightening and handsome features. You’d not seen him without his hood obscuring his face. You’d not seen the horns on his head that formed a perfect crown. He looked like a king. Your stomach turned upside down and your cheeks grew hot despite the cold air.

“You fell asleep on my speeder.”

His arms crossed at his chest and his permanent scowl stared down at you.

“I am terribly sorry. I um…” your teeth chattered from the cold and you hunched over trying to warm your bare arms.

“You should leave when the sun rises.”

“Do you have any blankets?”

He rolled his eyes and took off his cloak with finesse none like you’d seen anyone quite do when undressing before. Not even the dancers at the local saloon could pretend to carry themselves with such a flair for drama. He threw the cloak at you and you wrapped it around yourself. It was still warm and, stars, it smelled like him. You tried not to let on the pure rush of serotonin this maneuver had garnered by flashing a half-smile.

He started to walk away and you got up to follow him.

“What’s your name?”

He stopped and turned to face you. His grimy teeth bared in a grimace and he hissed in a breath of air.

“Maul.” He spat the name out at you and turned away, but you kept at him, following every footstep.

“Do you think you can help me, Maul? Help me find who killed my family?”

“I told you I don’t have time for that. I know nothing of what happened to your family and even if I did, I wouldn’t waste my time telling you about it or helping you in any way.” “Right, you’re busy. Maybe, maybe you could…” you stared at your feet, only your toes peeking out under his robes.

“Whatever it is you’re trying to spit out. No, No I can’t.”

You sighed. You were despondent. This was futile. He wouldn’t help you. Why would he? You were nothing from nowhere.

His comlink beeped and he rushed away to the cockpit of the ship. The door hissed shut behind him. You had until dawn to convince him otherwise. You mulled over the conversations of the day with him, as little as they were. There had to be something you could use to prove your worthiness. The door hissed open and it came to you at once.

“The Jedi.”

“What?!”

“The Jedi, you, you were asking if I was with the Jedi.”

“Yes, and?”

“I know where they are hiding on this planet. I can help you find them, if you help me.”

He pressed into you now with his entire body and you backed up until there was only the hallway wall and he didn’t let up. You were now overheated and unable to move.

“Tell me, why I shouldn’t torture and kill you for the information now?” His hot breath on your face drove you mad and your ears filled up with the thrumming of your heartbeat again.

“Because,” you squeaked out, “because you’ll need me to get into these places, they won’t suspect a local.”

He backed away a bit and put his hands against the wall at either side of your face, trapping you still. Your breath ran ragged and you didn’t hide it.

“Very well. When the sun comes up we shall test this theory of yours.” He let down his arms and backed away from you. Your body was rigid and felt like it would never relax even without his dominating form pressed into you. He studied you for a moment, giving you a once over with his eyes.

“You should get some sleep.”

“What about you? I mean, where do you sleep?”

“I don’t sleep. So whatever bantha fodder plan you’re thinking of, don’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t...I” you shook your head.

“Well, what then?”

“I wondered if you had a more comfortable bed?”

His scoff was answer enough. It was a stupid question. You’d never been on a starship before. You’d always imagined it being so much more luxurious.

You climbed back into the small dark bunk. At least you had his robe to keep you warm. You hoped his scent never wore off.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

so I’m sorry I start a million different little stories and then I lose momentum and yeah... but anyway it helps me to keep going if I get comments and reblogs (i hate acting like I’m begging, but just being honest as it does give me serotonin) so if you like this or any of my other stories in progress please please let me know! you can even send in an anon ask saying which one you’d like me to continue. thank you so much for reading! I truly adore you all!

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giant-sketches · 4 years

Photo

Hello everyone! I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve gotten any writing done, but I’m back with a brand new chapter for you all. I think I have a pretty good ending planned for this story so from this point on it won’t be open ended anymore.

I have another story I’m working on as well to replace Guardian Naga that I hope to have the first chapter up of soon-ish. Quarantine has been tough and I’ve not been feeling the greatest. Still it’s nice to be back at it with my fanfics and I hope you all like the new chapter.

This leaves off two chapters ago when Virgil finally got to meet Thomas. You can find all my works here. Please feel free to ask me questions or comment on how you liked it. :3 Disclaimer: Swearing/Cursing/Violence/Paranoia/Memory Loss

What was happening? Suddenly, Virgil’s mind was filled with memories of a past he had forgotten. A past of a full family living together in the Light Side of the mindscape. His head hurt as he slumped over in Thomas’s arms.

“Woah hey there. Take your time, I think we all are feeling rather confused right now.”

Thomas looked to the others who were holding their heads. It looked like they were all having a massive migraine.

“What is this? These memories...are they real?” Roman was in disbelief.

“No please stop!” Patton cried out. Whatever he was remembering seemed to be painful.

“How could we have forgotten? Is this another side-effect of destabilization? How cruel.” Logan mumbled.

Virgil stood up, gripping onto Thomas’s shoulder for support. “Guys, are you all okay?” It’s like they were all having a mind blast! It was going to take a second for the dizzy spell to disappear.

“I don’t know, this is all so confusing!” Roman shuffled over to grab Virgil’s hand. “Still to think we could ever forget you. I’m so sorry Virgil.”

Logan followed suit, except for the hand part. “Indeed, I am also sorry Virgil. This current situation is unprecedented! A complete wipe of someone's existence from the mindscape...it’s too much to fathom.”

Patton remained as the others looked to him. He was bawling as he continued to wipe away his tears in a losing battle. “I can’t! This is...this is too much. It’s all my fault Virgil! How could I ever apologize enough to you over what I’ve done?”

“Patton...it’s o-”

“IT’S NOT! It’s n-not okay Virgil. I-I-I caused you to destabilize!”

This was the shocking truth. Sides didn’t destabilize by nature and they didn’t do it to themselves. Destabilizing always required a catalyst and for Virgil, that had been Patton.

Many years ago in the mindscape Virgil was known as Curiosity. He was naive and full of questions. He had no sense of danger and this had led to a tragedy no one would remember. The aftermath is the story of his own destabilizing.

------- Many Years Ago in the Mindscape:

Months...it had been months since Janus was erased from the others minds. Yet, for some reason I remember him. How he was like a big brother to me and would always keep me safe. How did this happen? Was it my fault, or was it them who made him disappear? Virgil felt like he was losing his mind as his doubts grew day-by-day.

“Hey kiddo! How are you doing?” Suddenly, Patton snuck his way into the sulking sides room with a fresh batch of cookies.

“Fine I guess...I’d be a lot better if you told me where Janus went to though.” Virgil pleaded with his eyes as he stared at Patton. If he could trust anyone it should be Morality right?

“Oh no. Did you lose your imaginary frien-”

“HE’S NOT IMAGINARY!!!”

Virgil shoved Patton up against the wall with a loud thud. His strength was unreal, the innocent cookies fell to the ground in horror. “Woah! Woah! Virgil I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to upset you. Please you need to calm down.”

“NO! What I need is big brother Janus!!! Where is he? WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM!?” Virgil came in fast for another go, but Patton dodged as he scrambled to the door. “I’m sorry.”

Patton let out a sorrowful apology as he fled from the room to find the others.

“Patton! What happened to you?” Virgil’s shouting and that large thud had alerted the entire household so some kind of trouble.

“Ah Roman...I-I don’t know what to do.” He began crying into his stock friend’s chest. “I want to help, but I have no idea who this Janus person Virgil keeps going on about is. What do I do?”

“Oh gosh Pat, it’s going to be okay. We can work together to figure this out.”

“Y-yeah you’re right let’s go find Logan and come up with a plan.”

Roman smiled as he held his friend's hand tightly. Hastily, they walked down the hallway until they reached Logan’s office. “Hey it’s Pat and I.” A quick knock and then they entered. “Bro!”

“Ah Remus? Why are you here?”

“I thought it best to have all of us here to discuss this current issue with Curiosity.”

Guess that made sense. Still it was hard for Roman to be near his impulsive brother. His thoughts were always too intense. Yet, he seemed quite calm for the moment; at least Roman could breathe easy for the time being. The group took their spots around the desk to begin formulating their plan. “So...what exactly is happening with Virgil?”

“Well, we have a theory.”

“We? You don’t mean you and Remus do you Lo?”

“I do actually.” Logan eyed the creative twin while adjusting his glasses. “The both of us believe Virgil is undergoing a mental change based on Thomas’s growth. Yet, it’s putting a strain on his mind...thus he is mixing up fantasy with reality.”

“Really? You think Curiosity is having some kind of meltdown?”

“Well brother, you and I both know first hand how intense mental changes can be on us sides.” Remus smirked, twirling his mustache.

True, the twins were definitely the prime example of how extreme these changes could be. However, this had been going on for months. When Roman and Remus split it only took a few seconds. Why was this situation so different? Because it was Virgil or because it was only one side being affected?

While Roman was lost in thought Patton spoke up, “If that’s true then we need to be there for him. He’s obviously confused and pained by thoughts he’s not able to control.”

“Agreed. I’d like to have you be led on Virgil’s treatment until this passes. If you need anything the rest of us will support you Patton.”

“Thanks Lo!”

With that their plan was set into motion...the only problem being that they had no idea what was really going on. Lurking inside the darkened room was a side falling into madness by his fragmented memories of a now forgotten family member. “Liars. They are all liars.”

Two weeks went by with Virgil sinking further and further into his paranoid thoughts. He spent most of his time in his room and avoided contact with the other sides at all cost. Annoyingly, Patton always came to his door in the morning, afternoon, and evening to talk with him from the hallway.

“He’s a deceiver. You can’t trust them or anyone. They lie, all they do is lie.” Virgil only let out hushed mumbling to Pat’s meaningless chatter. “Think you could come to dinner tonight? We miss you a whole bunch kiddo!”

Same kind words. “Will Janus be there?” Same old question.

“...no. Virgil please, this Janus person isn’t real. You’re just confused kiddo, but that’s okay. I’ll always be here for you, we’re family after-all.”

Liar! Deceiver! Fake! All of them were just a bunch of snakes trying to lure him out in order to suffocate his mind with false ideas. No more. No more. NO MORE!!!

*CRASH*

“What in the world?!” Suddenly a loud crashing sound came from behind the door. “What was that?”

“Roman! I-I don’t know. I was just in the hallway when this loud noise came from behind that locked door.”

“Stand back!”

Quickly moving aside Roman proceeded to slice the lock with his trusty katana and kick down the door. Yet, nothing could prepare the sides for what they saw next. A tall, looming shadow inching higher and higher into the air until two large purple hued eyes stared down at them.

“Oh my…”

“I-it’s a giant! We need to get the others, we’re under attack!”

Snatching Patton’s hand, the two booked it to the dinning hall and alerted the others to the current situation. Mysteriously though, once the group returned the giant was nowhere to be seen and another family member was erased from their memories’.

------- Back to Current Time:

Slowly, Virgil made his way to his crying friend and shifted to a size where he could easily pick him up.

“Hey there Pop-star. You don’t need to cry so much on my account.”

Patton chuckled a bit at the pun as he looked up to Virgil with a lingering expression of pain and sorrow. “I-I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you. That I wasn’t there for you like I should have been.”

The baby sized side raised a hand up to caress his long lost friend's face. “You couldn’t have known Pat and besides it’s in the past now. I’m just glad that you remember now...you do remember right?”

“Yeah, I think? Like I remember you, but Janus...he’s still kind of fuzzy. I remember him interacting with you, but still nothing on my own relationship with him. Sorry.”

“No, no it’s okay. What you’ve said is enough.”

“While that may be true I’d like to know more about this strange phenomenon. Why do we forget...why do you forget?” Logan came over. He needed answers, they all did. “I mean not even Thomas himself was aware of this!”

“Now that I’ve remembered everything I hope I can answer all your questions.” Virgil set Patton down and shifted downwards. “To start, when you destabilize your mind and the entire mindscape goes into shock.”

“Shock?”

“Y-yeah. In order to fight against the trauma the mind r-represses Thomas’s mind and our minds as well. That’s how it affects all of us. I forget about you all and you forget about me in order for the mindscape to stay balanced. It also works to stabilize my body as it expands.”

Everyone was gobsmacked at this information. “Wh-what do you mean by stabilizing your body?”

Virgil looked to his family with saddened eyes. “As you expand...cracks appear. The repression helps stop the already unstable core from....shattering.”

“Fuck. That’s so messed up.” Roman held himself, pained by what he was learning.

“So either you forget about who you are and about all your loved ones or you break?” This was all so heartbreaking as Patton made his way to Roman for comfort.

“Mhm…” Silence. Virgil didn’t really know what else to say at the moment. Honestly there was nothing more to say. This was the cold, hard truth and yet there were two blaring problems. “Remus...what about my brother? H-he remembers! How!?”

“Yeah what about Remus and Janus too? You were able to restabilize so can’t the two of them as well?” Was there any hope for the others who were afflicted? Virgil appeared uneasy at the notion, but tried to stay level headed.

“I-I’m not sure. The thing is that we shift in size to minimize the damage to our cracked bodies. Even though growing causes cracking, the cracks are smaller in comparison...so tha-”

“That means the bigger you are the more cracks you have.” Finally Thomas spoke up with a serious expression plastered on his face.

“Is that why Remus is different, because he’s the biggest?” Virgil nodded.

“The way we destabilize has an effect on it too. I destabilized because I felt betrayed and alone so forgetting definitely helped to lower my anxieties. Remus on the other hand destabilized because he wanted his brother back. I think because of those strong feelings he remembered at least you Roman. Yet, that discrepancy in his mind caused him to crack even more than I or Janus.”

“And because of that we remembered him as well.”

“Though, I forgot because the effect was only on you guys and not me overall.”

“So it’s my fault my brother ended up like that.”

Virgil winced and quickly embraced Roman in his arms. Princey’s eyes widened by the sudden show of affection by the usually shy side. Still he wrapped his arms around his friend's warm body and internally thanked him for the hug.

“Roman you can’t blame yourself. You didn’t know, none of you did!” Ro nodded, pulling Virgil back to look him in the face with a brand new resolve.

“Right! Then we have to make up for our ignorance and save them both!” His eye’s sparkling.

“That’s the spirit kiddo!” A rescue operation huh? Guess it was only fitting with this bunch of action heroes.

It was time for a plan, a real plan now that everyone had the necessary information. Finally the truth was revealed, the cruel reality of it all lay before them. Although, who were they going to go after first?

To be continued.

@crystalk17 @paranoidgurl @gentlegiantdreamer @suckedinfandoms @craz-ewaters @rainbowbowtie @pattonvirglsanders @enby-phoenix @sanders-sides-virgil @just-some-gt-trash @notkolaidoscop @bluegreeninbtwn @lgbtqiaemo @avenirunknown @ncanspeak @maryann-draws @himeperson @perfectly-princely-emo-nightmare @daydreamburritoworld @im-a-creepy-cookie

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bytheangell · 3 years

Text

We Care A Lot

(Whumptober 2020 prompt: (Disorientation | Blurred Vision | Ringing Ears) (Read on AO3)

There was an explosion.

That’s pretty much the extent of the details available to her before she’s called onto the scene so she isn’t sure what to expect when she gets there. As much as she tries to prepare herself for the worst, what she’s greeted with still stops her dead in her tracks for a few seconds. There isn’t time to get all of the victims to the nearest hospitals and clinics, and some have injuries too severe to risk moving. Cat wishes she could portal them all to the places they can get the proper mundane treatment, but that isn’t how this works - not if she wants to live past today, at least. Not for the first time, Catarina reminds herself that the lives lost today to keep her secret are a price she has to pay for the many more she’ll be able to help in the centuries to come.

Somehow, that never really makes it any easier, or the guilt any less.

The best she can do is show up and sneak her magic in where she’s able to, hoping it’s enough. She tries to do as much good as possible, to save as many lives as she can who might not have otherwise made it. Then, when it’s all over, she’ll try to deal with the fact that the ones she can’t save would’ve died anyway.

It isn’t completely reassuring but it’s a necessary reminder, especially after nights like this.

The scene she arrives at is brutal. Catarina immediately goes to a less occupied corner to set up a makeshift workstation, one where she’ll mostly be left alone to use her magic more freely, not that she won’t fully glamor herself and her magic just the same. She spends the first half an hour doing the best she can with broken bones, limbs that need to be removed entirely, and people closest to the source of the blast with literal holes through them from flying shrapnel.

Catarina tends to those who come to her and seeks out those unable to, who need her assistance the most.

She saves a lot of people, helping to pull bodies from the rubble and pouring as much of her magic into them as possible to get them stable. There are so many. Too many. She can’t even focus on entirely healing any one person, not if she wants to have enough healing magic to go around. Instead, she aims to stabilize the worst of the patients, as many as she can.

Catarina doesn’t keep track of the lives she manages to save but she does keep track of another number: the ones she loses. Six. Six mundanes die with her magic pouring into them, working to knit back together torn arteries, attempting to restart hearts. It isn’t enough. For six souls she isn’t strong enough, or fast enough, or good enough.

And then the unthinkable happens - a second blast.

Cat’s out-of-the-way station happens to be along the side of the building, which explodes mere feet away from her and her current patient. The close proximity of the explosion brings an immediate ringing to her ears, eyes stinging and blurring with dust and smoke.

There’s screaming. So much screaming. It takes Catarina a few seconds too long to realize it’s coming from her, stopped only by a hand on her shoulder from one of the other nurses.

“Miss Loss! Are you hurt?” The nurse asks, and Cat muffles her cries to one last whimper as she looks down at herself to try and take stock. There’s so much blood on her hands and her clothing that she doesn’t know how much of it is her’s and how much is from those she pulled and worked on from the first blast.

“I…” she starts, then shakes her head. Her ears are still ringing and the world loses focus as she moves her head side-to-side. For just a second she can see the flash of blue skin between her long sleeves and the gloves she wears as her glamour drops from lack of concentration and energy. Shit. Cat closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, and when she opens them again her glamour is back in place.

“I’m fine,” she lies, allowing herself to be helped up. She dusts herself off and, pushing through the pain and exhaustion she feels with every movement, and begins to work once more.

Cat feels the moment she pushes herself too far. She has to sit down next to the mundane she’s healing, no longer able to stand upright on her own accord. Instead of stopping - she really, really should stop using her magic then - she pushes herself just a little bit further. She taps deeper into her reserves, then deeper still. She has herself convinced she has a little more left in her right up until her vision starts to blur at the edges, tinting black.

Cat has just enough time to call Ragnor, praying he’ll answer. Her mind has just enough time to imagine a dozen scenarios where he doesn’t, where she dies here, alone.

Cat can hear something on the other end but it’s muffled from the ringing in her ears. A voice? Ragnor? Or just the distant sounds of the people around her?

“Explosion… too much… magic,” she manages. She wants to portal to him but she can barely speak, and she knows if she has any amount of magic left it isn’t enough to open a steady portal. The phone drops from her hand and she tries to keep her eyes open, forcing herself to remain conscious.

She forces her eyes back open after each blink. She can’t pass out. She cannot pass out. If she does… if she loses her glamour...

It takes five minutes for Ragnor to get to her.

“I didn’t know anywhere closer than 3 blocks away to portal to,” he says by way of an apology. He looks like he wants to say more, to say something else, but he hesitates. What he says, whether it’s what he originally planned on saying or not, is, “My dear, what have you done to yourself?”

She hears the concern in the question, but more importantly, she hears the unspoken affections neither dared to voice, not even now. She thinks it’s probably a good sign that she isn’t dying, if nothing else. She likes to think he’d say it then if she were.

“C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

Ragnor lifts her like she’s nothing, opening a portal without hesitation or regard for their surroundings. He doesn’t look at the scene around them, eyes focused only on her, and steps through the portal with her in his arms. Even if he hadn’t been deciding their destination they would’ve ended up in the same place, because there’s only one place Cat wants to be just then.

They come out of the other side of the portal directly into the middle of Ragnor’s living room.

“Let’s get you to the bed,” he suggests.

“I think I’ll just sleep right here,” Cat mutters, going limp in his arms as she passes out.

---

There’s no daylight in the room when she wakes up, though she can see the outline of yellow along the edges of curtains keeping the brightness out, likely so she could rest better. There’s a cup of tea next to her on a warmer, and a class of cool water beside it.

Catarina sits up and sips at the tea first, thankful for any taste in her mouth that isn’t dust or blood, then switches it out for the glass of water which she promptly drains in one go.

The door creeks open slowly, familiar green features silhouetted by the light from the hallway.

“You’re awake,” Ragnor says, sounding relieved. “May I…?”

“Of course,” Cat says. “It’s your room.”

Ragnor only rolls his eyes in response to that, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”

“Tired. Achy. Cold.” Despite the layers of blankets on top of her, they both know the cold she feels is a sign of magic depletion, and not anything external. “But fine. And alive, thanks to you.”

“You know I’ll always come when you call, Cat,” Ragnor says, shaking his head slowly. “But I do wish it were under nicer circumstances. That kind heart of yours is going to get you into trouble one day, and I-”

Cat remains silent as Ragnor trails off, though her heartbeat picks up slightly at his words.

“I was so afraid when I saw you like that. I-”

So close. So close, and yet…

“I care about you, Catarina.”

There it is.

“I know,” she says, her tone kind and gentle.

“No, I mean… I mean I love you.” “I know,” she repeats. Because she does. She always has, she never doubted it, but it’s still nice to hear him say it out loud. “I love you too, Ragnor, though I’m sure you knew that as well.”

“I had hoped…” he starts, but breaks off, this time not with uncertainty but with a smile. “You should rest. We can talk about this later when you’re feeling better.”

Ragnor moves to stand up from the side of the bed but Cat impulsively reaches out a hand to grab him by the wrist and stop him.

“You could stay?” she offers. “I’d like it if you stayed,” she amends, shifting over so there’s space next to her.

Ragnor pauses, considering, then nods and slides himself under the covers next to her, immediately shifting to wrap himself comfortingly around her.

Catarina smiles - though he can’t see it with her facing away from him - at the fact that he knows without asking exactly what she needs just then. It’s such a relief to know this warmth, to feel the surety of Ragnor’s care and protection and love, that the sleep she falls back into comes easily.

#catarina loss #ragnor fell #catarina x ragnor #shadowhunters #tsc #listen I'm determined to post as close to 20k words this month so SORRY FOR ALL THE FICS AT THE LAST SECOND #but also i've had this one almost done for ages and it's nice to have the extra motivation to finish and post it!#long post #elle writes a few deadbeat lines

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kaitycole · 3 years

Text

The Winner Takes It All

Summary: Some insight on Constantine’s thoughts before he confronts Eleanor and Jackson

Word Count: 1462

Pairings: Constantine x Eleanor, Eleanor x Jackson

Warnings: Mentions of adultery, illegitimate child, an affair

Song Choice: The Winner Takes It All - ABBA

Part 19.5 of WP. To catch up, read here.

A/N: This is just a piece to give you some deeper look into Constantine and his actual feelings rather than the mask he wore in the previous chapter.

For Constantine, it was true love the moment he laid eyes on Lady Liana Grayden. If he wasn’t bound by tradition, he would’ve cancelled his social season the first night. He knew without a fraction of a doubt that Liana was the woman for him, his queen. When she left him and Leo, Constantine was forced to remember the words his father repeated to him his whole life: Royals don’t get the luxury of marrying for love. That’s when he boarded up his heart and threw himself more into being king than he did a father.

It was about a year after Liana left that the royal council began pestering him about taking another wife; if only for the sole reason of producing a spare. When he finally agreed, he was told about several suitors, though they all agreed to pick someone that could relate better to the people. Someone from a different walk of life, maybe even someone from another country. They decided to pick the daughter of a man Constantine’s father had dealings with and soon a courtship started between the King and Eleanor.

I don't want to talk/ About the things we've gone through Though it's hurting me/ Now it's history

From the beginning, Eleanor was told why he needed to remarry and while he felt those butterflies when with her, Constantine made sure to not let them cloud his judgement. This marriage was simply for convenience, stabilization of the monarchy, and a married king looked stronger than an unwed one. Especially one that had been left in the middle of the night. Eleanor seemed fine with the arrangement, the two might not have been passionately in love, they still shared feelings that resulted in the birth of Liam. The pair was civil and while it wasn’t the story book love most think the throne has, it was nice.

I've played all my cards/ And that's what you've done too Nothing more to say/ No more ace to play

Constantine often found himself wanting to let his walls down, to let her in, but whenever those thoughts crossed his mind the pain of Liana would creep back in. Even when he found out about her miscarriage, he couldn’t allow himself to reach out. Instead he threw himself back into being king and neglected being not only a father but a husband. Then he saw her tear into Barthelemy Beaumont and while he loved every second of it, the fire in her, it was still uncalled for. He messed up that night too, seemingly siding with Beaumont, leaving her alone once again. But what she didn’t know was that he knew she had snuck off to the courtyard to see Jackson, Timothy had reported it to him when he asked for her. His heart cracked a little when he saw their intimate embrace, but he didn’t let himself dwell. But his anger overtook him and he lashed out on her, pushing her even further away.

The winner takes it all/ The loser standing small Beside the victory/ That's her destiny

Weeks passed and he noticed a shift in her behavior, but knew of nothing that could have caused it. Jackson seemed to stay on opposite ends of the palace as her, but other than one embrace, nothing else was reported; Constantine had no reason to distrust either of them. Then he saw her running around with Liam and the other children and he saw her come back to life. He told himself that he had to do better, to let her in, or he’d end up losing her for good. And things seemed to work out for the royal couple; he really saw them as being happy; finally giving her the marriage that she deserved.

I was in your arms/ Thinking I belonged there/ I figured it made sense Building me a fence/ Building me a home/ Thinking I'd be strong there

The pieces of him that had been broken by Liana were mending the closer he got to Eleanor. He meant every word he said to her, every declaration of love he made, all the times he held her in his arms. Something changed in Constantine after all that, the thought of filling the palace with more heirs brought him a joy he didn’t think he could have. But then the other shoe dropped. The peace treaty with Auvernal was threatened and the fabric of their relationship started to fray. He watched as Eleanor slowly started to pull away from him, his heart broke each time she pulled away from his kiss or she simply ignored him.

But I was a fool/ Playing by the rules The gods may throw a dice/ Their minds as cold as ice And someone way down here/ Loses someone dear

Instead of joining him and their sons at the Portavira summit, she opted to travel to Valtoria: a long-forgotten duchy. He entrusted her safety and care to Jackson, someone he trusted. Someone he personally called to serve in the Kings’ Guard, just as his father and grandfather had. The photographs on his desk proved that to be one of the biggest mistakes Constantine made.

The winner takes it all/ The loser has to fall It's simple and it's plain/ Why should I complain

He looks at them until the images are burned into his mind. There was no disputing what he saw, no way to explain it away. They started off innocent enough; sitting closer than normal, sharing a meal, these were all things Constantine could brush away. But as he flipped through them, the less innocent they became. Each image causes the anger in him to boil until he sees the ones that he can’t ignore. Ones of his wife and guardsman in the throes of passion, shamelessly. He felt sick to his core just thinking of the two as tears threatened to fall.

But tell me does she kiss/ Like I used to kiss you? Does it feel the same/ When she calls your name?

When he asked if Eleanor was pregnant, he was partially joking. While they had been intimate several times, he wasn’t sure if the timeline would fit. But her cravings for sour foods was an identical marker to her pregnancy with Liam and Constantine felt excited for the possibility. Then he saw these photographs and combined with their recent behavior, the chance of him being the father grew increasingly slim and he feels a hatred in him he has never felt before. He had a lot to do, there was a possibility there was another heir, but also the chance of just some bastard of the queen. A better man might have been able to ignore the telltale signs of his wife’s adultery, to just stay married to her by name and remove the guardsman from the palace, royals don’t marry for love after all. But Constantine isn’t a better man, he’s bitter and scorned, scarred from the abrupt loss of his first love, and self-destined to never allow anyone to be close enough to hurt him again.

Somewhere deep inside/ You must know I miss you But what can I say/ Rules must be obeyed

Constantine stands up, flinging the photographs to the floor. As he paces, he starts to wonder if they even had a plan for this abomination of an arrangement they started. If they even thought of the possible outcome of this, a child. He would not allow some bastard a chance to even be in line for the throne, he wouldn’t allow some guardsman’s offspring to tarnish the bloodline of the monarchs before him. But if it was his, he didn’t know how he’d even be able to look at his wife again. Liana just left one night, without a word or warning and it still hurt him to see Leo because when the light caught his blue eyes and blonde hair the right way, he looked just like his mother which broke Constantine’s heart. If he couldn’t look at his own son, how could ever look at someone else’s?

So the winner takes it all/ And the loser has to fall Throw a dice, cold as ice

With each step he takes, the anger continues to grow until he’s come up with an idea, a plan, to cause them to hurt just the way they had hurt him. This wouldn’t go unpunished, regardless of the paternity test. When he leaves his study, he slams the door and by the time the door clicks behind him, Constantine’s heart has completely hardened. His emotions dead bolted behind a door that no one would ever be able to open.

Way down here, someone dear/ Takes it all, has to fall It seems plain to me

#choices #witness protection #witness protection au fic #the royal romance #trr constantine rys #trr Eleanor rys #trr Jackson walker

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princeanxious · 4 years

Text

Part One; “A Wounded Snake Lies Still”

A continuation fic in the au i built from this art piece I did and this post that I’d written that inspired this whole idea. I don’t know how many parts there will be, but the plan is for it to be hurt/comfort? It’s just that the comfort comes in small increments, but I promise the ending will be happy!

Fandom: Thomas Sanders Sides

Ships: mentions of past healthy Anxceit, start of story begins w/ analogical, end goal is analoceit! Side royality, Remus is lowkey Aro.

Minor Trigger Warnings: in no particular order.. brief mentions of painful memory loss, brief food mention, Remus and Deceit as sympathetic characters in general, accidental revealing of a secret-Remus feeling awful about it and Deceit being completely forgiving on it. Deceit being sorta selfish but also being very selfless without realize it. Deceit lying when he speaks/ backwards talk.

Serious Trigger Warnings: (slight spoilers) Deceit ignores his own distress in favor of keeping up a nonchalant act around the others, and doesn’t process his inner emotions in a healthy way. Deceit repressing years of his own resurfacing emotional trauma that originally came from his separation from Virgil, Deceit also briefly relives said trauma in the fic and pretends nothing is wrong even though something Really Is. Patton has minor empath abilities in this au and accidentally gets hit with a ride of very negative emotions that Deceit is already internally feeling when he touches Deceit.

(Let me know if I need to tag something else!)

Summary: Virgil’s missing memories have always been a touchy subject. After Remus and Deceit gain their acceptance of from the Light Sides and Thomas, Deceit still seems to have a few secrets to hide. If you asked him, he’d tell you it was for the best that he kept them. Partially concealing the truth was a slippery slope, indeed. But, could you really blame him? When Virgil was dating Logan and finally seemed happy again? To him, All the repression of his own trauma was worth Virgil’s happiness. Their years of love were lost with Virgil’s memories of the past, and there was no way in hell Deceit was about to jeopardize Virgil’s current stability now, not when the only person at fault for losing was Deceit himself.(or, was it? He’s never sure anymore. Trauma is a fickle beast.) Well, one slip up from Remus is all it takes before Deceit finds himself faced with that exact dilema fast approaching, and he finds he is less than prepared to face the music..

[[MORE]]

“Ugh, gross. In front of my deodorant?? Could you guys like. Not?? Be romance-y in the living room?? You two remind me of when Dee and Virgie were dating.” Remus grumbled offhandedly, too tired to deal with his twin’s particularly loud and loving attention directed towards Thomas’s literal representation of the heart this late into the afternoon.

They’d been loudly and shamelessly flirting back and forth from across the room while everyone set up for movie night, Roman in the living room with the others and Patton in the kitchen with Deceit making snacks. It was only seconds later that the duke realized his slip up as everything and everyone around clattered to a halt, the other sides turning stare at him in confusion.

Three years. It had taken Deceit three long, painstaking years and counting to distance himself from the years of memories he’d spent in bliss, to separate his mind from the heartbreak of losing his only love. Three years to come to terms with the fact that his only love now held no memories of the time they spent together, to accept that his love now deeply loved another.

Three years to come to terms with the fact that Virgil would never know what it was like to watch helplessly as his love writhed in pain. To watch as The Line ripped the memories from his love’s very being, forcing Virgil into a clean slate. Three years to come to terms that Virgil would never remember.

Three years of patience and heartbreak and anguish and lies, telling himself that it’d be okay, telling himself that he would move on and heal eventually. Three years of painstakingly separating himself from the narrative he and Virgil used to share, and ensuring that Virgil never had any inkling to what had been of his past. It was the only secret Deceit ever asked Remus to keep.

Rest assured, he’d tried to respark Virgil’s memories many times in the first few months after Virgil crossed over The Line from Dark side to Light, having ultimately crossed for good. It’d only led to fight after fight, driving a wedge further and further between them with each escalated argument. With a bleeding heart, he’d eventually given in, and stopped any further attempts. After all, each attempt only seemed to fuel Virgil with irritation. It had been clear then, that whatever they’d had, was never going to be again.

Three years it’d been. He thought he’d nearly healed, really. Most days he found he could exist and interact with the others and not be reminded of the past, and be comforted that he himself would not be a reminder to the past. Repression had always been his strong suit, though, conciously or not.

The Line had diminished as of late, after Thomas had really begun accepting Deceit and Remus. They could cross The Line for long amounts of time now, and mostly be fine. Occasionally they suffered from a bout of fatigue when disagreements with the others briefly turned sour, feeling The Line tugging back at them insistently. It never lasted for long, but there was always that underlying worry that The Line would finally snap them back into the dark for good if one of them made a final wrong move. The Light Sides didn’t know about The Line, not even Virgil remembered stumbling away from it after all that had happened. And well, if it were up to Deceit? They would never find out about it. Too many questions, too many messy answers.

Three years later, Deceit finds his heart splintering once more, an ache sinking into his chest that he knows Patton feels as they stand nearby one another. Memories flood in harshly, a deep painful longing resurging from the depths of his mind as it always did when faced with his reoccurring trauma sinking its claws into his psyche.

It’s only been seconds, but the silence is starting to feel heavy. Instead of moving on from the previous comment, Remus glances to Deceit, eyes pleading and devastated by having made his mistake, breaking the only promise to Dee he’d ever been seriously asked to keep. And Deceit knows he must do what he does best to save face, there is still time to redirect the carnage.

“Remus, please don’t refrain from spreading lies, that’s certainly not my job, after all.” He teases lightly, keeping his tone precisely on the edge of amused confusion, though his eyes hold an understanding none of the others know to read for. “Next you won’t be telling me that your favorite animal is a squid, not an octopus. Not your worst try at shock humor, yes?”

Remus catches on after a millisecond, drawing out a full cackle. “Sorry, not sorry! You should’ve seen the looks on your faces though! Priceless!! Who knew a shitty joke falling so flat would shock everyone so good!”

Their reactions held the desired effect. Quickly, everyone around the room seemed to relax, Roman even firing back his own playful quip to further lighten the mood. In the end, it was just a bump in conversation, something Remus caused every once in a while as everyone adjusted and Remus learned. Not a single step amiss that wasn’t already expectedly out of line.

Still, he’d have to talk to Remus in private later. Remus was just as sensitive to rejection as Roman was, and paired with his inherently intrusive thoughts, it would come to no surprise if Remus already thought Deceit now hated him. He didn’t, it’d been an accident, and Remus’s first ever slip up in three years since making the promise. Even if Dee had been mad about the slip up, he wouldn’t have had any right to be. He’d be sure Remus was the first person he sought to soothe when they got a free moment alone, it wasn’t right to let those kinds of thoughts fester.

Remus first, Virgil next, as it wasn’t quite crisis averted. He could feel Virgil’s eyes on his back from the living room. He denied his bleeding heart the closure of meeting Virgil’s gaze, of sharing his expression. He was too vulnerable, even now the anxious side could read his tells far too well, often without even realizing why. There was no doubt Virgil would try and talk to him later about it, and no matter how good the terms they were on with each other now were, Deceit knew the conversation would be a rough one. Virgil knows he has missing memories, and only recently had he accepted Remus and Deceit’s vague answers when he’d asked lightly about his past. It was at least him acknowledging they had the answers to the past he doesn’t remember.

If he wasn’t careful, each and every brick in the wall that Deceit had carefully worked to build up in the past three years could crumble right before his eyes, leaving him stripped emotionally defenseless, his trauma bared for all to see. And who knew what the others would do if they knew so much? What would they think of him then? Deceit inwardly shivered at the thought. It would not come to that.

Slipping into the nonchalant act was an easy card to play, it being his strong suit and most comforting form of security, a version of his own little lie of omission to soothe the bumpy situation over.

What he didn’t account for, was Patton gently reaching to touch his arm when everyone else had settled and their attentions returned to their tasks at hand. Deceit fought against his immediate urge to pull away, knowing the moral side just preferred connection through touch when addressing another, and instead looked up to meet Patton with a questioning gaze.

Whatever Patton was about to say died on his lips as he suddenly seemed to reflect an absolutely heartbroken expression, tears welling up in his eyes. Pain and sorrow and surprise seemed to seep into the other’s expression, warring for dominance amongst the primary confusion. It was only then that Deceit realized that Patton was still touching him, his bare arm with an equally bare hand, to be exact. The memory that Patton bore minor empath abilities that were tied into his existence as the representation of Thomas’s morality and feelings sunk in two seconds too late.

Direct skin to skin contact, something Deceit sought often to avoid in general nowadays anyway, was a direct way for Patton to tune into another's current feelings through said abilities, often by accident. There were limits that Patton could control, of course, and Patton only ever seemed to struggle coping with that ability when faced with an overwhelming swell of emotions from the other side. And, well.. Deceit’s mind certainly hadn’t taken well to being reminded of his repressed past, seeping through his protective mental walls with all sorts of roiling negative emotions.

From self-loathing, to dread. From anger, to guilt. From longing, to grief, then to depression, and finally apathy. It just couldn’t be helped that Deceit, a master of disguise and deception, had had three whole years to perfect the act that hid it from the outside and controlled it all from within.

Carefully, Deceit pulled Patton’s hand from his arm, and gently tucked it against the moral side’s chest. Still, he keeps his gloved hand there, letting Patton grasp it with both hands to ground himself after such an emotional ride.

“Deep breaths, dear Patton. Whatever isn’t the matter?” He asks gently, still playing into his act but his eyes plead a different story. ‘Not now,’ they say, ‘I will tell you, but not here,’ they beg. Patton nods slowly, and Deceit carefully wipes away Patton tears. In a move he knows he might regret later if it raises questions, he slips his hat off to gently plop onto the moral side’s head, and gently presses against the others clothed shoulder with his own in a show of comforting affection. It has the desired effect of distracting Patton and lightening his mood, Patton’s lingering upset masked by a watery smile only they can share. Deceit silently mourns the loss of his safety blanket, but accepts that a few minutes of feeling vulnerable while comforting Patton is a good trade to escape having his distress found out. He couldn’t have the other sides cornering him into explaining why Patton had suddenly begun crying without reason. It certainly wasn’t the fact that he felt guilty for Patton having experienced second hand an echo of his painfully raw emotions, no, not at all.

Thankfully their little scene goes unnoticed by the rest of the preoccupied sides, who are far too busy bickering over the movies they want to watch. Well, unnoticed by all but the one who sits to the side. Said side keeps an unconcerned but intrigued eye on the two in the kitchen, glancing over every time he adjusts his glasses to avoid suspicion. Logan says nothing, but knows he has questions for his dearest Virgil when movie night is over. He can only hope that the answers Virgil gives will not raise more questions.

(..Unfortunately, they do raise more questions than answers.. However, they now know exactly who has the answers they seek. It’s only a matter of getting those answers that is a task far harder than they’d ever expected it to be.)

To be continued..

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aerynwrites · 4 years

Text

Job Gone Wrong - Javier Peña x Reader

Author’s Note: How could I resist the urge to use this gif?? ugh, this man DOES THINGS TO ME. Anyway, I was VERY, inspired by this post from @spacedadheadcanons (Thank you so much for letting me use it!) and also thanks to @theforceofdarkandlight pretty much INSISTING that I write this 😂 Love you Lauren you da best ❤ And an even more special Thanks to my beta readers @anniebombannie and @amberthefiredemon y’all are so fun and amazing and make this whole process to much easier! love you guys!

p.s. I do NOT speak spanish. I literally punched stuff into SpanishDict! and hoped for the best lol, so i apologize to everyone who can speak/read spanish this is probably butchered XD

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Reader gets stabbed, mentiosn of blood, sticthes, cursing, re-injury, kising, angst and fluff.

///

You had been partners with Javier Peña and Steve Murphy for a little over a year at this point, and you had managed to get Javier into a relationship within about seven months of that time. To say you were surprised was more than an understatement. You had been pining after your fellow DEA agent pretty much the second you laid eyes on him, but you were quick to learn that he was not a relationship guy.

He found what seemed like a new woman every night, slept with her, and then kicked her out before the birds started chirping in the early morning light. It was a routine you had learned very quickly due to the horrifyingly thin walls of your shared apartment building. So, when about two months into your transfer, the obscene sounds from next door stopped, it caught you off guard. You had almost wanted to ask Javier about it, but you knew that conversation would be awkward, so you let it be. However, you didn’t fail to notice the extra attention the agent started to give you soon after. The lingering gazes, the gentle grazes he gave your lower back as he scooted by you, and you definitely couldn’t ignore when he started to bring you coffee every morning, prepared just the way you liked.

Steve let out a low chuckle as Javier walked away after just delivering your morning cup of coffee, having to talk to the ambassador about something.

“What?” you questioned, sipping slowly at the warm drink in your hands.

Steve just shook his head, “You both are just oblivious as hell,” he says, a smirk adorning his lips.

Your brows furrowed together, “What do you mean? He’s just being nice.”

You knew your words were bullshit, but what did Steve expect you to do? Fall down at Javier’s feet and confess your undying love?

Steve rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, “You both are like two lovesick puppies but are too stubborn to admit it.”

You shrugged your shoulders, “Yeah well, you know how he is…he doesn’t do the relationship thing. I wouldn’t stand a chance,” you sigh bitterly.

Steve shrugs his shoulders, hands clasped together and resting on his stomach, “I don’t know…a little bird told me that a certain DEA agent has caught feelings for you.”

And that was the day you found out Javier Peña had feelings for you too. You had resolved that day to tell him how you felt, but he had beaten you to it when he knocked on your apartment door with a pizza and beer in hand.

The rest was history as they say.

Since then, you two had been together happily. You both had flaws you had to work through but you did it together, hell it only took him a couple of weeks to convince you to move in with him since you practically live with him anyways with how much you stayed over. And of all of this lead you here, chasing down two of Escobar’s men through a local Comuna with Steve. Javier had been away for almost a week working with Carrillo on another lead. The news had made both you and Javier upset, never having been away from each other more than a day or two, but you knew it had to be done. So, you both had to settle for phone calls each night instead. But now you were missing Javier even more, he was usually the one to run after targets while you ambushed them, but now that you were the one running after them you realized just how out of shape you were. You had gotten separated from Steve somewhere along the way but had managed to stay on the Narcos’ tail, sighing in relief when you reached a dead end, corning the man in a small courtyard.

“Pon tus manos arriba donde pueda verlas!” you commanded, gun raised and aimed at the perp in front of you.

He looked at you menacingly before dropping his gun and raising his hands above his head.

“¡ no te muevas!” you say, telling the man not to move as you approached him, gun still aimed while pulling the cuffs from your belt.

You slowly approached him and commanded him to turn around before grabbing one of his hands and pulling it roughly behind his back, clicking one of the cuffs around his wrist. But before you could get his other hand down, he was ripping it from your grasp and grabbing something from his belt. It all happened so fast. One minute you were about to arrest the guy and the next he had turned around and drove a knife into your side before running off.

You let out a pained gasp as a sharp jolt shot through your side, “Motherfucker!” you cursed, hand immediately pressing into your side as you stumbled slightly, pressing your other hand against the wall for stability. You felt the thick and warm liquid run from your side and through your fingers, coating them in a dark crimson.

“Shit,” you whisper at first, “fuck!” you exclaimed, hand slamming against the wall next to you as the reality of the situation sank in.

You had just lost your main lead to the case and gotten stabbed in the process, and you didn’t know where Steve was. This was just great. As if he could read your mind, you heard rapid footsteps followed by a familiar voice calling out your name.

“I’m over here!” you call, finally seeing Steve round the corner and his eyes widened at the red stain blossoming on your white shirt, “fucker stabbed me before he ran off,” you hiss as Steve approaches pulling his jacket off and replacing your hand with the fabric instead, trying to staunch the bleeding.

“Are you okay? Can you walk?” he asks frantically.

You nod, surprisingly it didn’t hurt all that much, you suppose the adrenaline pumping through you had something to do with that, “Yes, I’m fine, let’s just get the hell out of here before more trouble finds us,” you breathe, and let Steve lead you back to the car.

----

You let out a sigh as you carefully strip off your blood-stained shirt in favor of one of Javier’s clean ones lean back into the multitude of pillows you threw on the bed. Steve had just walked you to your and Javier’s apartment after a trip to the hospital and a dose of painkillers.

“Remember to take these every six hours, and then your antibiotics twice a day,” Steve reminded you, pressing the bottles into your hands after you unlocked the doors, “And don’t rip your stitches, last thing we need is another trip to the hospital,” he teases.

you roll your eyes, and give the man a mock salute, “Sir, yes sir!” before walking into your apartment and closing the door.

Okay so maybe the painkillers were doing a little more than just taking the pain away. You mostly felt tired, but it was also mixed with a slightly fuzzy feeling in your mind. Just as you were about to crawl under the covers and get some much-needed rest you heard the door to your apartment open and close, followed by the jingling of keys being tossed onto the counter.

“Sweetheart?” Javier’s baritone voice drifted through the apartment.

A smile immediately lit up your face and you quickly, but carefully, swung your legs off the side of the bed and walked into the living room, eyes instantly falling onto a disheveled but relaxed looking Javier.

“Javi! You’re back!” you say, voice thick with relief as you walk over and wrap him in a hug.

His face falls instinctively to the crook of your neck and he takes in a deep breath, “I miss you so much, mi amor,” he whispers, hands coming to rest on your waist as he leaves a soft kiss to the junction of your neck and shoulder.

You can feel him start to push you backwards slightly and you pull away from the embrace looking at him questioningly, “Javi, babe what are you-“

Before you can finish Javier pushes you somewhat roughly into the wall behind you, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you while I was gone,” he breathes, mouth moving from you neck to your jaw.

“I missed you too Javier,” you gasp as his mouth finally meets yours, days of longing and emotions poured into this single action.

Javier’s hands drift from ups up to your sides, gripping you roughly through his thin t-shirt you were wearing, right over your newly injured side. You let out a loud gasp, pleasure and pain, and your foggy mind can’t tell which is more important in this moment.

“Did you put this one for me?” he asks, voice thick with want and need, “because you look so fucking-“ his words catch in his throat as he squeezes your side once more, and his brows knit confusion as a new and unfamiliar warmth meets his hand. He pulls away from you slightly, ignoring your whine at the loss of contact and his eyes widen at the sight before him.

His hand is covered in a thin coat of blood, as he pulls it away from the crimson stain on your shirt, “What the fuck? (y/n), what they hell is this?” he exclaims, voice rising several octaves as he takes your wrist in his non bloody hand and pulls it away from your body to get a better look at your now bleeding side.

You let out an indignant huff, “Some asshole stabbed me earlier today, nothing major now-“ you reached out for him again, wanting to feel his lips on your again, “Come here. I can’t even feel it!” you assure.

Javier lets out an angry sigh, shoving your grasping hands away and instead pulls you over to sit on a stool in the kitchen, “Stop! You got fucking stabbed? And you didn’t tell me?” he asks, anger and concern lacing his words as he hurriedly digs under the sink for the med kit he had there.

You roll your eyes, “I’m fine! Plus, I just got home a few minutes before you did, how was I supposed to tell you?” you argue.

Javier doesn’t say anything in return, he instead rushes back over to where you are sitting, med kit in hand. He quickly lifts your shirt up and over your head to inspect the damage. The bandages are soaked completely through with blood and he gently lifts up the bottom edge of your sports bra to unwrap the dirty bandages.

“Why didn’t you tell me as soon as I walked in the door? It should have been the first thing you told me!” he scolded; voice harsher than he meant for it to be. You sighed and slumped over in your seat slightly, shame filling you at his words, “I’m sorry Javi,” you whisper, hand running through his hair lightly.

His heart was racing at the thought of what happened to you, and the fact that he wasn’t there when it happened. As he unwrapped the last layer, he cringes slightly at the damage he sees. It’s actually not as bad as it seemed, some of the stitches had just ripped from where he had been a little rough with you. he felt a pang of guilt shoot through him.

“No, I’m sorry, look at what I did,” he mutters, pulling the supplies he’d need from the med kit and setting them on the counter.

You opened your mouth to refute his apology but were silenced with a quick peck to the lips instead. Javier brought a hand up to rest on your cheek and gently ran his thumb over your cheek bone, “Just…let me fix you up okay? Then I’ll order some food and we can relax.” Your eyes found his, flooded with concern but also bursting with love as he stared back at you.

You gave him a small smile, turning your head to press a kiss to the palm of his hand and nodded, “Okay.”

Javier gave you a small smile before kneeling down to your side and set to work on patching you up. He cleaned away the blood before disinfecting the area and carefully placing a few stitches back where they needed to be. He took notice of how you barely flinched as he threaded the needle through your skin and let out a small chuckle before tying a knot and cutting the thread.

“They must have you on some pretty strong painkillers,” he comments, now wrapping the bandages around your torso.

You let out a giggle, “I was telling you the truth when I said it didn’t hurt,” you begin, “But I think I’m just a badass, because it didn’t hurt when I actually got stabbed either,” you say, a large smile on your face.

Javier finishes wrapping the bandages securing them with some medical tape before standing so you were looking up at him. he let out a small chuckle and gently placed his hands on your hips, “Yeah well you’re my badass,” he says playfully, pulling you in for a sweet kiss.

You smile into the kiss, his moustache tickling your upper lip slightly before you pull away and rest your head against his chest, sighing contentedly. You both just stayed in that position for a while, his hands on your hips and your arms wrapped loosely around his waist, relishing in each other’s presence after a week of not seeing one another.

You finally broke the silence, “Can we order from that pizza place a few blocks over? I didn’t realize how hungry I was until you mentioned food,” you said shyly.

Javier just gave you a bright smile and gave you a quick kiss on the forehead before pulling you up from the stool, “Anything for you amado,” he says gently.

You smile at his sweet words and follow him as he leads you over to the couch and sits you down, “Stay here I’ll be right back.”

You nod and watch as he scurries off the bedroom, emerging moments later in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, his arms filled with pillows and blankets. You feel your heart swell as he comes over and places the pillows down near the armrest and motions for you to lay down before tossing the blanket over you. you gave him a warm smile as he went to go order the pizza before returning back to the living room and sitting down, pulling your legs into his lap and turning on the TV.

He gently strokes your legs over the covers, and you intertwine one of your hands with his free one, “You’re too sweet to me Javi,” you say quietly.

Javier looks over to you, and shakes his head, “Nothing is ever too much for you mi amor,” he says sweetly before leaning over, mindful of your injured side, and kissing you sweetly before pulling away and taking your hand in his again.

“I love you Javi,” you say quietly, eyes on the TV.

Javier smiles, squeezing your hand gently as his other hand still stroked your leg slowly, a certain calm peace settling over him as he sat on the couch with the woman he loved.

“I love you too.”

Bonus:

Steve watched as Javier walked into the embassy the next day, straight to his desk and dialing the phone. He was still as he waited for whoever it was to pick up then he caught Steve’s eye and turned away from him, as they answered. “Hey, yes I know I just left,” he casts Steve another glance and lowers his voice, Steve had to strain to hear the conversation.

“Did you remember to take your pain killers?” Javier paused, “And the antibiotics?” he paused again, “Yes I know you can take care of yourself, I just wanted to make sure,” he defends, “Okay, yes, I will grab some on the way home, love you,” he says finally and hangs up the phone, turning to return to his desk across from his partners.

Steve gives him a shit eating grin, leaning back in his chair, he opens his mouth to say something, but Javier stops him with an accusing finger, “Not a fucking word,” word he bites.

Steve fights to hold back a laugh and puts his hand up in mock surrender, “Okay Peña, but I will say I never took you for the mother hen type,” he smirked.

Javier wouldn’t admit it, and he definitely wouldn’t show it in front of the other guys at work, but Steve knew how much he cared about you. He had to hold back another laugh as he ducked to avoid the folder thrown his way, finally laughing at the disgruntled look Javier sent his way.

Oh yeah, he wasn’t fooling anybody...He was smitten.

///

Permanent Tag: @lord-wolfgen @petalduck @sebastianstanslefteyebrow @stillreadingfantasy @jokersdoll @simonsbluee

Pedro Tag: @fleurdemiel145 @sargesbestgirl @lustriix @yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii @longitud-de-onda @jellyfishpoptart @ah-callie @mutantsandproud @pascalisthepunkest

#javier pena x reader #javier pena #narcos x reader #narcos #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal

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kentuckywrites · 3 years

Text

His Body, The Canvas

Pongo has gone missing, and @shunkuroichii ‘s Shun, @pish-posh-mish-mosh ‘s Mira, and @shymindmeta ‘s Sy’Chell grow concerned about his whereabouts. As fate would have it, Pongo went to face a dragon, and the results were unexpected...

A rewrite of Like A Canvas, a fic I wrote a little over three years ago.

Cauldros was an unforgiving terrain, the skies and the land full of ash and flame. Today it was raining fire, brimstone crashing down onto the molten floor. It’d be foolish to come on a day like this, but Pongo flew his Skell into the continent with no second thoughts. It was perfect weather to face the creature that had hurt his friend.

Sy’Chell had almost brushed over the topic. Pongo had been curious as to whether or not Sy could see once, what had caused him to end up in this state. Sy opened up, told him that this was not by choice, that a creature born of the ashes of Cauldros had taken his sight. Pongo knew exactly which indigen he’d been referring to. He knew where to find it, what prior conditions it needed to appear. He knew its name, how it would not be so easily killed.

Vortice, the Deific Blast. A Class 94 Tyrant, one of the most powerful indigens on Mira, and certainly one of the deadliest in Cauldros. Pongo hid his intent to kill it in conversation, though beneath the skin his blood boiled with rage. The planet was aware of his anger, and any attempts it made to calm him ended in silence. He’d packed his things, refueled Eros, stacked as many Piscinoid augments as he could fit into it, and took off without informing anyone. Pongo could use excuses, if anyone questioned him. He’d grown better at lying after all this time.

Pongo’s target became visible on the horizon as Eros flew ever closer to Mount M’Gando. Pongo clutched the controls of his beloved Skell tightly, his knuckles turning white. Taking down a tyrant solo was nearly unheard of in BLADE, with only the most experienced able to claim that distinction for themselves. Had those BLADEs fought with a similar vengeance? Had it burned in their cores to the point of overflowing? Pongo tried to steady his breaths as his thoughts began to eat away at him from the inside. He wasn’t going to turn back now, not when avenging Sy was on the line.

Vortice roared, circling the top of Mount M’Gando and soaking in its heat. Pongo pushed Eros forward, forward. He waited until he was in range to fire, and when the first diskbombs deployed from his weapon, he finally let his rage consume him.

Pongo was supposed to babysit Apollo and Asteria. He should’ve arrived an hour ago. But he never came. No texts, no calls, he’d simply disappeared.

Mira could feel from the first minute that something was wrong. He wouldn’t blow something like this off, and it was even more unlike him to not respond to her texts. She curled into herself more as Shun paced in front of her, hands in his pockets. The silence in their barracks was deafening, his footsteps on the cold metal floor hardly registering as sound. She was thankful the kids were both asleep now, but hearing them up and about would’ve been a blessing in that hour of waiting.

“Still nothing?”

Mira shook her head. “No. You?”

“Nothing at all.” Shun removed his hands from his pockets to run his fingers through his hair, still maintaining his rhythmic pacing. “I’m worried. Really worried.”

“I am too. This isn’t like him,” She replied, taking a shaky breath, “I think we should go out there and look for him.”

“Where would we look? We don’t have any clues. And we can’t just leave Apollo and Asteria alone to -”

A growl interrupted Shun’s rambling. Mira’s head turned to Sy, who was sitting on the opposite end of the couch with his arms folded across his chest. It was hard to tell what face he was making underneath his helmet, but when he raised his hands and motioned downwards, it became clear that he was telling Shun to calm down. Shun sighed, stopping in front of the coffee table. Somehow his expression remained blank, but hidden in his eyes was the concern of a protective older brother. Mira stood herself up, leaving her comm device on the couch as she circled the table to approach him. She reached for his hands, taking them within her own and squeezing gently.

“Wherever he is, I bet he’s fine,” She said, partially to convince Shun and partially to convince herself, “He’s strong, remember?”

“But what if something happened?” Shun responded frantically, “What if he got launched into Mount M’Gando? What if he was captured by the Ganglion and is being held hostage? What if he lost his legs to an Ictus? What if -”

“Shun.”

Mira cut him short by squeezing his hands again, and his fingers instinctively curled into hers. Shun’s words hadn’t failed to embed themselves into her brain, raise worries that she hadn’t thought possible. Pongo was strong, that she knew for certain, but he had a tendency to exceed his own limitations.

When Shun didn’t answer immediately, Mira decided to take the reigns, asking some calm yet possibly informative questions. “When was the last time we saw him? What was the last mission he took? Maybe he’s running late on a big expedition.”

“Yesterday,” Shun shook his head, “He was leaving out of the east gate. Didn’t get to talk to him since I was wrapping up a mission with Eleanora.”

“Pongo babysat the kids on Tuesday,” Mira said, “and that was the last time I saw him. Sy?”

Sy stood up, his Casca reflecting the barracks light. Slowly approaching the two, he pulled out his comm device and began to type furiously. Mira waited patiently until he flipped the screen around, showing what he’d written out.

I saw him on Tuesday as well. We were talking over dinner after we ran into each other in the commercial district. In conversation I told Pongo how I was blinded, and afterwards he wasn’t acting the same.

Shun squinted, reading alongside Mira. His hands became tense after he finished and he quickly looked away. Mira frowned, confused. “Sy, if you don’t mind me asking...do you know why Pongo would’ve reacted the way he did?”

Sy nodded and returned his focus to his comm device, typing out something new. When he directed the screen towards them again, Mira’s blood went cold.

I could be wrong, but...perhaps he meant to avenge my loss of sight by defeating the very creature that took it: Vortice, the Deific Blast.

“No. No.”

Shun practically ripped his hands out of Mira’s, heading for the weapons rack they kept close to the door. He picked up his dual guns, checking the cartridges as he spoke. It would be hardly noticeable to the average ear, but Mira could pick out how his voice quivered. “I bet he didn’t bring backup. He never brings backup. Did he even tell anyone where he was going? Damn it, what if we get there and it’s too late, what if -”

“Shun!” Mira called his name again, and he went silent, staring at her, waiting. To her left, Sy reached for her upper arm, holding up his comm device with a new message displayed on its screen.

Go with him to Cauldros. I’ll stay here and watch the kids.

Mira knew better than to argue. Shun would want her to come - the more the merrier, after all - and the kids would both understand why they left. She could see it now, the future memory of her sitting with Asteria as she painted upon a new canvas with her little fingers, asking about what dangerous missions she’d gone on and how many people she’d saved. Mira would tell the story about how she and Shun saved Pongo from a dragon, a prince in distress, and Asteria would begin to absentmindedly paint the scene as best she could, eyes wide with wonder. She’d nail the volcano, the three little figures of her family, the Deific Blast floating overhead casting its fire upon them. Would she be the knight this time, or would Shun? Who would hold the shield that protected Pongo, and who would wield the sword to slay the mighty beast?

Mira took two steps forward, about to trail Shun and grab her weapons, when the front door clicked.

It swung towards them silently, revealing a figure standing in the doorway, shoulders slumped and knees shaking. One arm was using the doorframe as support, though its lack of purchase did almost nothing to stabilize him. His hair was frizzy, unkempt, sticking up in strange directions in a chaos similar to Shun’s. His clothes were torn, some parts of his vest hanging on by mere threads. Mira grew increasingly concerned as the figure entered, and she realized he wasn’t wearing shoes, though a pair of worn down socks still covered his feet. That and his fingers were what grabbed her attention the most. It was hard to see, almost unnoticeable since he was wearing fingerless gloves, but under the shredded fabric were lines of blues and purples and reds and yellows, cascading frequently and without remorse. When he picked his head up, the lines became more apparent, strokes of paint that were eerily beautiful, the roots of a tree that had seen hell and survived. Somehow he was able to smile, though it was clear the action was painful to hold.

Shun reacted first.

“You fucking idiot.”

He put his dual guns down quickly before running up and taking Pongo in for a tight hug. Mira winced as she heard Pongo audibly cry out in pain, and Shun stepped back quickly, his hands hovering near Pongo’s shoulders as he scanned him over. Mira soon joined him, noticing that the brush strokes extended down his neck and into his torso. It would make sense if the markings on his fingers pushed further beyond as well.

“We’re happy you’re back in one piece,” She started, “But you look really hurt. Do you mind taking your vest off so I can bandage you up?”

“No, wait, we should get him to the MMC,” Shun protested, “It looks worse than meets the eye. I’m not even sure why you came here first -”

Pongo didn’t appear to be listening to him, though he turned to Mira and began to shrug off what little of his combat vest remained. With the longer sleeves disposed of, Mira could see his arms were coated in the markings, and they visibly went into his chest. Pongo, however, made no move to take off the tank top that he wore underneath his vest.

“Please, Pongo,” Mira reached out and put as gentle a hand as she could on his shoulder. But even the tiniest amount of contact made him shudder. As Shun reached down and collected what Pongo had removed, Mira began to usher Pongo further into the room, further into the light. He let her guide him, putting up little resistance. Even without showcasing his body, the canvas decorated in failed duty, it would have been obvious to Mira that he was wounded. There was something beneath the surface, more roots penetrating below the skin, that was sapping his strength.

In the common area, Sy made a small noise, likely one of worry. But Mira focused on keeping Pongo steady, and she moved to his backside and began to unzip the back of his tank top. Her hands were slow and steady, but her breaths shook as every new stroke of paint was revealed. She had been right; these scars extended onto his torso, but they seemed to pass down below his belt, too. There was no part of his skin untouched by the paint.

It was horrifying. It was painful to look at, painful to imagine the circumstances.

“Holy shit…” Shun placed Pongo’s tattered vest and gloves on the couch, able to see Pongo’s front half, the damage he’d been hiding. Mira helped Pongo slip out of the tank top and tossed it into the pile Shun had made. His chest was just as bad as his back, if not worse. A tear formed in the corner of Mira’s eye, and though she tried to hide the reason she was wiping her eye, Pongo caught on.

“I am alright, I promise...just a few bruises. I have faced worse.”

“A few bruises? A few?!” Shun was holding back as much as he could, but every ounce of anger and concern and frustration was leaking through his veyes. “You’re really hurt, Pongo. How can’t you see that?!”

Sy growled loudly, throwing his shoulders back as he added on to what Shun had said. Pongo’s eyes went wide, his smile fading. “Did you really expect me to sit back and not do anything about it?! You did not deserve what happened to you - I can and will take more hits than this to see your revenge carried out.”

Another set of growls, and Pongo began to cry, tears staining his purple and red cheeks. “You do not understand!! I fought to avenge you because I care about you!!” His chest heaved and he took a deep breath, hands shaking at his sides. “But in the end, I...it got away, neither of us died, and I failed you Sy’Chell I am so sorry I failed you -”

“Be quiet.” Shun told Pongo sternly, “None of that matters right now. You need rest.”

Mira opened her mouth, ready to agree, but Pongo cried out, “I will not rest until that fucking monster pays for what it did!!”

The force of his own voice, a vigor that did not match his physical state, caused Pongo to yelp in pain. Mira knew that all previous attempts at contact led to pain, and yet she knew Pongo thrived off of physical touch. She took one of his hands in both her own, caressing the skin beneath as softly as possible. She could swear she felt his blood tingling, occasional pulses pushing through, the faintest remnants of static electricity radiating off of his fingertips.

“Honey, do you think you can get the guest bedroom set up?” Mira looked over her shoulder as she began to lead Pongo away, “I’m taking him to the bathroom to get him patched up as best I can.”

Shun nodded, effortlessly walking past Pongo and Mira to get the bedroom organized. Pongo said nothing to retaliate, resigned to his pain, resigned to his weakness. Approaching the hallway towards the bathroom and bedrooms, Mira gave Sy one last sympathetic glance before turning back to Pongo.

That glance was all it took for Pongo to speak to the kids first.

“Good morning, you two!” Pongo chirped, his voice cracking by the end.

Apollo and Asteria hadn’t fully left their bedroom yet, their tiny heads peeking out of the doorframe. Wide eyes and innocent curiosity were given the image of a broken prince, one who had faced a dragon with a sword and shield and came home defeated. They were too young to know the truth - she promised herself that should they ask, Pongo defeated the dragon, he saved the day. It was his determination and resilience alone, a lone fighter in an impossible battle.

“You should get back to sleep, you two,” Mira told them, and they almost listened. But the door stayed propped open as Pongo called out, still attempting to carry the painful burden of a smile.

“Right. I can tell you about these when you get your rest, okay? Sleep is important, especially for you.”

“But Uncle Pon, you don’t sleep at all,” Apollo commented, and Pongo giggled at that.

“The villains never sleep and the heroes never rest, as the saying goes.”

Turning to Asteria, the young and kind and creative little girl Mira loved with all her heart, Pongo offered one last smile.

“I am sorry I was late; maybe we can paint tomorrow?”

#xenoblade x #His Body The Canvas: Short Story #Shun #Mira #sy'chell #THIS WAS SO SATISFYING.....#I amped up the Big Bro Shun a little bit because let's face it #if my little bro walked in covered in lightning scars I'd be a Bit Upset

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