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snxxiao · 3 years

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Your Fall | Tsukishima Kei (feat. Yamaguchi Tadashi)

—Pairing: Tsukishima x f! reader, Yamaguchi x f! reader (kinda, not really)

—Summary: When you were head over heals for his best friend, how was Tsukishima meant to tell you his real feelings?

—Content: angst, fluff, friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, unrequited love, pining, everyone is really bad at emotions, drinking (of age), mentions of vomit/nausea, innocent! reader, college party, heartbreak, heated make out sessions, a bit of groping, young love, clueless (read: idiot) everyone, corruption kink if you squint, slow burn (?), yams and tsuki are kind of ooc, loss of innocence? (kinda idk), walking in on two people doing the deed, cussing!!, virgin! reader, possessive! Tsukishima, tsuki is a little out of a perv?, very very loose discription of a panic attack if you squint real hard, vi I think that’s it?? Tell me if I’m missing something :)

—WC: 8.5K

—Notes: first full blown one-shot for this blog!! Woo!! It’s not even nsfw, idk how I managed to do that. I just got into an angst reading mood and decided to write this so here we are! I’m still not fully happy with it, but I never really like the things I write so it’s okay :). I’m not happy with the ending, either, so at some point. I might come back and fix it. Umm,, oh! There will be a nsfw part 2 at some point called “winter”. I was originally going to add it here, but by the time I finished the main story, I realised it was already 8k (plus I didn’t really know how to include it bc I hate when smut is just thrown into a fanfic without incorporating it to the plot) and decided just to include it in another part :) when it’s finished I’ll like it bother here and on my Masterlist :) have a nice day!! Sorry if this was bad!!

—Masterlists <3

Yamaguchi was an easy man to love. You knew that very well. How exactly couldn’t he be? With his big puppy-dog eyes and his warm heart to match, how was anyone meant to not fall for him?

He was the type to carry around hair ties or pads just in case you needed them. The type to always offer up his jacket when you were cold. Not to mention the freckles- oh my god weren’t his freckles just the cutest thing? He was the perfect man. You knew that, of course you did.

You had been nursing a crush on him since you first made it into Karasuno. You had bumped into the then second year on your very first day. You had somehow managed to get lost enough to end up in the second-year hallways, and he, being the oh-so-kind gentleman he was, helped you back to class.

Back then it was just a crush, puppy-dog love if you wanted to call it that. To be honest, you even followed him around like a lost puppy. But you couldn’t help it, you were just so enamored by his being. All logical thoughts didn’t matter, only those surrounding your senior did, and that was okay. Of course it was.

Ever since that day, you did everything you could to force your way into his tight nit friend group- even if that meant having to put up with the berates of Tsukkishima Kei. You just wanted to be around Yamaguchi in any way you could, and if that meant putting up with the mongrel that stole your food and called you an idiot, you would take it. It was all worth it for Tadashi.

He was like spring- the warmth, the happiness, the new beginnings. It was amazing.

To everyone else, your crush on him was obvious. Whenever you were around him, whenever he was giving you the slightest bit of attention, your cheeks would always become flushed. Your words would stutter. You’d give him gifts you that you didn’t seem to give anyone else. Not to mention how you would go all out for valentines day, spoiling him with homemade chocolates and any gifts you could find.

How could everyone not notice when it was so very obvious?

But, as stories like these go, it wasn’t obvious to him. He just thought you were nice. Maybe shy like him! You guys could understand each other because you were both so timid, must’ve been one of the reasons you were always around him and Tsukki, right? You must’ve been too nervous to make friends with anyone in your own grade. He didn’t mind, he liked your company. He hoped you guys would stay friends even after high school. You were a kind, calming personality to be around- a perfect comparison to Tsukki.

He was naïve, you both were.

Of course, he didn’t know about your feelings.

Tsukkishima, on the other hand, was the first person to notice. How could he not? No other girls really gave his best friend the attention that you did. None of them brightened at the slightest amount of physical affection from his friend. None of them made food or brought snacks to him. Obviously, he made fun of your antics, how could he not? You looked so stupid with your ears pink, your voice stuttering.

You were especially cute when he was teasing you, how your personality did a 180-degree flip for him. He got to see the side of you that you never let Yamaguchi see out of fear that he wouldn’t find you appealing. The side that was quick-witted and loud while still managing to maintain an air of innocence. The side that would surly make Yamaguchi turn his head up at the idea of even dating you. It was the same side that made Tsukkishima actually like to be around you. He loved your reactions; they were always so funny. How could he stop himself from teasing you? Especially when Yams was around.

Tsukkishima would never admit that he found you cute though- anytime the thought crossed his mind he’d push it away and shun it. You weren’t cute, just annoying, and stupid like everyone else. It wasn’t his fault that you gave amazing reactions. That’s all he wanted- a reaction out of you. Not for you to pay attention to him, to get your attention away from Yamaguchi for one goddamn minute of your life. Not for you to let go of that faux, overly shy persona that you had when it was his best friend around. Of course, it wasn’t that.

Thankfully, much to Tsukkishima’s delight (even if it was delight he was not yet willing to admit to), as you grew closer to the two men, you let the personality you had around Yamaguchi falter a bit more. The longer you three stayed friends, the more comfortable you must’ve felt. Yamaguchi didn’t really pick up on any difference, but Tsukkishima, whether it was consciously or not, did.

He noticed how your words would stutter less, how you slowly gained more confidence around them. How you were more willing to fight back against Tsukki, even in the presence of Yamaguchi. He liked it, it made you more fun to be around. They weren’t just your seniors anymore; they were your best friends.

You three did everything together- shopping, karaoke, meals. On special days you even brought Tsukki a bento box. He didn’t like to admit it, but he loved your cooking. The cute touches you added made him smile inside. Still, he kept convincing himself that the only reason he wanted to smile was because your childish antics were so stupid.

The only time he even came close to realizing his feelings for you was when he finally noticed how many guys confessed their feelings to you. When he picked you up at your locker (a habit he gained after learning you two attended the same cram school), more often than not there was a confession letter waiting inside. He never really noticed them, though. That was until white day, March 14th.

He saw you coming down to your lockers after your club activity, a giant stuffed dog held firmly in your arms. That was something he surly noticed. Something he couldn’t miss.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, glaring slightly at the offending object in your possession. He had no right to be jealous, he hadn’t even come to terms with the fact he liked you. But he knew you having something like that made him upset.

“Hmm? Oh! This? Some guy gave it to me,” you smiled, a pink blush dusting your cheeks, “His name is Ruffus!” He rolled his eyes at the stupid name you gave the stuffed puppy before smirking slightly. You were blushing, that meant Yamaguchi must’ve given it to you right? You did give him home made chocolates on valentine’s day. You were probably so happy because this meant he was finally reciprocating.

“Ahhh, I get it. Yams gave that to you huh? So, you two are finally a thing? Took both of you long enough.” You blushed at his comment.

“Of course, not you idiot, some guy in my class gave it to me. I didn’t even give him anything for valentine’s day.” You told him as you opened your locker. He looked inside, noticing quite a few pink cards located inside. The same type of envelopes those guys put their disgusting confession letters in. The feeling in his gut sparked back up.

You didn’t pay them any attention though, you just stuffed them into your bag so you could write them each a letter back, rejecting them as politely as you could. That’s what you normally did, anyway. The letters weren’t really anything new.

“Yams’ didn’t get me anything.” You said, forcing a smile, “I would say there’s next year, but you two are graduating, gonna leave me all alone! How will I survive!” You smiled at him and continued on your way to the train station. He actually felt bad for you. He normally doesn’t feel bad for anyone, but there you were, still pining after a guy who hadn’t shown any interest in you for over a year. He knew you had plenty of options (himself being one of them), but there you were, still going after his best friend who saw you as northing more then a cute little sister.

He wanted to tell you to get over him, but he was never very good at expressing what he wanted to say in words. Even if he did tell you, you both knew your feelings wouldn’t just go away. He could just tell you that Yams liked some other girl, but something in him told him not to. He didn’t want to see you sad.

So, instead, the next day he popped into your classroom early in the morning. Before you were even able to greet him, he walked over to you, put a stuffed frog on your head, then left the room without saying anything. He had never done something like that before, he wasn’t the type to give people gifts. You were confused, very confused over his actions. But happy.

He knew a gift from him was different then a gift from Yamaguchi, Yamaguchi was better than him after all. But, he had the urge to help in some way, so getting you a gift was the least he could do.

---

When graduation rolled around for your third-year best friends, you were there to support them. You always would be. You had flowers for the two of them, as well as a big dinner planned for later that night. You were going to treat them. The thought made you smile, they really deserved it.

After the ceremony, when you arrived to their classroom, Yamaguchi looked as handsome as ever, but then again, when didn’t he? His smile looked so pretty talking to his classmates. You wished he was smiling at you. But then again, when didn’t you?

Tsukkishima finally came over to you before Yamaguchi did. He had an annoyed scowl when you gave him the flowers, but then again, he always did, didn’t he? You were so proud of your friends that today you didn’t mind the teasing or the typical rude comments. You just wanted to spend a nice, happy, last day of high school with your crush and your best friend.

---

Your friends had both gotten into the same university, a university that you hoped to attened yourself the following year. You couldn’t imagine going anywhere else. You wanted to be with them again.

When the next school year started up you realized how terribly you missed the duo. Sure, you had other friends in your classes, but it wasn’t the same as the time you got to spend with the seniors you held so close to your heart. So, what else could you do other then put your head into a book and study? You worked as hard as you could to be able to make it into their university. Then you’d get to spend time with your friends once again.

As expected when their classes started up you didn’t get to see them as often, typically only getting to text them rather then actually meet in person. Yamaguchi seemed really supportive about you going to university with them, often sending you texts of encouragement on long nights of studying. Even better was when he had the time he took you out to get coffee, then to the local library to help you study. It reminded you why you started to like him in the first place; you wanted to be better for him. Better then just a silly little high school girl with a silly little crush.

Tsukishima, while you hoped would be just as supportive as Yams, didn’t really seem to care much. The occasional hangout still took place, you both still texted. However, college was stressful; it was really hard. Never mind his volleyball career and the countless hours he put into practice. The time you used to take up in his life was now consumed by school. You didn’t really expect any more or any less from him. At least you still had Yamaguchi, that was who you really needed, right?

He was your springtime, remember?

---

Finally, you managed to do it! You graduated your final, painstaking year of high school! Even got into your top university, the one Tsuki and Yams went to! You were so excited. You couldn’t believe it when you got your acceptance letter.

Finally, you would be re-united with your best friends again. It would be just like high school all over again, right?

As per usual, you were wrong. It seemed like most of the time you were. While they were both happy for you (overjoyed actually), when you finally started attending the university, the dynamic was drastically different than before. You hoped you would get to spend time together once again, just like you did back in the good old days. You hoped you would all get to eat lunch together, hang out after school, study together. But none of that was really the same.

Your and Tsuki’s schedule always lined up together, however, Yamaguchi’s always ended being the opposite. Which left you and Tsukishima to hang out a lot more often, something neither of you could really argue with. He missed you, a lot more then he was willing to admit. You missed your big old oaf as well, especially your late-night talks about life. More often than not, he ended up in your room until the moon was high in the sky, just, talking to you. After his long, stressful days, you were the exact break he needed.

Your talks never got emotional, at least they didn’t on his end. But that was okay, you didn’t mind. That was always just… him. And you liked your friendship with him. Whenever your conversations ventured to Yamaguchi, he made sure to never talk about his friends love life. The crushes he had on other girls at the time, his friends ideal type, none of that. Maybe that was a mistake, he didn’t know. Maybe you would have finally taken the hint and gotten over your feelings. He just didn’t want to hurt you. The way your eyes lit up when his best friend was around, he couldn’t take that away from you. That just wasn’t right. He just wanted to see you happy. That was his excuse.

As the years continued on, your puppy-love that originally began in high school had only grown and bloomed into a full-fledged love for none other than Yamaguchi Tadashi, the innocence with it still carried over. He had nurtured that love without even knowing it himself. He was an easy man to love. In your second year of college, you knew that for sure.

There you were, laying on the floor with Tsukishima occupying the bed like most other nights. That day you had gone out with the two of them, now, you were flustered. Mad even. That day, while you were out, you noticed Tadashi staring at a pretty 4th year girl. His cheeks were completely flushed, and when she managed to bump into him on accident, he could barely utter a word. The two of you were opposites, that was pretty obvious, even if it was just based on looks alone. She was graceful and elegant, and so very mature. While you were still cute and innocent; your second year of college and you hadn’t even had your first kiss yet.

It hurt, it really, really hurt to see that. So, you now sat there, stewing in silence as Tsuki kicked your head for the umpteenth time trying to get your attention.

“Oi, you fre-“

“I think Tadashi is into experienced girls.” You said abruptly, finally breaking out of your once quiet demeanor. Tsuki shifted uncomfortably, not really knowing how to traverse around this.

“What the fuck are you on about this time?” Was the response he settled with. You turned around, finally making eye contact with him.

“Think about it! We both saw how he was around that girl today!” You pouted, standing up. You put your hands on your hips. Kei thought you looked stupid (cute) like that, with your cheeks all puffed out in obvious irritation.

“Yeah and?”

“Do you think if I was more experienced then I would have a chance with him?” He really didn’t know how to answer this one. It was one of the subjects he always avoided. He knew Tadashi’s ideal type, but he would never actually tell you it.

“(y/n)..” he signed out, rubbing his face slightly in irritation. That’s when you said words he never thought he would actually hear from you.

“Could you teach me how to kiss?” It was silly of you to think knowing how to kiss would suddenly make him fall in love with you, but people did silly things for love didn’t they? You crawled between his legs, looking up at him with a smile and a pale pink blush adorning your features.

Tsukishima sat up straighter than he had before, and looked at you with evident shock across his features. You, his innocent little best friend, was asking him for kissing lessons? You were sitting so prettily between his legs? You weren’t actually serious were you? Sure, he knew how to, he had quite a bit of experience and that kind of thing didn’t mean much to him with other girls. And sure, the idea did excite him- but no. No, he couldn’t do that. Not to his best friend who was in love with their green-haired counterpart.

“Idiot, stop talking out of your ass.” He said, turning his face away from yours, a pink settling on his cheeks as well, “You wanted to save that for someone you cared about.” He knew this, of course he did. And he wasn’t that person. For some reason, at the thought of that, something panged in his heart.

“So what? It doesn’t matter anymore does it? I don’t care about that kind of thing anymore.” Yes you did. You both knew you did. Kei was the only one who was willing to admit it though.

He signed and tried to push you away from him slightly, “Yes you do. You just need to sleep this idiocity of yours off.” He was blunt about it, he always was. But, suddenly he felt a gentle tug on the bottom of his shirt and he instinctively met your gaze once again. His eyes couldn’t help but widen.

“Pl-please Kei…? I… I really need your help… I’m too inexperienced… I trust you a lot.. and I really need your help with this…” Now you were just flat out begging him. It tugged on his heart strings; it really did. He never wanted to make you sad.

He signed, you were always able to make him give in to stupid things. Only you though.

“Fine. But don’t come to me asking for shit like this again.” He stated bluntly. And suddenly, all the sadness vanished from your face, replaced with that big stupid smile he told himself he hated.

“Thank you! Thank you so much! You’re the best person in the world!” And for once, maybe he believed it. When you spoke things so earnestly, it was hard for him not to believe them. He rolled his eyes.

“You better not regret this okay?” He spoke softly. He slowly reached out and took you chin between his forefinger and thumb, leading your face closer to his.

“I promise I won’t.”

And with that last bit of consent he needed, he kissed you.

It was gentle, so gentle. It was too easy to kiss him back. Your grip stayed firm on the bottom of his shirt, your eyes screwed shut awkwardly tight. Eventually, he pulled away only to kiss you again, this time deeper and more passionate. He felt years of weight rushing off of him all at once and he had no clue why. All he knew is that for some reason he was finally able to relax. He removed his hand from your chin, instead resting it on your waist gently.

Before he realized what he was doing, he gently licked your bottom lip, asking for entrance. You squeaked but nevertheless obliged, opening your mouth just enough so he could move his tongue inside.

He kiss itself was slow and passionate. He slowly coaxed out what he wanted from you without exchanging any words. The only time the two of you pulled away was to take a breath before he kissed you again and again, each one rougher then the last. Eventually, you began to relax into his touch, into him as he kept going. You never really thought just kissing another person could feel this good.

At some point throughout the exchange, Tsukishima had managed to take hold of your ass, pulling you onto his lap. You let out a little whine when he gripped you too hard. That whine excited him. He didn’t think he could take it anymore. He was getting hard, too hard. Your innocence, your inexperience. He loved all of it.

He wasn’t thinking anymore, why should he think when he gets so drunk off of just kissing you?

Oh right.

That’s why.

Because its you. His best friend of 5 years who was hopelessly in love with someone else. Someone that wasn’t him. It made him upset, deeply so. Why didn’t you love him the same way you loved Yamaguchi? What did Yamaguchi have that he didn’t?

Wait, was he in love with you?

Thoughts over the last 5 years finally registered with him as you began to pull your shirt off. As much as he wanted to continue, this was all too much for him to deal with him at the moment. Years of feelings and emotions that he kept supressed rushed out of him like the Niagra falls. It was too much. This was too much.

That’s when he remembered, you weren’t doing this for him. You were doing it because you wanted Yamaguchi to like you. He had to stop this.

You moaned again and pulled away from the kiss, once again attempting to remove the annoying material known as your shirt. If he didn’t know the truth maybe he really would believe it, that you actually cared about him and wanted to do this.

Abruptly, Tsukishima stood up, causing you to fall back onto the plush, stuffed animal covered bed. You looked at him confused. He must’ve just been nervous to take things farther, he probably thought you didn’t want to. It was okay! You needed to learn about that stuff too anyway if you were going to show Yamaguchi how mature and elegant you could be. Just like that other girl. The girl he really liked.

“‘S okay!” You smiled and sat up on the bed, “We can keep going, I don’t mind.” You looked at him with hopeful eyes, expecting him to move back on top of you to continue. But instead, he began to grab his things and make way for the door. You were confused. Why was he acting like this all of a sudden? Didn’t he say he would help? Didn’t he wanna do this? You quickly got up and grabbed his wrist to stop him.

“Did I do something wrong? Was I that bad?”

“No.” He bluntly stated, not looking back at you. He couldn’t deal with this. He pulled his arm away, “Just confess to him already. This is getting annoying. Shit it’s been annoying. It’s been 5 fucking years!” Suddenly, you felt insecure. You felt rejected.

“Wh-what? But I thought…”

“You thought wrong. Just tell him you like him.” And with that, he left your dorm room. He really didn’t understand why he was getting so upset, he didn’t exactly have a right to either. He had never felt this jealous before. He didn’t feel it when he fucked around with girls, didn’t feel it when guys hit on the other girls he had been interested it, but you were different. He needed to come to terms with these newly discovered feelings, yet he didn’t know if he could ever actually face you again. Not with you still head over heels for Yamaguchi.

So, the days trailed on with no sign of Tsukishima. Yamaguchi was showing up less and less, too. Presumably, he was meeting up with that girl again, Riko, as you learned her name to be. You saw them around campus a few times. But you didn’t let yourself admit the truth. You didn’t want to. It was better to just protect your heart. They were just friends, study partners. Had to be right?

The worst of it was that whenever you tried to talk to Tsuki, he always left you on read or said something so dry that you couldn’t reply to it. Seems like your spring, your happiness, your youth had finally faded.

Over the coming weeks you were alone again. Just like high school, you took to studying to drown out the feelings of loneliness. Helplessness maybe. Eventually, you stopped trying to spend time with them. It was obvious Kei had been ignoring you since that night, and Yamaguchi was clearly occupied with his summer fling.

That’s it.

This had to be the feeling of summer. Uncomfortable, alone, and warm. School was over, it wasn’t as easy to be around friends. There were still pretty flowers, they just weren’t around you. You had to seek refuge in your cool house. The cold was much more calming.

But eventually, you got tired of that too. You were tired of this. All the awkward tension, all the avoidance of each other. Maybe, just maybe, if you couldn’t save your relationship with Tsuki, you could at least save it with Yamaguchi.

You chose a day and marked it on your calendar. That was the day you would finally tell him your true feelings. Up until now, you were too scared of the rejection, too scared of loosing him, but you practically already had. Your friendship with the two men was in shambles, so if there was an all or nothing chance that could make things better, you decided you needed to take it.

If he rejects you, you decided that you could take it. You have to take it. You cant just sit there pining after him anymore. Back in your younger years you thought that you might still have a chance if you just waited it out. Maybe he would confess! But he never did. Maybe you just needed to confess your feelings to get over him. Maybe just maybe that’s what you wanted.

Or maybe you wanted him to accept you with open arms. You didn’t really know what you wanted. You just wanted to be done with the drama your crush on him has brought you so you could go back to spring.

But seasons change. The cruel clock continues to tick on and on without stopping. Once you passed spring you couldn’t get it back.

—-

Finally, when that fated day arrived, you walked up to his dorm. You tried your best to look nice and calm, but you knew you weren’t very good at that. Even when you tried your hardest you always looked slightly disheveled. You once hoped it was something Yamaguchi would like about you, but it never seemed like it was. Tsukishima loved it though, he was finally willing to admit it too.

You looked down at his door handle and noticed a sock placed on it. Looking back on that moment, you wished you knew what it meant. That might’ve saved you from seeing what you did.

You had a lot of wishes.

But alas, you never got that lesson from your female friends- hell you didn’t really had any close female friends other than the guy’s team managers in high school. So, in your naïveté, you gently took the sock off the handle, maybe it somehow ended up there when he was doing the laundry? He was clumsy like that. You shrugged it off and twisted to see if it was locked. It was.

That should have been your second red flag to turn back, he always kept his door unlocked.

But, once again, you always seemed to make the wrong choice.

You found your keys, pulling them out of your pocket. Located on the ringlet was the same key he had given to his dorm back at the beginning of the school year. Back when the 3 of you were closer. You suck it in the keyhole and turned it before opening the door, the sight inside scaring you.

Yamaguchi had his face scrunched up in pleasure, his cock buried deep inside Riko’s cunt. She was on her hands and knees with her back bent at an angle that couldn’t have been comfortable. Your eyes went wide as the sound of skin slapping against skin was all you could hear. Suddenly, you felt hot. Very hot. You couldn’t breathe either. It was like you had just run a marathon in 90-degree heat. It was awful.

You wished you had just turned around and ran before Yamaguchi saw you, you really wished you did. But you were frozen in place. It was like the summer heat had dragged you down to the fiery pits of hell.

Eventually, when he did see you, his face flushed even brighter than it had been before. He quickly pulled out of her, hurriedly dressing the two of them while you just stood in place. How long did you stand there? You had no idea.

You should have been happy for your friend; you really wish you could have been. You wished you could have just said something funny and walked away like nothing happened. If only your 5-year love for the man wasn’t in the way. Without it, this would have just been an awkward experience, not an utterly heartbreaking one. You didn’t have a right to be upset either, you knew that; you didn’t have a claim over him. But it still hurt. It hurt more than anything else. Like a sunburn after a long day at the beach.

“A-ah! (Y/n)! I didn’t know you were coming over!” Yamaguchi laughed out awkwardly, finally pulling up his pants. Of course he wasn’t hurting like you. He was in a relationship. You wanted him to be happy. Its what he deserved after making you feel so happy, so cared about for so many years.

So, what else could you do other than you force a smile onto your face. You could wallow in your own emotions another time.

“Yeah! I just needed to um.. grab something! I didn’t know you were in here.” You said, fumbling with your words a bit, “But I see you’re busy! I’ll head out!” You quickly closed the door, leaning against the wall right next to it. You needed a moment to compose yourself before your walk back to your dorm. You didn’t want to burst out into tears in the middle of the campus for everyone to see.

“Who was that?”

“Oh, she’s just my friend from high school!”

“Just a friend? Why did she have a key to your place then? I know I locked the door.”

“Ah, you don’t have to be so worried about her, she’s like my little sister. Sometimes she needs my help with things.”

You wished you just left. Wished you just ran straight home. Wished the walls weren’t as thin as they were. Wished they weren’t standing so close to the door. Anything you could have wished on in that moment you did. Just a high school friend. Just a little sister. Not even one of his best friends. The words made you feel sick. Who cares if anyone saw you crying, you just needed to get out of there. You held a hand over your mouth as you practically ran home, afraid you might actually throw up if you didn’t.

Oh, how the summer stung.

---

You hadn’t left your dorm in days; you really shouldn’t have been as upset as you were. You didn’t have any right to. The most you ever did with poor Tadashi was hold his hand- even that wasn’t in any sort of romantic manor. But still, there you were. Heartbroken. It was only natural really, you knew he didn’t owe you anything, you knew you weren’t in a relationship. He could do whatever he wanted! But that didn’t stop it from hurting. You didn’t think it would ever really stop hurting.

It was on the fifth day that you decided you needed to do something. Something to forget. Go out to a party, get drunk, fuck some random guy. It didn’t matter. Maybe you just wanted to continue the destructive streak you already had going. Why not fuck around and loose your virginity? None of it mattered anyway. Not when the man you had loved since your first year in high school never even thought about loving you back.

Unrequited love was a bitch.

You decided that you needed to get over yourself, get over this pity party you were throwing. Maybe if you went out tonight you could get over him. Maybe then the summer bee sting would finally go away.

You didn’t have many clothes for going out, it wasn’t something you were really into. So, you tried your best to put together an outfit to make yourself feel appealing. Did your hair to make yourself feel pretty. Put on some makeup to feel a tad bit more confident. Even if your skills weren’t that great, it didn’t matter. You felt prettier then you had the whole week. That is what mattered. You didn’t really think guys cared how you dressed anyway, only what was underneath, so it didn’t really matter.

When you finally left the dorm and arrived at one of the various parties going on, the moon was high in the sky. The confidence you had walking to the building had all but vanished when you finally manouvered inside. The music was loud, people were sweaty, the place was a mess. But that didn’t matter right? All that mattered was getting over your spring, some other girls Yamaguchi Tadashi.

After all, one thing that stays the same is the seasons changing.

You made your way over to the kitchen to grab a drink. You never really liked the idea of drinking, the smell making you feel sick, but you needed to let loose. That’s what alcohol was for anyway, wasn’t it? That what all the teen movies you watched as you cried into your pillow told you. It was really childish of you, but you had never gone through heart break before. Maybe you were just a late bloomer. Maybe this was the moment that would make you mature. As you took your first sip, your nose scrunched up, but you kept downing it.

Eventually you made your way to the dance floor, the alcohol taking a firm hold on your system as you finally let loose. You relaxed as you swayed to the music and laughed easily. Your consciousness was still there, you were still clear enough to make decisions. A certain wall had just otherwise broken down.

A guy came up behind you and began grinding against your ass as you danced. You giggled and turned around to face him. He wasn’t unattractive, far from it. If you were going to do this now would be the time to.

“Hey.” You smiled at him. He smiled back.

Little did you know, the source of one of your problems was also there that night, also there trying to drink away his feelings. He was so stupid. Tsukishima knew very well he was. All this time and he never realized his liked you more than just his idiot best friend. And now that he did know, he knew he had no chance with you. Every emotion he didn’t understand surrounding you from all those years came rushing at him tenfold. He didn’t like the dog because he was jealous, he didn’t like the confession letters because he didn’t like the idea other men could have you.

He loved you smile, he didn’t think you looked stupid, he thought you looked adorable. The stuffed animals that he once made fun of you having were now the cutest thing. The reason your food was so good was because you made it, not just because you were a good cook. He was pretty sure you could feed him garbage and he would love it all because you were the one who gave it to him.

He knew why he didn’t like talking about Tadashi with you- it was because he wished he was Tadashi. He wanted to be the one you loved and cared about. But now he knew that that would never happen, all because you loved someone other then him.

He had been avoiding both you and Yamaguchi since all of those realizations. He tried quick fucks to make up for the feelings you left him with, but nothing helped. He was there again that night to try to do the same thing. To look for an easy pussy to stick his dick into as an attempt to get over you. It was better that he did, for all three of you.

That was when he saw you on the dance floor, with some other man’s filthy hands all over you. Hands that should be his. At first he honestly didn’t really believe it was you, he just thought it was whatever drink he was having that night making him delusional. You wouldn’t be at a party like this. You couldn’t be. But when he inched closer and closer, he realized it had to be you. You were standing there in the skimpiest skirt he thought he had ever seen and thigh-highs, with some guy biting disgusting marks into your neck.

When the man whispered something in your ear, you blushed. Tsuki’s face was red for other reasons. He saw the guy take your small hand into his own and start to lead you up the stairs. Wait, no. He couldn’t let that happen. He shouldn’t let that happen. You should be with him. He listened to the thoughts in his head and rushed over to you, pulling you against his chest. The other man stepped back in an offended manor.

“Huh? What are you doing here?” You mumbled out, a pout forming on your lips, your cheeks pushed out just the way he liked. It was so cute. He loved it so much. But right now was not the time to get caught up in his own feelings.

“It doesn’t matter. What are you doing?” He said in a stern manor, glaring down at you dangerously. You giggled and stood on your tippy toes to whisper in his ear. His aggressive deminior didn’t really mean anything.

“I’m gonna get fucked! I think this guy likes me!” You giggled; your cheeks dusted with rose. He scoffed in annoyance, could you really be that stupid?

“No, you’re not. You’re drunk.”

“Hush! I’m not drunk! Perfectly sane!” You smiled, while the other man stared at the two of you awkwardly.

“Hey uh… I’m sorry if this is your girl. I had no clue… Um… I’m gonna go… I don’t wanna be a part of your weird jealous fuck… I’ve been roped into that one too many times before, and it’s never a happy ending.” The stranger said, before awkwardly trotting away and grabbing himself another drink. You whined and pushed at Tsuki’s chest, sad your fuck to get over Tadashi had now walked away and seemingly had no interest.

“What did you do that for?!” You whined and squirmed around cutely like you were actually disappointed. He really hoped you weren’t.

“We’re leaving.” He murmured bluntly, picking you up and carrying you outside of the building. You squirmed the whole time, constantly berating him about putting you down and how he ruined your night. He didn’t listen though, only carried you back to his dorm, most likely waking up all of his neighbors in the process due to your voice.

Only after you finally made it inside did he put you down, dropping you on his bed. He turned his back to you, scavenging through his dresser.

“I cant believe you! And when I was this close-“ He interrupted you, handing you some of his clothes to change into, “What the fuck are these for?” You said, holding them up and shaking them slightly for dramatic effect.

He only sighed and sat down at his desk chair, “You don’t see me as one, but I am a man, (y/n).” You only looked at him confused, but he sighed again, opting to not explain himself further, “You’re staying the night. You should be comfortable.” He turned around in his chair, now facing away from you. Oddly, you missed his gold, piercing stare.

“Oh, so just cause you’re a guy you cant keep your dick in your pants?”

“That’s not what I meant you idiot.”

“That’s what it seems like. I was hoping to have that effect on someone else you know! Not you!”

“I know.”

“Then why the fuck did you take me away?!”

“You were going to regret it. Can you please just shut the fuck up?” He signed, rubbing his temples. It seemed like you were really itching to get in a fight that night. He kind of deserved it, he didn’t have any right to drag you away. What you wanted to do was your choice, he shouldn’t have any say in it. But he couldn’t just stand there and watch as you got taken from him- even if he decided that you would never like him in that way.

You scoffed and stood up, “I’m leaving.” You didn’t want to go.

“Don’t...” You didn’t expect him to say that. You expected him to laugh at you and say see if I care. Did he… care..? Maybe, you didn’t know. It didn’t matter though, as you listened to her stern, dominating voice, you sat back down on the bed, just as he wanted. You stained into his muscular back with confusion and annoyance.

“What do you want Tsukishima.” You asked, well, more so stated. And he really didn’t have an answer for you. He wanted you to fall for him instead of that green haired twig who couldn’t see the amazing thing right in front of him. For once he wanted to be in a dumb romcom where he was the guy the girl actually fell for instead of just the supportive best friend. He wanted you. He wasn’t going to say that though, opting to just change the subject entirely.

“Why were you going to do that?” He questioned, still not able to bring himself to turn around and face you.

“Do what?”

“Fuck him. It wasn’t to.. You weren’t just trying to make yourself more experienced for.. for him right?” He was having trouble finding the exact right words to say. However, when a sudden sharp laugh (a laugh that he loved) moved past your lips he whipped around quickly, watching you almost keel over in laughter.

“Him?” You laughed, “You mean Yamaguchi? Hell no! I was trying to get over that cabbage patch kid.” You calmed yourself down, while Tsuki just stared at you, now it was his turn to be confused.

He had no clue about the events that happened between you and Tadashi, so you explained, “I know, finally right? I walked in on him fucking that chick. I threw myself a pity party and now here I am, trying to get over him before you so rudely pulled- no sorry, carried my ass away.” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, you were finally trying to get over him? He knew he should’ve felt bad, your heart had been broken and he wasn’t there to help, but the only thought going through his head were thanks to whatever god there was.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, yeah, here comes all the teasing and mocking, I know the drill. You can spare me from it.”

“I’m sorry that happened.”

“Haha yeah the jokes all on me- what?” You were bamboozled! You had never heard him say those words before, even when he made you cry from mocking you about your creepy pasta phase in high school.

“That sucks, I know you really liked him.”

“I… Yeah.. Yeah it does suck.” You pulled your legs up to your chest, not really knowing how to react in this situation. He had never been this emotionally open with you, never really showed you any form of empathy. You kind of wanted to cry, let your emotions out now that you finally had someone to actually listen to you. All he did was nod, trying not to pay any mind to your pink panties that had now been exposed due to your new position.

“Get changed okay?” He said gently. It was a tone you weren’t used to hearing from him just yet. You nodded your head before he turned back around in his chair. You took that as a sign to get started, pulling off your top and exchanging it for his bigger, comfier volleyball jersey he had handed to you earlier. The sweats he gave you to wear were huge as well, but they were really your only option. You didn’t want to go back to your dorm anymore, it was much too hot there. Summer emotions were strong and evident. But Tsuki’s room, it was cool like fall.

Oh, how you were soon going to love fall.

When you finished changing, you perched yourself back on his bed, nestled into the corner with all the pillows. His bed was comfortable, maybe you wouldn’t mind this sleepover.

“You can look now, I finished.” When he turned around, he should’ve known what to expect. However, he was not anticipating the effect you had on him. If he thought you looked amazing in that skirt, you looked even better in his clothes.

He wouldn’t say anything about it though, you didn’t need that right now.

You fiddled with the bottom of your shirt; things normally weren’t this awkward between you. But then again, you two hadn’t talked for the last couple of weeks, and the last time you did you were begging him to teach you how to kiss.

“So,” You decided to try to make some form of conversation at least, “Why were you out tonight?” You smiled slightly at him as he took his glasses off, “You normally just like to say home and study.”

Same reason you were. “The rest of the team went to it; I just went for them” You nodded in understanding.

“You can come over here, you know? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I wont bite unless threatened.” You smiled, patting the spot next to you in bed.

He hesitated for a moment before you sweetened the deal, “I’ll watch your lame volleyball games with you.” At that he stood up and slid next to you in bed. You couldn’t help but cuddle up to him, resting your head gently against his shoulder, waiting for a nudge off of him that never came. He pulled his phone out and pulled up a game for the two of you to watch. This was nice, this was peaceful. It was like autumn. Your autumn.

After awhile of listening to him talk about the game, you fell asleep nuzzled up to his neck.

—-

In the following months you and Tsuki grew closer- a lot closer, much to his delight. Those late-night talks came back and eventually morphed into sleepovers. Sleepovers where you always found yourself cuddled up to him by morning. Eventually, he even starting initiating affection in his own, albeit rough way. It was relaxing, he was so nice. Well, not literally. He still made fun of you, which resulted in you making fun of him back.

But on those nights where he would be softer and open up to you, it would make you so happy.

Eventually, after seeing you and Tsuki walk around on campus, Yamaguchi realized the friendship he had been neglecting with the two of you. He started hanging out more and more, but the shift in your trio’s dynamic was obvious. You and Tsukishima seemed a lot closer then you two had before, which Tadashi only saw as a good thing. He was happy his friends were finally closer! He smiled at the thought of you three remaining friends even after college.

He was still clueless about people’s emotions towards him, always had been, always will be.

So, your friendship with the boys was back in full bloom. You were excited about it, finally realizing how relaxing it could be to spend time with your friends without stupid emotions in the way.

That was until emotions did, in fact, start to get in the way again.

They always did.

Yamaguchi’s girlfriend broke up with him, and of course, who did he come running to other then you? You let him cry into your arms. You had to. You wanted to make your best friend feel better, but that “making him feel better” did not include him kissing you, at least on your end it didn’t. To him though, it did.

In the middle of his shaking and crying he looked up to you with his red puffy doe eyes. Before you knew it his lips were on yours. You weren’t expecting it, you didn’t know what to do. The moment you had been waiting your whole life for had just presented itself, and all you could think about was Tsukishima and how he kissed you, how he made you feel so good with nothing but his tongue.

You pulled away and stood up, apologizing quickly, and leaving your dorm. Yamaguchi sat there confused as well. Why did he kiss you? He didn’t have the slightest clue either. He was probably just so upset, maybe looking for a rebound. You shouldn’t be his rebound though. He was probably just confused. That’s what the both of you told yourselves anyway. He couldn’t have actually realized his feelings for you in that moment. Tsukishima would’ve told you he didn’t deserve to.

When you arrived at the door, you were hot again. Summer was back and you didn’t know why. But, Tsukishima could cool you down, he always managed to. When he opened the door and saw your distraught figure, he did nothing but open his arms. When you were upset you always seemed to want to be held. He didn’t get it, but making fun of you in that moment wouldn’t help.

You lunged into his arms and held him tight, burring your face in his shirt in an instant. He slowly picked you up, closed the door, and maneuvered over to his bed to sit the two of you down on it. You needed a friend right now.

“Wanna tell me what happened?” You stilled for a moment, taking a long hesitant breath before speaking. You wanted to try to remain as calm as possible.

“Y-Yams he.. his girlfriend broke up with him… He kissed me…” Tsukishima tensed up at this and started to rub circles into your back.

“Oh, he did? Dream come then?” You were gonna leave him again weren’t you?

You only shook your head, “I-I….I don’t think so…” you managed to squeak out, “I don’t know what I’m feeling… I just know I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Tsuki looked at you confused before sighing, now wasn’t the time to have a talk about your potential feelings for him. You just needed to rest.

“Emotions are shitty aren’t they?” He sighed out, you nodded and relaxed against him. Hopefully, you wouldn’t leave him for his idiot best friend. Not this time.

“T-Tsuki… I know I’m being really selfish right now but… I want you to make the pain go away.. I-I don’t think anyone else can do it..” You looked up at him with your eyes watering. It felt wrong to kiss Yamaguchi, like you were enacting a sin that god forbit you from. It felt dirty and wrong.

“What do you want me to do?” He sighed, pushing a strand of hair out of your face. It was sad how easily he gave into you.

“I-I don’t know.. I just feel dirty.. I feel wrong..” You said, bottom lip quivering slightly. He was honestly amazed at this. How could he make you feel like this? Why did kissing Yamaguchi make you feel dirty? Why did you think he could cleanse you? He shouldn’t act. He really shouldn’t. But your lips, they were so soft and inexperienced he kissed you.. would they be the same as last time? Would you be so quick to make a sound? He wanted to know, and he wanted to make you feel better.

So, he leaned down and kissed you. You didn’t pull away, didn’t scream in disgust. Rather, it seemed to be exactly what you wanted. A soft mewl of approval you let out shot straight through him. You learned into his touch, finally starting to cool down. This is exactly what you wanted, exactly what you needed. You need Tsukishima. It finally dawned on you that that’s why you were so repulsed by Yamaguchi kissing you, it was because you didn’t want anyone other then Tsukishima to be doing that kind of thing to you.

Once the kiss finally broke, a string of saliva connected your mouths. You were panting, your head dizzy from the overwhelming emotions. Tsukishima’s eyes just stared down at you, lust clouding his vision as his breathes labored slightly. He wanted to take things further, but he refused to let himself do that just yet. He had already indulged himself too much, but you looked so happy.

“Th-thank you..” You finally breathed out, “I-I.. thank you..” you mumbled, collapsing against the blonde’s chest. The effect he had on you was unbelievable, but it filled you with such pure and utter satisfaction.

He smiled down at you, a real genuine smile, “Get some sleep.” He told you, and you listened.

The following morning wasn’t as awkward as you thought it would be. When you woke up, he just held you against his chest. After a long talk that was much too sappy for Tsukishima’s liking, you two eventually decided to give dating a shot.

It scared you a little, you had to admit. You were nervous about your inexperience, most guys your age wouldn’t like that kind of thing right? But he reassured you, adding in a line making fun of you, calling you a baby to lighten the mood. He was happy. So happy. You both were.

This was right, it felt right.

As summer melted away into autumn, you found a new love, a new hope.

Maybe a new start wasn’t spring. Maybe a new start was Autumn after all.

Your fall, your Tsukishima. <3

Thank you all for reading!! Part 2 will be up at some point!! Have a lovely day <3

—masterlists

—rules/ requests

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docholligay · 3 years

Note

Holliday loves: your favorite kitchen tools!

Yes yes yes let me give you my FINEST recommendations for the kitchen! These are all things I could PROBABLY do without in the kitchen but I certainly wouldn't WANT to. I think they are the BEST uses of my money over the years.

Thermoworks Thermapen

SHUT UP SHUT UP ALL OF YOU SHUT UP.

My love of the Thermoworks brand is well know, though I regret to say I am not a paid affiliate nor do they even give me free shit. I own a number of their products but the absolute game changer in my kitchen is the Thermapen MK4. Accurate to .7 degrees. 2-3 seconds to measure. This is the thing of dreams. This can be used for sugar, for meat, for whatever you can dream up, my custards now sing with their to the exact moment thickness, my hamburgers juice coquettishly as you bite into them, gone are the days of using reference by hand and spoon, you can get something down to the exact degree. It's like having an X-man power, but for cooking, and in your hand. I also have the magnetic silicone sleeve so it just sits on my fridge, for easy access because not only do I need it, I need it right fucking now, and it always rises to the occasion.

They are actually releasing an even more powerful ONE second thermapen, so this one is on clearance for 69.00 bucks, down from 99. I cannot recommend it enough if you are all interested in cooking.

Cast Iron Skillet

If you like meat, you have to purchase a cast iron skillet. Once you learn how to pan-sear a steak, restaurants will be dead to you. My wife can't even order steak out anymore, because it's never how I make it at home. And this goes for anything pan-seared: Burgers cooked on a grill fucking suck, old man, pan searing is where you get rich, decadent crusting with yielding, insides. It's where you crisp up a salmon skin to the texture of baklava. You don't even need to be eating meat, I suppose--if you saw my birthday decadence post, that's how I got the perfect browning on my sandwich. It makes the world's best grilled cheese, and is, in fact, my "secret." My secret is a lump of iron! "Doc, I don't much go in for savory, I like sweets" Great, once you make a giant chocolate chip cookie in this, crisp and golden on the outside and warm and gooey on the inside, your entire life will change. A 10 inch skillet is only 22 goddamn dollars, and will change your kitchen experience.

Shun Premier utility knife

"The best knife" is a statement that causes tempers to flare and heads to roll even on the best day, but for my money, this is my favorite knife and the best in my collection. Some prefer German knives, and some prefer Japanese knives (Which are both more stylistic than they are necessarily FROM those countries) and I fall on the Japanese side of the argument. This is a Shun premier knife in utility size. Now, Shun premier has much to recommend it--the pitting on the blade allows for easy food release so I find I can chop and slice faster, the tang had nice weight and balance to it, and honestly, they're attractive looking--but really what I want to sing the praises of is the SIZE of this knife. There's a huge misconception that every cook needs to be using a ten inch chef's knife to be doing it "correctly." A big guy with big hands may be more comfortable with a ten inch chef's knife, but if you are smaller, an 8 inch chef's may be more comfortable. I've even seen them as small as 6 inch, which is where we come into my equation. If you have quite small hands, as I do, a 6.5 inch utility knife may be your best friend. Once I got one, I wondered where the hell it had been all my life. Not only is it smaller and so balances in my hand better, but the slender shape of the blade allows me to slice nimbly and thinly. It's not the tank of a chef's knife, more the rouge of the party, if you will.

If I had to start over again, these would be the three things I would pick for my bare-bones kitchen.

#I would love to give some of these things away #I often give them to people I know like to cook for housearming gifts

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qvid-pro-qvo · 3 years

Text

cold, your toes against my knee (warm, your hand in mine)

mike dodds x gender neutral reader. reader is an svu detective, and mike dodds is a lieutenant at homicide.

word count: 2867

rating: mature, because of a distinct winter chill (this is a fic that attempts to tackle a mere part of the struggle following a traumatic event. mike therefore experiences symptoms of ptsd/post-intensive care syndrome. tw: mentions of gun violence, scars, blood, hospital scenes, flashbacks).

you meet mike dodds on a beautiful fall day, some kind of conference that you get pulled along to with lieutenant benson. when she sees him across the way, her voice calls out to him, and he responds with an eager smile, a fervent shake of her hand in place of a hug. professional settings and all that.

“mike dodds, this is one of our newest transfers,” benson says, and her voice is warm, gesturing to you. he turns to face you, and you have to blink when he smiles full-force at you, taken aback by the earnest way it hits you. but you recover.

“lieutenant dodds,” you say with a grin, offering your hand. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”

“only the bad stuff, i’m sure,” he offers, and your chuckle is light, shaking your head.

“well, my partner is sonny carisi,” you return, and he’s able to laugh in return.

november starts to fade, and mike feels the aches. they’ll always be there, because physical therapy can’t fix everything, and they’ll linger as long as he wakes up afraid of the snow outside. he trembles as he moves through his apartment, not thinking about the sleep he’ll inevitably sink into. it’s voluntary this one, and the bed isn’t in a damn hospital with ten blankets piled up –

never mind.

the gas bill is outrageous. he turns the heat up another degree. just until he leaves the house.

“sweetheart,” you call out, and when he turns it’s with a small smile. your arms reach to wrap around him from behind, and while your head can’t rest on his shoulder, you let your face press into it. he can feel your kiss even through the layers.

“just for a few minutes,” he starts, feeling self-conscious, and your smile is evident in the sound of your voice.

“hey, you’re okay,” you tell him, and every time you say it, it seems a little truer. did you put on a thermal this morning?”

at first, he’s certain he did. and then his fingers lift to his neck, where his shirt collar is unbuttoned. no tie yet, and he’s able to feel bare skin. he turns to face you, so you can see where his collarbone is, and with a little chuckle you push to kiss the spot before cupping his cheek with your hand.

“while i do enjoy the little look… you want the white one or the gray one?"

he thinks on it, the whole time focusing in on the way you smile.

“gray. there’s no snow in the forecast.”

with a nod you move to the dryer, and he can hear the machine is running. in that moment, his love for you hits hard, and before he can think he’s following you to the laundry space, insisting on a few more kisses before he puts the warmed shirt on.

“good to see you again, detective.” he reaches for your hand to shake it, polite. a slight tremble to his fingers. his bare fingers.

“where are your gloves?” is your response.

at first, he just blinks, then pulls his hand back. shoves it into his coat pocket. he can only offer a shrug before you’re patting down your own coat, searching the pockets for something.

when you uncover them, they’re deep within the confines of your outerwear. three inside pockets have already been searched when you yank them to the surface, waving them a bit to shake the lint off before offering them over. the lieutenant blinks again, something like uncertainty playing on his lips as he glances at the proffered pair.

“well, come on, then,” you say, holding them up again, pushing them towards the hand that had offered to shake in the first place.

“i don’t want to take your spares,” he starts, and you have to scoff.

“you’re not taking them, i’m giving them,” you laugh out, shaking your head. “i always have a pair of extra gloves. i’m always cold and they’re good to have. i’ve got three more pairs just like it at home, sized up for comfort, and you could take every one of them if it means your hands don’t turn blue. take ‘em. trust me, lieu, take ‘em.”

he’s boggled, you can tell. you don’t know why, and it’s for long enough that you roll your eyes, and without a thought push forward, grab his wrist with your hand. it’s how you end up curling his fingers down over the offering.

“here. the day is still young, and we can save your fingers if we work fast.”

and they’re great gloves. he kind of sings their praises the rest of the day, and you just chuckle at his words before helping him adjust them on his hands. you’re glad you size up, because his hands are bigger than yours, and they fit snug, tight. warm.

he keeps them. you insist on it.

he heaves out a shudder, and his blankets are pulled down even tighter over his shoulders. he’s in three layers, with a down comforter, and it’s still not enough to push the feeling back.

it settles over him, like fog. one moment, he’s waking up for work, and the next, he’s curling in on himself. one hand pushing against the scar like it’s the off button.

he’s so… he’s so cold. he’s lost so much blood, he can’t move, he can’t think, and he’s so goddamn cold. all he can see is bright white, all he can hear is steady beeping, and all he can think about is the way that he can’t get warm. he can’t get warm. they chill him on purpose and then bring him back up to room temp, and he feels like he’s in a fucking freezer.

another sharp press, one that makes him hiss against the pull of scar tissue. it pushes the bright white away, brings him back to the present. his knees are up to his chest, and the insistent buzz of his phone against the nightstand tries its best to help him emerge.

“mike?” you’re coming back from the bathroom when you see him, curled up, and immediately your hands are on him. you’re grabbing the second blanket from the foot of the bed, the weighted one with the fleece cover, and with a little grunt you’re pulling it over before settling in beside him. “mike, sweetheart, i’m here.”

your hands go to work. rubbing up and down the bare skin you can see, moving through the layers to use friction and build up some heat.

the phone stops buzzing. and you’re curled alongside him, pressing kisses to his hair. your hand reaches for his and pulls his fingers up so you can kiss the knuckles.

“five minutes,” you say gently.

he nods, eyes squeezing shut as you wrap around him.

“i’m here. let’s get you warm.”

“i’m always cold, too,” dodds admits one day, while the two of you are hunched over a case file. special victims and homicide usually don’t coordinate this often, but homicides are up this month and liv insisted on taking on of the cases that would’ve fallen across his desk. he’d come over personally to tell her what’d been found, what’d been checked out what hadn’t. had paired the two of you up for the transition while she handled some meeting at one police plaza.

“hmm?” your finger is moving across one of the documents, your eyes following it before you glance up at him. he’s standing up straight now, and you watch as he shoves his hands into his pockets, elbows flapping a little as he shifts.

“just. you mentioned, last time i saw you. that you’re always cold,” he says, and he doesn’t quite stumble over his words. he’s trained too well for that. but you hear the hitch at the top of the statement, and watch as he doesn’t quiet meet your eyes, glancing down at the case file again. “it gets bad for me in the winter. always have a chill.”

suddenly realization hits you, and you smile at him, standing up straight again, closing the case file and picking it up to hold against your chest. “i just have poor circulation,” you say, shrugging. “i’ve macgyvered a lot of tricks to keep me sane when winter comes around.”

and it makes him chuckle, thankfully. his hand lifts to his head, moves through his hair, and you’re watching the movement without thinking about it. how it makes his short brown locks flop forward a little over his forehead. now you have to duck your head, avoid his gaze, and try not to think about how good he looks with that blue dress shirt.

“willing to share some of your tricks with homicide? in the spirit of interdepartmental cooperation.”

and that makes you snort.

“maybe not with homicide,” you laugh. “but with you, lieutenant dodds, no question.”

“mike,” he returns immediately, and it makes your tongue feel a little thick in your mouth.

“r-right. mike.”

you’re undercover, and it’s… the worst. third night in a row. not a text to be seen, a call to be heard from. he’s worried, and he’s chilled, and the apartment is surely roasting as he tries to fight the air from outside that insists on leaking in.

it’s been hard to sleep. hard to close his eyes without thinking about what could go wrong. he knows the risks of the job, better than almost anyone, but it feels like he’s walking on eggshells the next few days, trying to direct his squad while your safety sits in the back of his mind.

and liv is with you. that makes him feel better, but makes the tightness in his chest amplify. the thought of losing you both in one fell swoop makes his eyes cross. but he can’t linger on it, he can’t, and by the fifth day he’s taken to stealing your fuzzy socks for a third layer on his feet.

then he gets a text, that fifth night. it’s from sonny, an update, and he’s grateful until he reads the words “concussion” and “bellevue.”

outside the wind is howling. he can feel the tremors start before he’s even begun to move. but he grits his teeth, not letting the outside air see his trepidation. mike starts moving, starts layering up, and he’s willing to face any winter night if it means that he’ll be there for you.

when he arrives, and you see him, there’s visible relief on your features. you look haunted, exhausted, like you’ve just been undercover for the past week and haven’t eaten since you started. it makes mike’s anger bubble up, but he’s stopped by the way you reach for him.

“i’m here,” he tells you, and you chuckle, burying your face into the front of his coat. his arms wrap around you easily, pulling you tight against him. “i’ve got you.”

“you’re so warm,” you groan out, and his chuckle chokes up, his nose pressing into your hair as you grip him.

you start dating in the late moments of spring, after a couple months of dancing around it. a winter of trading secrets to keep hands and feet from turning blue turns into a wonderful friendship, and with that friendship feelings soon blossom.

and after all, it’s easy to fall in love with him. anyone could, you’re certain, looking at him from a distance. you take a glance at mike dodds and you see what everyone does. the brave cop, injured in the line of duty. the incredible lieutenant, who runs homicide with ease. the good man, who smiles at everyone he can, fighting for what’s right. the son of the chief, making his own path.

and then you see a little bit more, the stuff under the surface.

you see the way that he is never shy of curling up close, his touch almost always a full-body one. the nights get hot and stifling, but he’s always under the blankets. you see the way he picks and chooses socks with intense concentration, never afraid to grab two pairs instead of one. you watch the summer months pass and fall come even closer, and that space between his eyebrows furrows more and more.

and then there’s the conversation. as october hits, and you can see your own breath in the mornings, mike asks to talk to you.

he seems shaky. you can’t tell what it is that has him trembling, but your hand reaches out for his on instinct, pulling both of his hands into yours to warm them up.

and that gesture seems to be what pushes him to speak at all.

“a couple of years ago i got hurt on the job,” he starts, and you watch, intently. your own brow furrows as he describes waking up that first night in the hospital, dad and liv and squad around him, and feeling nothing but the chill.

“i couldn’t escape it. i couldn’t do anything. and when my body got worse before it got better, i was trapped.”

part of it was the fever, he tells you. there were moments he was delirious, an infection after the surgery almost wrecking his body. part of it was the blood loss, his body having to fight to rebuild what had gone missing from the bullet, from the operating room. part of it was the room itself, a faulty thermostat sending the whole hall into the sixties.

“nothing seemed to help. but… i managed to recover,” he admitted lowly. his voice is bitter, and you find yourself pulling his fingers to your lips, kissing his palm. because in that moment you’re hit with how close you came to losing him before you ever found him.

he tells you how he doesn’t feel it all the time. how spring, summer, and even the start of fall is okay. and then the temperatures start dropping, the sun starts to fade, and in winter he locks up. the cold sinks into his skin, and.

“all i can think about is that damn room. i go to therapy, i talk through what i can. my therapist tells me this is a hump, a mental block, but. i don’t know if it’ll ever end. if the cold will ever stop sending me into a... spiral.”

he’s frustrated. his hand is gripping yours back tight, and before you can stop yourself you’re sliding out of your side of the dining room table and slipping into his lap. you pull him against you, running your fingers through soft brown hair. you don’t let go of his hand, you can’t, and you feel his shoulders shake as he fights back the tears, face pressed into your chest.

and you… you hold each other. for a little while.

the minutes pass by. you’re uncertain what to do, besides assure him that you’ll never let him go. those promises are whispered into his hair, his ear, against his lips as you kiss him.

“i’m proud of you” is said a lot. you hope he hears it, believes it. because in that moment, you’ve never been prouder of this man you’re so lucky to call yours, a man fighting a battle he’s so scared of losing, a man who faces months on end with his chin held high. he’s unsure if it’ll ever come to an end, but you know that one day, it could. you’re gonna see that day, you’re certain of it. you tell him that, too.

and when the silence stretches on, the two of you in each other’s arms – when he comes back to himself, you tilt his chin so he can look up at you, holding his jaw with a small smile.

“so. what i’m hearing is that we’re gonna need a fireplace when we move in together.”

it shocks a laugh out of him. “what?”

“well, if we’re gonna stay warm, central heating and a fireplace will help do the trick. i’m not going anywhere, mike dodds, so you better start house hunting now.” you have a grin on your face, big and bright and bold, and when he looks up at you again he’s stunned into chuckles. leaning forward to press a kiss over your heart as he shakes his head.

winter comes. steadily. gently. like the hush falling over the crowd. and mike dodds hates every second of it.

he can feel it creeping up his spine – the inevitable chill that lingers, stretches its fingers over his shoulders and grabs him. october is gone, november is here, and he lets out a shaky gasp each time a breeze hits him wrong.

he wants to yell out. holds the edge of his desk in a white-knuckled grip. but he doesn’t. he just lifts his chin. he pushes on, he handles it.

he is michael dodds, isn’t he? the son of the chief, the brave soldier. and yet, he fears the turn of the season.

the days keep coming. one after the other. nights get longer, get unending, get colder.

but this winter something is different. this winter he has you. and the icy grip that the season has starts to fade with time. with time, with time, with time. with therapy, with talking, with time, with time.

with you, your hand in his, and time.

#mike dodds x reader #mike dodds #gender neutral reader #law and order: svu #law and order svu #olivia benson #mike dodds x you #tw blood #tw hospital #tw flashbacks #tw ptsd #tw scars #my fic

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peachyteabuck · 4 years

Text

study buddy, part v

series summary: after crushing on you since freshman orientation, Natasha finally gets the guts to ask you help you pass her postmodern lit midterm, to which you agree.

chapter summary: one restaurant date, two confessions, and three grades that will make or break natasha’s degree

pairing: natasha romanoff x reader

words: 4,881

trigger warnings: overstimulation, use of a safe word, teeth rotting fluff, strap on sex, ball gags, explicit conversations about whorephobia, orgasm control, angst if you squint

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

part one, part two, part three, part four

The warmth of the sun filtered through blinds is what woke you, wrapped tight in Natasha’s arms. The sex-stained blankets were as messy as can be, some of them hugged your intertwined bodies like a tightly wrapped burrito while others were nearly falling off the bed.

It was messy, beautifully and wonderfully so. If you felt the need to move (which, of course you didn’t because who in their right mind would try to disentangle themselves from such a lovely human person) you doubt you could’ve; Natasha held you with arms too strong and heart beat too soft. You wouldn’t dare disturb her if the house was on fire; then again, if the world was burning down around you – you’d rather die in her arms than reach for uncertain safety. It’s there that you fell back into sleep, tucked under her chin and running your fingers through her hair.

Eventually the growling of your stomachs woke the both of you up, each respective organ desperate for nourishment – and the two hard-boiled eggs, sour gummy worms, gluten-free bread, and half a container of mustard wasn’t gonna cut it. The waning sun was an ominous sign of how long you’d truly gone without food, and you soon didn’t feel all that bad about poking your poor g-

Poking poor Natasha awake.

You didn’t feel all that bad poking Natasha awake as your insides beg for sustenance and your head feels light and holy shit, if you didn’t eat right then you were going to start taking bites out of her – and, for the first time, not in a fun and/or sexy way.

“Hey,” you pressed your forefinger to her nose. “Nat.” You poked the end of each eyebrow, then at various locations of her forehead. “Natasha!” Still, she remained asleep, and buried herself further into the blankets as some unconscious act of survival. “Nat.” You poked her right cheek. “Naat.” You poked her left cheek. “Naaat.” You poked each cheek with each hand at its softest part, pushing until you felt her teeth. “Nat wake uuup.”

She just grunted and pushed you away before she nuzzled back into the covers. “Go away. I want to die here. Let me become a body without organs.”

She paused.

“Or is it organs without bodies?”

You sighed but make no move to displace her. “One, Natasha, we have the midterm coming out soon. If you do not know the original work done by two far left authors from the sarcastic critique by another far left author, I’m breaking up with you. Two, that’s not what that means and you making a vague reference to some postmodern concept does not mean I am going to stop being annoying. Three, would you like to come get dinner with me?”

Natasha shot up, flame-red hair messy and shirt disheveled – it made her look like the top of of a thicket of trees during a forest fire. Along the side of her face, you could see indentations from where her skin was pressed to the pillowcase. “Food?”

You nodded, pushing the strands from her eyes. “Yes, darling, food.”

She wiped at her face and pushed the covers from her legs, eyes half-closed. “Food.”

You picked some of the crust from the corner of her eyes. She blinked indignantly at you but made no move to stop you. “Do you care where we go?”

Natasha shook her head left-to-right silently, then moved to wipe her face once more.

“Okay. There is a very good Chinese place that I want to show you. Is that okay with you?”

Natasha nodded and made a mmhmm noise.

“Cool.”

You kissed the tip of her nose before you got up and scrounged together a passable outfit that would cover the bruises that still littered your body and shield you from the cold. After a few moments, Natasha opened her eyes wide enough to see a few feet in front of her and did the same.

There was s a wonderful silence that filled the air, the comfortable kind. Like the day of that quiz, it’s a wonderful kind of cozy – soothing and sweet.

You could get used to this…

It was a short walk to the restaurant, one you were all-too familiar with due to your many, many nights there. It was the first place you ate at on campus (that wasn’t one of the mind-numbingly mediocre cafeterias) the day you moved in and it had become some pseudo-home, the place always warm and waitstaff always nice (and always willing to let you eat as much as you pay for and abuse their free WiFi).

The menu hadn’t changed much (by “much,” you mean they’ve fixed two of the five typos) since you first started going there, so you should have already known what you want. Still, you opened the folded, laminated paper and read each item with genuine interest, just as Natasha did.

You looked up at her once and awhile just to see her again. Every time you tried to keep her out of your line or sight for more than a few seconds you’d almost burst at the seams, like a sunburst than could only be quelled by looking at her.

“What year are you?” Natasha asked, which broke your unbelievably tender train of thought.

Your brain, which was still very fried, did not compute. “What?”

She reached over to point to the Chinese zodiac calendar on your menu with one of many of her fingers that was inside you last night. “What year are you?”

You mumbled something and shrugged, fake-intense-reading as your neurons attempted to rebuild your capacity for speech. Luckily, Natasha seemed determined to continue the conversation.

“I’m the year of the dog,” she said, nonchalant, as if you were not losing your goddamn mind on the other side of the table. Your brain was fried, your mouth was gaping like a fish out of water, and were your hands shaking? What the fuck were you supposed to say? How should you respond?

Think, you fool! Think!

“There’s a feminist critical theorist who fucks her dog,” you blurted.

Natasha just smiled – god her smile was so big and wide and beautiful - and laughed. “Part of me thinks you’re lying, but part of me worries you’re telling the truth.”

You laughed then, too, smiling big as she did. It set the tone for the rest of the night, mood light and happy as the tired, probably-high waitress took your order and then brought you the food a suspiciously-short amount of time later. It was good, very good.

“And my mom turns to me and she goes,” you wrinkled your noise in an effort to properly invoke your mother’s nasally tone. “This family does not get Fs or Ds or Cs. You better fix this or else.”

Natasha almost choked on her soft drink at your impression. “You were supposed to make an omelet for a foods and nutrition class, what did she want you to do!?”

You took another bite of orange chicken before you rolled your eyes and shrugged. “I have no idea what that woman wants from me now, let alone when I was fuckin’ fourteen.”

You were both laughing as you took food from each other’s plates and swapped small stories. Natasha told you about her own coding mishaps (apparently it was easy to hack into news websites and create fake stories involving certain celebrities and a certain large bird and many, if not too many, phallic objects), you told her about the time you stress-cried in the bathroom so much the janitor kept tissues in a secret compartment for you.

One hand from each of you remained occupied as you held hands on the side of the table farthest from the prying eyes of fellow college students (as if any of them were sober enough to notice, though. Along with being great to you, the restaurant’s very greasy menu meant it was a good spot to quench munchies or quell the pain of an especially bad hangover).

A phone – your phone, you realized – vibrated obnoxiously on the other side of the table. Previously forgotten, you broke from the moment to reengage with the (seemingly) hundreds of people who were attempting reach you via text. At first you thought it’s an email from a client – but then you realized it was a text from a classmate. Specifically, the girl who sat front and center in the lecture hall you and Natasha shared.

“Who’s that?” Natasha asked.

You furrowed your brows as you texted, swallowing the last bit of food. “Oh, Lindsay from our class. She wants to know what I got on the quiz.”

Natasha then realized she never bothered to figure out her grade, and it brought all her anxiety about graduating on time and also making sure you’d never leave her and oh my god what if she failed this fucking quiz?

A few moments of soul-crushing silence passed before you put your phone back down. Natasha watched you like a cat stalking a fake mouse on a string, or a drunk mom at a Christmas party eyeing a dessert table; the drive was genuine, but the goal? Ridiculous. Absolutely, totally ridiculous.

You didn’t press her like she expected, though, didn’t even stare at her with that evil eye Natasha’s sure you got from your mother on more than one occasion. You just went back to eating your food, and put your phone back out of reach.

You noticed her staring at you when you went to borrow (steal) another piece of food from her plate.

“What?”

Natasha furrowed her brow. “Don’t you…Don’t you want to know what I got on the quiz?”

You shook your head as you stole another few bites worth of food. “Not unless you want to tell me.” You shrugged as you swallowed. “I’m not gonna, like, push you if you don’t want to tell me. I’m not my mother.”

Natasha smiled at that and left the conversation there. She was unnaturally quiet for the new few minutes as she listened intently while you told more stories and commented on the food and thought out loud about school and the rest of your life and should you go shopping soon?

Throughout all of it, Natasha remained incommunicative – to the point you started to worry.

“Are you okay?” you asked and reached across the table to put your hand over hers. She smiled, softly, before she replied.

“I really care about you, you know,” she said, low and almost inaudible. You said nothing in return. “And I’m very bad at this. I’m so bad at this. I spent a lot of my childhood in rooms with therapists who said less than I did. I’m not good at,” she waved her hands as she tried to find the right words. “I’m not great at emotions. And expressing them and telling people about them and all that shit. Okay?”

You swallowed the last tastes of duck sauce that coated your back teeth. Despite the sweet substance being a liquid, it felt like a waterfall of boulders cascading inside your throat. “Nat, I-“

“This isn’t me saying I love you, but I want…” Natasha was on the verge of crying, just as you were. She averted your gaze as she continues, staring at the booth cushion directly behind you. “I want to commit to you in some way. I like you, I like the person I am when I’m around you. And I don’t want to lose you because I was too much of a pussy to make a move.”

You said nothing, did nothing. Despite her not looking at you, you stared at her very serious facial expression and watched every muscle twitch for some signs of lying. You saw none.

“I…,” Natasha met your eyes as you spoke. Your mouth was so dry you nearly coughed – but the idea of making any sound terrified you. “I…I need some air.”

You didn’t wait for a reply as you pushed yourself out of the booth and ran out the front entrance.

Natasha didn’t wait for the door to close behind you before she chased after you. She left both of your phones and wallet at the booth, not wanting you to get out of eyeshot but also terrified of the waitstaff thinking the both of you were dine-and-dashers (and terrible ones, at that).

She followed you outside, ache in her heart an excellent distraction from the nighttime chill that dug tiny knives into her pale skin. Still, as her breath was visible in a faint fog in front her, no pain was as unimaginable as the one as losing you.

“Babe, plea-“ began, voice small and nonthreatening as possible.

You interrupted her and avoided looking into her eyes and picked at a loose thread in the sweater you were wearing – Natasha’s sweater you were wearing.

You worried it was the last time you’d ever see her again, and yet you refused to look at her. You refuse dto look at her large eyes and the bags under them, at her nimble hands – thin and agile from years of typing; at her plush lips or beautiful hair or-

Wasn’t that the cruelest irony of all? Of the cognitive dissonant fear of missing something while desperately avoiding looking at it. Still, you chose to jump off the proverbial cliff with your eyes clenched shut and nails digging into the pads of your soft palms and blood rushing in your ears louder than anything you’d ever heard in your life.

“I’m a sex worker.”

Natasha’s eyebrows furrowed and she breathed heavily, like when your mom got mad at you for bringing home that C your freshman year. “There’s-“

“I’m a sex worker. I make my own porn. I sell my nudes. It’s my main,” you sighed. “It’s my only source of income. It’s how I make money. It is how I will continue to make money. It’s how I stay mostly-independent from my very judgmental mother. It’s how I plan on staying mostly-independent from my very judgmental mother and my very judgmental family and the very judgmental world. And if you think that’s morally wrong of whatever, or that I’m some sort of sub-human, or that I’m evil, or that I should stop…”

For the first time that night, you looked her straight in the eyes. No smiling, no laughing, no wishing to see her beautiful face. Power. Authority. Truth. You tried to channel the red you saw on all those feminist theory books you’d had to read for the class that brought you and Natasha together.

“If you don’t believe in the validity of my labor I cannot and will not date you,” you were snarling as you stomped toward her until your toes nearly touched. “I’m not going to let someone who can’t love what I do love me.”

As you stood there, teeth bared and hands balled into fists, stories of rage flashed like lightning in your brain. Narratives of horror from your media studies class, of actresses whose only chance to scream was in front of a camera. If you had sharper nails, sharper teeth, glowing eyes that would be some award-winning monologue where people clap and call it “mind-blowing” and give it “five out of five stars.” You’d be a prime example of how satisfying rage can be as a subversive practice.

But no. You were no antihero(ine), no supernatural being caught on tape. You were not on the silver screen, you were not being streamed on some overpriced platform, you were not the subject of dissertations on media studies or really good articles on feminism or whatever else academics were doing with their time in tenure. You had filed-down nails and wide eyes and soft skin and an uneasy stomach and shaking hands and breath that faintly showed in the air when you exhaled. You had tears that threatened to fall. You had fear.

Natasha’s eyes flitted nervously, her lip between her teeth. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Natasha was the one to speak first. Her voice sounded as terrified as you felt – with words that were spat through a set jaw and teeth bared.

“Who hurt you?”

You took a half-step back, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What? Natasha, what the fuck are y-“

“Who hurt you?” she whispered, words like knives and eyes just as dangerous. You stepped back, almost scared of her and what she could do to you.

You were pressed against the side of the building then – you could feel the brick and mortar itching at the skin of your back through your top. “Natasha what the hell are you talking about? I don’t kn-“

“Yes,” she stepped back, but grasped at your left hand as she did so. She was a ship tethering to a dock, floating out on the water but always willing to come back to port. “Yes, you do. You know exactly who, what, I’m talking about. What they did. Just tell me who they are, and I’ll ruin their lives.”

You looked for the joke, the punchline. You looked for a glint in her eye that said she was fucking with you and was waiting for you to laugh it off. When you were in seventh grade you got asked out as a joke and the football player made the exact same facial expression you now hunt for.

But you found nothing, no teasing or set up in a larger scheme to mock you. She was serious as you’d ever seen anyone be. “What in the fuck-“

“Tell me who they are. Tell me the name of every person who ever made you feel like shit and I’ll ruin their lives. I’ll steal their identity. I’ll make it so they can never get a job, or a car, or a house again. I’ll do it in a heartbeat,” Natasha let go of your hand and held your face in her food-warm palms. “I will destroy the very existence of every person who ever made you feel like this, because you deserve someone who will protect you from all that bullshit. And I want to be that person.”

The silence was painful, almost. But also comforting. Still, you broke it so speak. “Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Natasha smiled, and pecked your lips. “Good. Now come finish my food with me, it’s getting cold and our waitress is definitely judging us.”

You broke into a fit of laughter, nearly wheezing as she guided you back inside. The food was good, even though it had cooled considerably while you were both outside – greasy and thick with flavor and hot in your mouth along with your soul and Natasha held your hand on the table and fed you with her fork and you stole bits of her food while she was distracted. At one point, Lizzo played on the restaurant soundtrack and Natasha sung low with you, and you ordered more food to take home and it was hot, too hot in your hands as you carried the large brown paper bag soaked with grease to her apartment. Maybe you were going eat the food in the morning, maybe you were going eat it later tonight. It, truly, did not really matter.

There wasn’t much time between when you put the leftovers in the fridge and when Natasha pushed you onto your knees in her (and your) (it was now shared) bedroom. There also wasn’t much time between when your knees hit the ground and when Natasha grabbed the ball gag from its place in her toy drawer.

“I’m so happy you’re mine,” Natasha cooed as she adjusted the matte black straps. She kissed at your temples when it was secured, murmuring sweet words into the top of your hairline. If there was anyone else watching you, if there were some voyeur witnessing this profession of ownership, you doubt they could hear her. The entire world could be gazing at the two of you under a microscope and they would know nothing. Wasn’t it something wonderful, to share such, dare you say it, love that cannot, will not be observed by a single being outside your pairing? “Such a pretty little thing, a beautiful little toy for me.”

You didn’t dare move, worried even a flinch would disappoint her. Even as spit began to fall down your chin and between your breasts, as it pools in the gap between your legs, you successfully resist the urge to wipe it away. Natasha walks to the end of the bed, perching herself on the covers. The silence isn’t thick or uncomfortable, rather something closer to electric, something you can feel on the insides of your nose as you sniffled.

Slowly, she raised her right hand and crooked her first finger. You understood immediately and you got on your hands and knees to crawl across the room to her. When you reached the end of the bed you waited, obediently, for her.

Like at the restaurant – you were nearly bursting out of your skin with excitement as you awaited instruction.

“You’re so pretty, baby,” she cooed. “Now come up on the bed and let me wreck that pussy.”

You do as you’re told without hesitation, scrambling to get on the bed and onto your back. Natasha grabbed a bottle of lube out of seemingly nowhere and poured it over the same strap from the first time she fucked you.

You moaned deeply and reached for something, anything; you whined high in your throat as she pounded into you, the bed smacking against the stained wall with each thrust.

“You’re too pretty for your own good, you know,” her voice was breathless as she spoke. “Normally I would try to keep my toys intact, try to keep them in good condition, but I just can’t seem to help myself around you.”

With each word your back arched farther, your fingers tightened around the sheets.

“F-fuck,” you moaned around the thick plastic sphere in your mouth as you tried to push your back closer to Natasha’s chest.

She grabbed your hair and bit at the curve of your ear before she spoke in a low voice that sent another wave a slick down your inner thighs. “What do you belong to?” she hisses. “Who does this pussy,” she slapped your cunt and you cried out at the stinging pain. “belong to?”

You didn’t hesitate. “You Mommy, I belong to you!”

In that moment, you wondered whether Natasha’s neighbors could hear your screams. But in the one right after, you realized you really, truly, di not give a single flying fuck what they could hear.

“Fuck yes, you’re mine,” she growled as she pressed your face into the sheets, as she loomed over you like a god would punish some human exercising an unholy level of hubris. “Don’t you fucking forget it.”

You couldn’t speak because of the ball gag – didn’t even try to – yet Natasha seemed to know exactly what you wanted to say.

“You wanna cum, love?” she cooed, still fucking into you. “You wanna cum over Mommy’s cock?”

You nodded, the whines high in your throat resembed something close to a please yes please Mommy please I wanna cum I wanna cum I wanna cum.

Just like the lube, Natasha grabbed the hitachi out of thin air before she turned it on low and pressed it to your neglected clit. It was something, it was enough, but only just so. Your muscle tensed and you wailed out as you bucked your hips, as you tried to fuck yourself harder onto the toy. Natasha notices and slows her thrusts, laughing as you become more and more desperate.

“You’re so pathetic,” she hissed. “Such a pathetic little toy. You’ll do anything to cum, won’t you?”

You nodded; words garbled.

Natasha laughed again. “Of course you would, slut. You’d do anything for me, right? You’d do anything I told you to? You’re just a mindless little toy for me, just a dumb little thing with no thoughts besides how you can please me…”

You were drooling around your gag so much it covered your cheeks and pooled on each side.

You’re blissed out, eyes glazed over and body wonderfully lax. Natasha’s isn’t done with you yet, though, because of course she isn’t. You’re now officially her girlfriend, officially hers, and maybe it’s that satisfaction or excitement or whatever in her blood but it it’s letting her stop, not now, not when you look so ethereal with a halo of sweaty hair and the sheets looking like wings and your skin practically glowing.

Not just any angel, her angel – her perfect little blessed creature, sanctified even as she degrades you in such a sacrilegious way.

“I want you to cum when I count to ten,” Natasha murmured as she pushed the sweaty hairs that had escaped their confines from your eyes. “Alright, baby?”

You nodded and tried to chase the fleeting feeling of her fingers as they dusted over your feverish skin.

She turned the Hitachi up a setting, smiling as it met your clit and you cried out.

“One,” she mumbled, rubbing the head against you in small circles. It was something, but certainly not enough.

“Two.”

Natasha knew this. She knew you didn’t orgasm all that easily.

“Three.”

Regardless, she agonizingly slowly turned the toy up a setting. Just as you feared, it remained insufficient.

“Four.”

God, nearly halfway there and you were terrified what would happen if you couldn’t cum. Part of it was exhilarating, but part of it gnawed a small hole in your stomach that left you…empty, somehow.

“Five.”

She ticked it up one, two more settings. You sighed in relief and moved your hips with what little mobility she’d allowed you.

“Six.”

She increased the vibrations again and reveled in your squeals.

“Seven.”

You cried out and wanted to beg for mercy.

“Eight.”

You didn’t.

“Nine.”

You felt like you’d forgotten how to breathe, lungs shriveled up into nothingness. It was as if you could feel each of your cells as they begged for oxygen, as your blood desperately tried to each your heart and brain.

“Ten.”

You came with a deafening scream, your whole body shaking for what feels like forever.

When you came down, your girlfriend was next to the bed, holding what you could only is another section of rope. What she planned to do with it, you had zero idea.

“How ya doin’, baby?” She asks. Natasha could sense something was off, but worried about misreading the signs.

It’s obvious she was not incorrect, though, when you tapped at your thigh three times.

Immediately, Natasha drops the toys in her hands and rushes over – untying the gag and freeing your limbs.

“What’s wrong, baby?” She scanned your body – terrified of finding blood or something worse. “What do you need?”

You swallowed what little spit you could find, your voice hoarse as you spoke. “Red,” a pause as you attempted to swallow once more. “Water.”

It was all Natasha needed before she was rushing off to the fridge to grab a chilled bottle of the stuff and one of those reusable straws she stole from your apartment.

When she returned to the room she pulled you into her lap, keeping you upright as she leaned against the wall.

Natasha watched every muscle, every twitch as you drank from the straw. Your body seemed unwilling to move itself, relying on Natasha to hold you upright enough so that you didn’t choke. The room was silent except for the sound of your noisy swallowing (and, soon, the slurping of last droplets of water). You were about to ask for more, but Natasha found an unopened plastic water bottle within reach and held that for you, too. It reminded you of the first time the two of you fucked, and suddenly the world didn’t feel so cold anymore.

“I’m done, Mommy,” you told her when half the water was gone. “I’m good.”

“You sure, babygirl?” her voice laced with deep, genuine concern. Her eyes reflected the same emotion.

You nodded, leaning into her and rubbing your knuckles where they laid against her thigh. “I’m sure, Mommy. Thank you.”

Natasha closed the bottle and tossed it into the half-open bedside table drawer before she wrapped you in her arms. “Of course, honeybee. I’m proud of you for using your safe word, thank you for trusting me.”

You mmmed and laid there for a moment, your breathing in rhythm with Natasha. You two sat there, comfortable in the silence. If there was anything else to say, you’d say it – but for the while you enjoyed the wordless space you and her existed in.

It took a long while, after your heart had slowed and your breathing had evened out, but you eventually fell asleep in Natasha’s arms. It was peaceful, deep – somehow impossibly more satisfying than any of the other times you’d fallen asleep, even the times you’d fallen asleep with her. There, secured from harm in her arms and wrapped in blankets, you felt secure. It was indescribable, it was wonderful, it was safe. And to you, in that moment, it was heaven.

#study buddy #lukis writes stuff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #black widow x reader

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dearlazerbunny · 4 years

Text

Let it Go (Ch. 1 of ?)

Pairings: platonic avengers team x reader, potential background loki x reader

Words: 1800

Genre/Ratings: -WARNINGS- there will be an (unsuccessful) suicide attempt by reader- chapter will be explicitly marked in advance. Drug (pills) and alcohol abuse, lots of negativity and self loathing. There will be an arc, but said arc is going to start in the eleventh circle of hell and inch up from there.

Summary: *not far enough into this one to give an accurate summary, so this’ll have to be updated eventually. enjoy for now!*

If I see another ad for Frozen, I might go homicidal.

I pass at least five of them as I work through rush-hour Manhattan at a snail’s pace. Smash Hit! Instant Classic! #1 Movie in the World! Awesome. Fantastic. Happy for you, Disney. Now please, dear god, get it the fuck out of my face.

I jerk away from narrowly shoulder-checking a businessman hustling down the sidewalk, speaking rapid-fire into the phone glued to his ear. It’s like a very, very fucked up dream; everyone in the world is in on the joke, and I just didn’t get the invite. Maybe they were spying on me. Sure, it could’ve been inspired by a fairytale, but who knows? I could sue. Demand fifty percent of the profits for copyright infringement. That’d be more than enough to set me up with a cabin in Alaska, somewhere all I’d have to worry about is making friends with the polar bears.

On the subway, I notice someone has Let it Go blaring from their earbuds. No less than three little girls are wearing something blue and covered in glitter. One has a cheap blonde plait clipped into her hair, accented by a snowflake charm dangling from the end. I suppress the urge to rip it off her head.

It isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, I want to say. It’s not Disney-dreamy like the mouse has made it out to be, living in a palace and making magical snowmen and singing power ballads about self-acceptance and overcoming your demons. In the real world, you quell those demons with a fistful of benzodiazepines, because if you don’t, something like a car alarm or a slammed door will make spikes of ice splinter through the floor around you. It’s constantly wearing three hoodies at a time, so that way if a stranger on the seat next to you brushes your arm, they don’t immediately get third-degree frostbite. It’s getting a papercut and watching the blood freeze on the tip of your finger, then melt back to liquid when you break it off and toss it away. It’s getting hospitalized when an inner-city charity doctor takes your temperature before you can object and your body temperature is barely higher than freezing, so they pump you full of warm saline and cover you in foil blankets and all that heat makes you sick, so you have to rip the IV out of your arm and walk yourself back to your apartment in your hospital gown while dodging orderlies and strange looks from passerby at 2 AM.

The kid and her parents get off at the next stop. The subway clicks along. I try to make myself smaller as the car fills up with more people.

Maybe if they’d had Xanax in Arendelle, Elsa wouldn’t have had to deal with all that “conceal, don’t feel” bullshit. She wouldn’t be able to feel anything with all the pills and booze she’d be mainlining. Take it from me, babe, it’s a lot easier to drug those demons away. Much more effective than a song.

Something in me feels a weird flare of pride for handling this… whatever the hell it is better than a fictional cartoon princess. Then I want to laugh, because goddamn, my life is pathetic.

My meeting spot is in a back alley near Bryant Park. Some NYU kid is pawning his Klonopin for party cash, I guess. I think if you’re rich enough to be a frat boy at NYU you probably don’t need the extra fifty from your prescriptions, but whatever. I don’t have a ton of other avenues at this point.

I scan the neon bottle, then shake it open and count the pills inside. “These are only a half milligram? Fifteen.”

“Dude, we said forty.”

“Yeah, for a milligram pill. These will barely last me a week.”

“Twenty.”

“Fine.”

I don’t think the universe agrees with my choices.

The sky splits open with a shriek that balances the world on the edge of a knife. One heartbeat. Two. He and I both look up at the clear blue, unsure. Between the skyline, I see something- somethings- begin pouring from a split in the universe, ugly and black and hungry.

I wrench the bottle from the kid’s hands and run.

Run, run, run, don’t look up, don’t look back, oh jesus what the FUCK IS THIS- Midtown is a nightmare. Not from Friday traffic this time. People are scrambling, screaming and crying, trying to flee the scene. An entire side of a building gets shaved off and falls to the ground like an iceberg. A gas line broke somewhere because everything is hazy with fumes and starts shimmering rainbow colors. I round a corner, cursing and trying to keep my ratty converse on my feet as I dodge rubble and ash- don’t look up don’t look up don’t look up. I can see my breath starting to crystallize around me as my anxiety spikes, and I try to force it down. Don’t think about it. Now is so not the time for that.

In the middle of the street, six brightly clad superheroes stand with grim but determined looks on their faces. There’s Tony Stark in his mechanical suit, Captain America brandishing his shield. The star stands out like a beacon in the smoke. Cool, coolcoolcool, they’ve got this, right? They’ve totally got this. Everything is going to be fine. Everything is going to befineohholyshitthat’sabigalien-

I try to use an overturned car as cover. Dart to one, breathe, press my back to steel and try to shake my body back from shock, wait for a moment of silence between the chaos- run to the next pile of rubble. My footprints are outlined in frost on the cracked pavement, clean white against the ash raining from the sky. As I slam myself up against another car, heaving, I have a prime few of Captain-freaking-America bashing three ugly aliens in the face with his shield, battering them to the ground. He stops for a moment to flex his fingers, wipe some of the grime from his face.

He doesn’t see the alien rushing him from behind, mouth open and yawning in some sort of hideous grin, poised to shove a glowing blue gun against the Captain’s muscly back.

I don’t think. My feet move without my telling them to. I can taste the ash as I dart to the middle of the street, as close as I dare. The air around me is impossibly frigid. I’m not controlling anything at this point, but I can deal with that later. Hopefully.

“DUCK!” I scream as loud as I possibly can over the sound of metal and roaring monsters.

His eyes snap up to meet mine. He heard me, somehow, and then he actually heeds a random girl standing amidst the carnage and hits the deck so fast I can hear the whiplash. It’s hot enough to make my skin boil, but if I stretch my hand out and pull, I can feel something begin to crystallize in my waiting palm-

Fissures crack open in the concrete beneath me. In my hand, a thin lance of ice extends to a deadly point, too weighty for its slim frame, and while I should have all the grace and skill of an alcoholic drug addict, my aim is good enough that the alien now has an unforgiving pole of ice sticking through its breastbone. Frost creeps from the hole in its chest, discoloring its sickly black armor to a grey tint. For a moment, it's suspended in time, unmoving- then gravity takes hold and with one last nightmarish shriek it crumples to the ground in a heap.

Huh. Whaddya know. I flex my fingers, breathing hard. Take that, Elsa. Screw the power of love, I just single-handedly saved a national icon.

Said icon is picking himself up off the ground, a new layer of dust coating the front of his uniform. He looks behind him, at the ugly corpse and the ice that inexplicably hasn’t started to melt in the city’s heat. Then his eyes are on me, hard and curious.

Oh. Fuck.

Instinctively, I pull my hood up further over my head, hopefully obscuring more of my face than before. What did he see? Could he memorize my face? He knows I’m a freak show, that’s for sure. Fuck. My brain kicks in and I run, skidding over broken pavement and letting the sheer terror of a crumbling New York fuel my steps. Either we’ll all be dead by the end of this, or the strange girl with ice coming from her hands will be little more than a hazy memory after all this is said and done. I hope. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it- cold prickles on the back of my neck and pushes me back towards being just another face in the crowd.

There are over a dozen police blockades to try and control the battlefield, and between them and the rubble raining from the heavens, it takes me what feels like hours to crawl back to my underside of the city. It’s punctuated by the grinding of metal and shattering of glass and sickening cracks of lightning from Midtown, making me flinch and wring my hands deep into my sweatshirts to keep them busy with something other than frosting the ground over. Don’t think about it.

I shove my shoulder into the door, forcing it open, then close it the same way from the opposite side. I flick the locks closed, secure the ball and chains. Each one is encased in frost by the time I’m done, and the doorjamb is clogged with ice. I’m suddenly irrationally thankful that there’s only one window in the apartment. It’s a stupid comfort- those things were leveling skyscrapers, a ratty building like this would be flattened in an instant-

I wrench open the nearest drawer, sending the contents rolling. Bottles clack against each other; pills rattling against the plastic. It’s the most comforting thing I’ve heard all day. I pull one out at random, pop the lid, down it dry. In the back of my mind, the large green monster roars. I shudder and swallow another, this time chasing it with swigs from the obscenely large bottle of booze on the desk. It burns all the way down in the best way, chasing the little orange tablets and promising the sweet release of nothing.

That should last a day. Maybe more. I fall into the bed, already feeling the combo tug at my system, making me heavy and slow. Maybe Manhattan will still be standing when I wake up. Or better yet, Manhattan will still be standing, but I won’t. I’ve never been that lucky, but it never hurts to hope.

#marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #avengers fic #avengers fanfiction #avengers x y/n #avengers x oc #loki x reader #reader insert #Steve Rogers #natasha romanov #tony stark #bruce banner #Thor Odinson #clint barton #Loki Laufeyson #angst #avengers x reader

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the-darklings · 4 years

Text

—𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆;

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 13.2k+

summary: “You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.”

warnings: swearing, a dash of drama, a seasoning of angst.

notes: Wow. Suffering for a week was worth it because I wrote this whole thing in like 2 days. I apologise if I haven’t responded to your comments on the last update. I’m a clown, it is known. I love you all though. Please enjoy. *rubs hands eagerly* :)

children of ares series: 01 | .... | 09 | 10 | . . | 12 |

He remembers sunshine.

He remembers the sea breeze.

He remembers laughter. Unsure but carefree; happy.

It’s easier to remember you like that than to think about what’s currently happening. Better than thinking about you in those damp, cold tunnels. Better than imagining how very easily it can all go wrong.

It’s easier to think about his home, a year ago, and the stinging disappointment of knowing you won’t be there for his birthday transforming into something else—something joyous.

Tarasov had changed his plans last second, putting your own plans of flying out to Naples in jeopardy and it was not the first time Santino had contemplated murdering the Russian, all consequences be damned. But you found a way to see him. Found way to come to him. He never asked how. A part of him had never cared enough to know because you’ve been simply there and it had been enough.

Santino remembers every single detail about those three days. Because it was like something straight out one of his dreams.

You, in his home.

You, smiling and happy.

You, sleepy and comfortable and open.

He recalls the warmth of you in his arms as he spun you in a clumsy circle till you were both dizzy with laughter. He recalls the too sweet taste of that god awful wine you brought because you couldn’t find anything else last minute. He did get drunk.

But on more than just the wine.

The next day when he came from the family meeting with his head splitting apart and his throat dry from the hangover, he found you with Gia, cooking and chatting. The older woman had taken it onto herself to teach you some words in the local dialect and your efforts were valiant if a little awkward.

Oh, but the sight of you.

Hair messy, feet bare, a pale sundress wrapping around your frame and a wide smile on your lips as warm Italian sun bathed you in a golden glow. Standing in the same spot he’s seen his mother stand a hundred times, and it had been like a punch right in the heart, right through him.

You had turned towards him a few, breathless seconds later and your smile had widened at sight of him and—

And if he hadn’t already been stupidly, irritatingly, pathetically in love with you by then—

That would have been the final straw.

Sometimes, he still wishes it was as simple as wanting to fuck you. Simply get it out of his system and move onto another pretty face—of which there had been plenty. But no. Of course not. Of course, you had to attach yourself to him, burrow yourself under his skin so fucking deep it’s like a permanent ache— longing, need—that he can’t get rid of.

Because now…

“How long has it been?”

The guards shift at his tone, wary. None of them want to speak first but they also seem to know that keeping silent will only unleash his barely suppressed wrath quicker.

“Twenty minutes, sir.”

Sir.

Not boss.

Because he isn’t one. Not to these lowlife Camorra nobodies. At least before they showed some degree of respect to him as an heir. But now he’s just…what even is he? An afterthought, an irritation. To everyone.

Only twenty minutes though.

During planning, they determined that it would take fifteen minutes just to get there, and that’s assuming they don’t run into any trouble first.

He works his jaw, restless. He hates waiting. He fucking abhors it. He’s been waiting for almost six years—his entire goddamn life—and he’s tired of it already. But it’s not like he can do anything short of taking his pistol and marching into the filthy tunnels to get you back himself.

He wants to. But he’s not a complete idiot despite what you believe him to be.

So he waits. He paces back and worth, his expensive shoes sinking into the wet mud and gravel beneath them. The rain is coming down heavy and harsh now, beating against his umbrella in a relentless rhythm of strength.

He just needs you to come back out already.

Come on, amore. Come back to me. Come and call me your idiot. Just come back.

Time stretches; slow and sluggish.

Twenty minutes become forty and then fifty.

Sunshine, laughter, the gentle expression on your face when you danced, when he gave you his mother’s necklace—

The ground beneath his feet trembles.

He halts, immediately thinking that he’s imagined it, but then a muffled series of bangs echo that shake the ground once again, stronger this time. The guards' curse, pulling their weapons out as if that’s going to do anything.

Underground.

The tunnels.

Explosions.

A destructive chain of concrete, water, and death that stretches far, far too wide.

They’re also pyromaniacs. Experts from what I’ve gathered.

It is then, only for the third time in his entire life, that Santino D’Antonio feels awful, raw sort of fear flood through his veins, leaving him completely immobile.

No.

You dream of sunshine.

You dream of sitting in the sun’s embrace and burning, burning, burning.

But it doesn’t hurt.

Fire doesn’t scare you. It has never hurt you, either.

Darkness you fear because it drips with pain and loneliness. Water you hate because you can’t breathe with it lodged in your throat. But fire rages around you and keeps you safe in its destructive cocoon, letting you have your momentary peace.

Golden tears drip down your cheeks as you kneel on the burning, golden surface. Perhaps you are repenting, perhaps you are mourning. But there is something missing and you want it back—a distant, painful ache you can’t shake but one that tugs you back, back, back—

“Why are you crying, viper?”

A touch against your hair, gentle but firm. It brings you no comfort though. In fact, it leaves you feeling cold deep in your bones even if you don’t pull away.

“Because I am alone,” you whisper through hot tears, your eyes sore and throat tender. “Because I am so deeply unlovable that no one wants me. Sometimes—sometimes I think no one ever will.”

“There is no shame in being alone.”

You curl deeper into yourself, your forehead pressing against the scorching surface. “But I don’t want to be alone. I just want to be happy. I want to be free.”

A hand smooths over your head once again, patient and kind. Something inside your chest coils at the contact. “There is no happiness for you on this path. You’ve walked it once before and where did it lead you?”

A weak breath escapes you.

Why is it so hard to breathe?

“To you.”

The hand on top of your head stills. “Yes,” the voice confirms mildly. “To me. You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me. That is how your story began and that is how it will end.”

Your head lifts, but the figure in front of you blurs through your tears

and

then

you

fall.

Darkness spits you out with a violence that jolts your entire body back to wakefulness.

A slow groan slips out first before you even open your eyes.

There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and when your eyes open they feel grainy and dry.

The room is vaguely familiar with its sleek and modern interior.

You try to inhale and find an oxygen mask over your face. Gritting your teeth, your clumsily pull on it. It takes three tries to drag it to one side of your cheek. Almost immediately breathing becomes more difficult, your throat sore and aching, but you ignore it.

Fingers suddenly latch onto your own and you jolt.

Dizziness is slow to pass, as is the queasiness you feel rolling through your stomach like a heavy rock, but when your vision finally settles, a wave of relief washes over you.

Familiar, brilliant blue eyes are staring back at you, unblinking.

Ares is gripping your hand so tightly her own hand trembles and you want to tease her about her unwashed, still dusty hair and red eyes but don’t.

She’s alive. Relatively unharmed except for few scratches and bruises against her neck.

The sight of her sends a rush of memories back into your skull.

The tunnels.

The Lovers.

The male—Lucien—setting the explosions off.

A weak rasp escapes you and your fingers tighten around Ares’.

She looks awful. If she’s this bad then you can’t even imagine what—

“Santino?” you croak out, trying to sit up but her fingers constrict around yours, near painful, and you still.

He is fine, she signs when she releases your hand. Physically.

You understand the addition for what it is.

Swallowing weakly, you dip your head slightly and move onto another pressing inquiry.

“The Lovers?”

Her expression tightens and the subdued worry in her eyes transforms into ice; honed and piercing.

Got away in the chaos, she signs and her tattooed fingers tremble again before she clenches them and drops them into her lap abruptly. She looks both furious and upset all at once and it’s startling to see. Ares is cocky, confident, brilliant. Seeing her as anything other than self-assured is unsettling.

You’re about to ask her what’s wrong but before you can she sniffs and her hands form slow signs, letting you piece together her next words little by little.

I could not call for help. You were dying and I could not call for help.

Your heart squeezes.

You can’t even imagine what she must have felt.

Ares. Ares who was left by her parents at an orphanage when she was still a baby—no more than two weeks old, simply because unlike other children she never made a sound. Because they believed that there was something wrong with her, some form of defect that made her unwanted in their eyes. Ares who never allowed her muteness to hold her back or define her. She was the one who reshaped the world around her as she wished. She was strong enough to stand for herself, fight for herself.

Ares who had been chosen by the heir of Camorra to be his right hand.

A title and an honour never held by another female in Camorra’s history before.

And to be stuck in those tunnels unable to call for help, unable to do anything when she’s always been so capable, so ready to face down whatever came her way—

“How?” comes your fragile whisper.

Ares swallows and blinks her eyes, glancing away. You allow her that moment, though the gratitude in your heart should make it clear that she doesn’t need to hide from you.

Tears are not a sign of weakness. They’re simply a sign that you’re alive.

Your phone, she signs with a little twitch of her mouth. You still had it on you. I messaged S-A-N-T-I-N-O. Had you partially dug out of the rubble by the time he found us. I have never seen him look so afraid before. Had you stood less than a foot further back you would be dead. Lucky you got away with only a concussion and a dislocated shoulder.

“Lucky me,” you repeat softly, your voice frayed, and place your hand on hers, squeezing. You can’t bring yourself to ask why he’s not beside you like she is. “Thank you, Ares. If it weren’t for you—”

Her eyes flash and her mouth twists into half a snarl. Do not dare thank me. You saved my life.

Your own eyes sting and you force out a soft, exhausted, “We’re a team.”

Her mouth presses shut at that, and she examines you shrewdly. She licks her lips once, and you know its more about controlling her emotions when she glances away again, her tattooed fingers squeezing around yours once before she lets go.

Perhaps we are all more than that.

Yes. All this time you’ve been so afraid of calling them your team you never considered the notion they might have become something even more important. Something like family.

Your eyes flutter shut and you smile slightly. “We are, we…”

The world slips into a comfortable, infinite dark again.

When you awake next, Ares is gone.

But someone else is beside you.

His head is bowed, his thumb delicately tracing over your knuckles.

You’re at the penthouse, you realise distantly, and it’s stopped raining outside.

Your oxygen mask is missing but you feel clearer, steadier, this time around and blink owlishly to clear the remaining fuzziness from your vision. Then, you take a moment to gather yourself and observe him.

Santino’s shoulders are curved into a tense, weary line with his tie loose around his neck. You only need to look at his messy hair to know he’s destroyed his usually immaculate, gelled curls by continuously running his fingers through them.

I have never seen him look so afraid before.

He asked you to sacrifice everyone and anything to walk out of those tunnels unharmed, but instead, you had placed Ares’ life above your own.

You’re glad that you did not make him any promises because he’s no doubt upset as it is.

You turn your fingers carefully, tracing your fingertips over the tanned surface of his smooth palm. He freezes at the dainty touch, his head jerking up as his wild stare takes you in.

“Hey, grumpy.”

His breath hitches slightly before he relaxes his shoulders.

You can almost see the invisible weight dropping away from him, and it makes you feel even worse. If the situations were reversed—

Your fingers settle on top of his.

After a moment, his expression clears and his own hold on your hand constricts.

“Foolish, brave woman,” he mutters tightly in Italian. “Why must you always do this to yourself?”

“I couldn’t let Ares die,” you reply softly because you can see the bags under his eyes, note how his skin looks more wan and tired, and a permanent frown seems to have settled between his brows. He worried and it’s your fault. Even if he won’t admit it, won’t voice it, it’s marking every inch of him. “I failed, Santi. They knew about it. About the underground and the water, and I was too weak—and—I failed—”

His expression turns stormy in a blink. “You did not fail,” he shoots back hotly, his eyes flashing. “I assure you, (Name). When I find them, I will make them beg for death long before I grant them the mercy of it. They will pay for what they did to you in blood.”

“How did they get away?”

Santino sighs, looking down for a moment. “Ah, I’m afraid that’s on me. Once the explosions went off, I called all the teams to a search, regardless of their location,” he divulges and you understand the heaviness in his tone. It was a choice he had to make. A choice between potentially stopping the people after your heads, or looking for you. You’re not foolish enough to think that Santino won’t have sacrificed the rest of the team if it had meant stopping the Lovers. “If it hadn’t been for the phone Ares found…”

He fades off, staring at your joined hands and you trace your thumb over his knuckles this time.

“I—”

“Do not say sorry,” he breathes, his voice soft with fury, just barely leashed. “Do you know what it felt like, hm? Hearing those explosions. The silence after was far worse, amore, I assure you. Then the searching and the waiting. Do you have any idea what it felt like, seeing Roberto pulling you out of that wreckage? Covered in blood, unconscious, barely breathing. It was like—”

His mother.

His mother all over again.

Bloodied, barely conscious, choking, and then eternally still.

You remember every word of his story.

With his gaze empty and hair wet, he had sat against the backdrop of a Chicago blizzard and told you every last detail of what happened. And it had since seared itself onto your mind, onto your heart. Every single word of it. That night had been the first time you saw cracks in his cocky demeanour. The very first time you saw him as a normal man. More than a nuisance, more than an arrogant mobster prick with a one-track mind.

You try to keep your breathing steady but fail. “I’m sorry,” you choke out anyway because you need to say it. “And thank you for finding u-us.”

His head rises slowly. “I will always find you,” he tells you, his expression serious. “Always. I promised to never abandon you, amore.”

“Even with one ear?” you joke through a pained smile.

Santino exhales slowly, his eyes narrowing and he mutters a bitter, “Hm, yes. Despite their best attempts, you still have an ear,” he informs you and you ghost your fingers over the bandage. There is dull ache there but nothing as bad as it was before. “It will heal quickly because it was a clean cut. Almost like—”

“He was trying to mark me,” you assume and he nods shortly. You can almost taste his keen rage. He’s like a band stretched too wide to a point of snapping. “Well I gutted the bastard, so I feel better already.”

Shifting in your spot, you wince immediately at the shooting pain down your shoulder and neck, hissing under your breath. Santino presses his hand against your shoulder, pushing you back gently.

“You are not allowed to move,” he chides, giving you a displeased look. “While the injuries are superficial, you do need to rest. Tsk, troublesome woman.”

“Shut up Mr If-It’s-Dangerous-It-Turns-Me-On.”

His lips part, outraged, but for a long minute, he only gapes at you before his mouth finally snaps shut. You can’t quite hold back your snort of laughter and wince in pain right after. His expression makes it worth it though.

“Wicked tongue,” he notes with an arched eyebrow; an invitation to play. “Throwing around such accusations, hm?”

You grin slightly at the way your teasing cools his rage, soothes his worry. “And you’re a bossy bastard. Were you like that when you were little, too?”

One side of his mouth twitches upwards; a half-smile, and another victory for you. “I have you know that I was very charming when I was little, cara mia. Can’t you tell?”

It takes effort to control your outright cackle this time, and he leans closer, his own eyes dancing with mirth as a faint smile lingers across his face, too.

“I’m sure.”

He gazes at you, seemingly lost in thought before his mouth opens and closes again. He wants to say something but you can read his hesitance, though the reason for it is unclear.

“What is it?”

He swallows before his eyes drag back to you again. “Do you ever wonder how different things might have been if we met first?”

You feel his words clatter through you before settling inside your bones.

Right up until that moment, you never have.

The past is a dark pit, you don’t like remembering or thinking about on a good day much less lately.

He meets your steady stare and you think about his question carefully. Try to consider how different things are between you now compared to when you first met. All that you know about him now oppose to then.

“Well,” you begin deliberately, thoughtful, “Considering that I looked no better than one of Bowery King’s little rodents for most of my life and you were Camorra’s darling prince…I think you would have hated me on sight. And I you.”

He blinks, caught off guard.

But before he can retort, you continue, this time with a faint smile. “But with time…well, I won’t say you would grow on me but maybe I would find you less annoying. Maybe I would learn that outside of that spoiled, cocky, asshole demeanour you’re half-decent on the inside. Maybe. And maybe with time, we could be friends, too. And I would trust you while you would have no choice but to stick with me because I’m the only person in all of Italy that could handle your little tantrums.”

His lips stretch into a slow smile, his demeanour lighter now, calmer. The look in his eyes is gentler too and you rest your cheek against the fluffy pillow, still peering at him.

The silence between you is softer this time as well, almost hazy.

“I think,” you begin in a hoarse whisper. “That if we met first, it would have been very easy to fall in love with you.”

His expression creases, coming undone slowly as his lips part in wonder. His grip on your hand constricts again but this time it doesn’t ease off quickly. He’s clutching onto you, his Camorra ring cutting into your skin but you let him.

Because it’s true.

If you had never met John, everything between you would be so easy.

But that’s not the reality you live in.

Reality is that you’re no longer sure if you’re capable of the type of love you felt for John anymore.

And what you feel for Santino—

You’re not sure when you fade away again.

The next four days are a slog.

You’re able to walk and move around mostly freely by the end of the first day but Doc is as strict as always.

Rest, and more rest, and no strenuous activity with your previously dislocated shoulder or you’re looking at permanent joint damage. Considering how much you rely on your hands, and the fact that you have two psychopaths still out there somewhere who want you dead, for once, you listen to his orders.

You eat. You sleep. You work on getting rid of the layer of dust coating your tongue whenever you speak.

It makes you feel antsy but you rest.

It also doesn’t help that you have three not-so-subtle guard dogs scrutinising your every move.

You’re not sure who is worse Santino or Ares, or both. Roberto usually backs away from one hard stare but Ares is not so easily moved, and Santino might as well be an immovable object.

When it comes to your recovery, he doesn’t compromise.

His men have been working hard on tracking the Lovers or any remaining members of the Black Dragon but they have seemingly vanished from the face of the Earth. That’s more worrying. You have now lost the element of surprise. But they came out of the confrontation between you with far more severe injuries.

You can still hear it in your dreams though.

Lucien’s cold, soft voice promising you a dance next time you meet.

Your whole body tenses whenever the memory comes back to you which is often. There is no doubt in your mind that you will be seeing him again soon. But he won’t catch you off guard like that again. This time there will be no darkness or water. No weakness for either of them to poke and exploit.

But there is something else.

A shift.

You feel it in the very foundation of every interaction Ares and Santino share with you around. They are good at masking it but you know them both too well. Something is happening, some sort of disagreement, and both are trying to hide it from you. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re still in “recovery” or because it’s something sensitive and Camorra related.

While they have never hidden anything family related from you, there are still boundaries you have never tried to step over. You’re not Camorra. Some things you are simply not privy to.

So you wait for Santino to bring it up first. He always addresses things out loud, unable to contain himself if something is plaguing his mind. Sometimes, on occasion, he even seeks out any advice you have to offer.

But not this time.

He seems to have retreated into himself a little too much.

Your interactions haven’t changed but something in his regard has.

It’s like he’s removing himself, taking a step back, preparing for something.

It worries you—it worries you because you have seen this once before. The last time it happened, John left you and shattered your world into pieces.

You can’t—

“You shouldn’t go,” he mutters as he watches you put your shoes on. “The Lovers could still be out there. Waiting.”

“Winston is old school,” you inform him with a brief, reassuring smile. “He doesn’t do business over the phone. And I’m not about to go to the Bowery King again. Besides I look worse than I feel, you know that. Enough resting.”

He steps closer, blocking your path and you look up at him.

It’s been comfortable spending the last few days with him. With Ares and Roberto and the other guard. Comfortable to a point it’s easy to forget everything going on outside the penthouse walls.

“How do you know he will even help, hm?” he questions but you can tell it’s only an effort to divert your attention. “He cannot get involved in these affairs, you know this, cara mia.”

You dip your head in a nod and ignore the slight twinge in your still bandaged ear. “Yes, and he also likes making exceptions…sometimes,” you say, giving him a pointed stare.

Santino exhales slowly, and mutters a defeated, “Stubborn.”

A grin blooms across your face but it withers moments later as you stare at him. Perhaps—

“What’s going on, Santi?”

His face is calm, his stare focused on you as always. His eyes never stray too far from you whenever you’re around but it’s only lately that you’ve become so aware of them.

He touches you with his eyes almost as gently as he does with his hands. Like he can feel you with his gaze alone.

“Is something suppose to be ‘going on’?” he wonders, his accent twisting his question into something almost teasing, and if you weren’t so sure that something is, in fact, going on, you might have dropped it.

You stare at him expectantly, and after another moment he sighs, one of his hands slipping into his pockets. “Do not worry, amore. Everything is fine.”

“Promise?”

His eyebrows arch, his expression practically oozing arrogance. “Have I ever lied to you?”

No. He’s always been honest with you. Often painfully, directly so.

Your eyes snag onto his tie and you reach forward, smoothing your fingertips over the silky material. The dark brown tie with blue pattern is familiar to you—as is the golden pin with pale green gem holding it in place.

Both presents from you.

You nibble on the inside of your cheek. “If anything happens—”

His hand settles on top of yours and your eyes jump up to him. There is something heavy about his scrutiny and his hand lifts in the air between you, his thumb brushing over the curve of your cheek. “I should be the one saying that, no?” he muses and his eyes roam over your features with that flustering intensity. “Trouble follows you everywhere, bella. But I will keep you safe.”

“That’s rich. You’re just as bad as I am.”

He only offers a slight, crooked grin in reply and you shake your head in mock disbelief, pulling away from him and checking the pistol under your coat.

“I’ll ring you after I’m done talking with Winston,” you inform him and give him one last look over your shoulder as you pull the door open. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m away, grumpy.”

He lifts his hand in a slight wave but doesn’t answer.

And you wonder the entire elevator journey down why it makes you feel so unease that he didn’t.

The doorbell rings just after 1am.

John straightens, his bones creaking as he raises his head slightly and listens.

He’s not expecting guests, and certainly not at this hour.

His mind jumps to you for a brief second, wondering if perhaps something awful has happened after all. He hasn’t heard from you in days but he’s also been busy himself. Finally, his revenge was completed, and the remains of his old life now buried once again.

He treks up the stairs, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that plagues his every step. A shadow of a figure stands behind the door patiently, knowing to wait instead of just leaving. And not you. He knows the shape of you as well as he knows his own, and whoever has come is unlikely to be here for a pleasant chat at this hour. There is a brief instant in which he contemplates not opening the door at all.

After the events of the last few weeks, he just wants to sit and—

Perhaps just sit and think and be with his thoughts for a bit.

With a subdued exhale, he pulls on the handle, the door swinging open silently.

The sight that greets him on the other side stills something inside him.

A familiar man. A man who helped him get out stands before him.

Five years have changed Santino D’Antonio. There is something about the way the man now holds himself that’s different to whatever recollections John still has of him from years ago.

He knew an arrogant, charismatic man who liked setting things on fire just to see if they would burn to nothing or endure. The Santino he remembers never cared about anyone or anything except for himself. That’s why John has always felt so apprehensive about Santino’s keen interest in you—an interest the man has never tried to hide, not even from him.

“John.”

No smirk; not even a show of superiority with which Santino always handled his affairs so effortlessly. Something more cunning, more honed and focused, stares back at him and John’s instincts go on high alert. He has changed.

That focused calm almost reminds him—

Of you.

The same way your cool mocking with Perkins and the priest inside Viggo’s church had reminded him of the man standing at his doorway now.

“Santino.”

The Italian extends his arm and John clasps his hand in his, shaking it even as his eyes skip over the man to take count of his many guards. A familiar, elegant face catches his attention and John’s eyes pause on the woman he recognises from the cemetery.

She’s a friend.

Yes, apparently Santino’s guards are now your friends, too. The woman’s eyes narrow on him when their stares meet, judging and warning all at once, and John drags his stare back towards the Italian.

“May I come in?”

It’s a polite, pleasant request—just barely.

Something in the man’s expression tells John that even if he were to refuse, he would still hear about the reason for this late-night visit regardless. There is just enough iciness in the man’s stare that guarantees a confrontation John would rather avoid.

“Of course,” he says instead, opening the door wider and inviting the Italian inside. Santino steps forward, turning to nod his head at the woman. His second in command? John doesn’t let his surprise show as the door closes. “Café?”

“Grazie.”

John pauses by the entrance to the kitchen, gesturing towards the lounge. The man nods his head in thanks but his expression remains solemn.

It pulls at something—a worry—deep inside his gut. “Is it V?”

Santino’s eyes snap to him, something sparking there, but he controls his expression. The man John knew was expressive and easily provoked. That, too, seems to have changed to a degree.

But he shouldn’t be surprised. That Santino has changed, or that you have, either. Five years is a long time, and the forming picture of that time he was away…

He doesn’t know the specifics, but all the implications press against his heart like a weight.

A part of him doesn’t want to even consider how bad it might have been for you.

Hunted, hurt. All because of him.

“No, (Name) is fine.”

Your name—your real name; it flows from Santino’s tongue like molten honey. He utters it with ease and familiarity, an intimacy that shows years of use. Once, John was one of the select few to know your real name, and he can’t help but wonder what the Italian had to do to gain that level of trust from you.

Something buried deep, deep down coils tortuously at the thought of it.

He blinks and turns to enter the kitchen, moving towards the coffee machine as if on automatic. Silence reigns from the hallways where he left Santino for a few minutes before his voice floats over.

“I was sorry to hear about your wife, John.”

He can’t help but wonder if the man means that.

The last time they saw each other, on the night of his task, Santino wore an expression of such poorly controlled fury that John expected the Italian to pull a gun on him instead. He never asked what had put him in such a foul mood because his only focus had been on getting out. The Camorra heir never did pull a gun on him, though his parting words have haunted John regardless.

“Have a very happy life, John.”

Back then, Santino had sounded like he was cursing him. Wishing him the exact opposite of a happy life. One of the many reasons why his sudden change of heart from not helping him to helping him has never quite made sense to John.

“Thank you.”

Another pause follows.

“And the dog?” Santino wonders loudly. “Does he have a name?”

John leans his palms against the counter for a moment, exhaling, “No.”

If you are fine, then there is only one other reason as to why Santino might be here. Why he would seek John out now.

He gathers the coffee cup in his hand and walks towards the lounge. Santino is already there, shrugging off his finely made overcoat. As always, the Italian man is immaculate. Every seam and inch of him breathes power and money.

He sets down the espresso in front of the man before sitting down himself.

Santino doesn’t waste time though. He’s barely seated before the man begins speaking, “Listen, John,” he says promptly. “With all sincerity, I don’t want to be here.”

That much is true. It’s perhaps the most honest thing Santino has ever said to him. Irony, perhaps, at its finest.

But it also only confirms what John has been dreading.

“Please, don’t,” he says softly. “I’m asking you not to do this.”

But Santino appears unmoved by his request, by his subtle pleading not to go down this path. His green eyes take John in coolly and he shakes his head slightly, pulling a familiar object from his suit pocket. The familiar round curve of the Marker gleams in the light and it clangs deafeningly onto the table as Santino places it down between them.

“No one gets out and comes back without repercussions, John,” he tells him tersely, and a muscle inside Santino’s jaw ticks with a subtle clench. There is a spark of something like resentment there for a second before the man pulls it back, hides it. “Don’t be so quick to forget that the only reason why you are here, like this, is because of what she did for you. If it weren’t for her, you won’t be sitting here right now. So all of this is in part hers…and mine.”

John stares at him, his eyebrows furrowing.

“What?”

His genuine confusion seems to give the heir a pause too, and Santino releases a shallow breath, a sudden understanding gleaming in his too clever, too conniving eyes.

“So you don’t know,” he concludes and this time his bitterness is palpable. He’s still more controlled than usual and John decides he’s better off waiting for some semblance of explanation. What do you have to do with— “She never told you, did she? To spare you, I presume. Ah, such kindness from someone you disregarded so easily.”

That stings but it’s deserved. He could try and explain to Santino that what he did was the only way to make sure you lived, but judging by the pinched expression on the man’s face, he doubts Santino would care much for his reasonings.

But the fierceness in his eyes…

Since when does Santino D’Antonio care—

“Why do you think I changed my mind about helping you, hm?” Santino speaks up, dashing his thoughts apart and John listens, an awful understanding starting to take place instead of confusion. “It’s because (Name) came to me, heartbroken and haunted, and asked me to help you with your Impossible Task. And I did, for her. You owe her your life. A debt that needs paying, John.”

“That’s not yours to call in,” he whispers tightly.

But Santino’s words are sinking in and—

After the hotel. After saying something as final and as destructive as If you walk out of that door, I never want to see you again to still go asking for help on his behalf—

“No, but this is.”

The Marker slides closer towards him.

He doesn’t need this right now. He doesn’t want this.

You had given him this life, this time with Helen. You could have told him what you did but you never did. If it hadn’t been for you, Santino never would have helped him. Not after Tokyo.

“Take it back.”

It’s like a switch being flipped, and Santino’s calm expression seems to stutter, straining, before he manages to rope himself back in. But this time his anger is palpable.

“Take it back?” he repeats sharply.

A slight nod. “Take it back.”

He doesn’t want this life that’s bled him dry again. This life that has made him sick with guilt.

“A Marker is no small thing, John,” the Italian intones icily, his eyes blazing as his fingers motion between them. “For a man to grant a Marker to another, is to bind a soul to a blood oath.”

He knows. He knows this but—

“Find someone else.”

Whatever final shred of self-control Santino seems to be clinging to cracks briefly. He reaches forward abruptly, grabbing the Marker and John hears the tell-tale click of the device opening. In an instant, he is faced with a bloody imprint of his thumb inside the metal. His oath.

“Listen to me,” Santino hisses, his previous pleasantries forgotten. He points his finger at the blood and his head tilts with a mocking little smile. “What is this? Hmm? Do you remember? This is your blood. You came to me asking for help and I helped you. She suffered because of your negligence and then you broke our deal by keeping her away from me instead.”

The Italian releases a laboured breath and gathers his fleeing composure swiftly. Swallowing, he tries again, calmer this time, “Honour the Marker, John, and I’ll have the power to always keep her safe. You can go back to your...make-believe, and never hear from either of us ever again. If you don’t do this, you know the consequences.”

John exhales, his head dipping downwards.

He can still see your expression at the Continental when your phone rang. How your severe, taut features had softened at the name on the screen, and lightness in your voice when you had picked up, “Hey, grumpy.”

How much has changed between you and Santino?

Are you—

His head turns and his stare snags onto a photo of him and Helen.

Helen.

God, he loves her. Misses her daily. His time with her was the happiest he’s ever been.

You get involved in this world again, and there won’t be a ticket back this time.

You bought him this time and he regrets so many things. Regrets not doing a better job of warning you, preparing you, protecting you, trying to fix things between you sooner.

And even after everything—even now, you still understand him better than anyone. Understand how he doesn’t want this, can’t handle the thought of being back much less actually going back.

He could. But there would be no way back. No second ticket just like you said and whatever he is—whatever little good there might still reside inside him—would be wrecked and destroyed beyond repair if he did.

Helen wants him to find happiness again.

So even if it’s you.

Maybe because it is you, he turns back towards Santino and tells him, “I’m not that guy anymore.”

The Italian’s expression falters, growing slack. He regards John critically for a long moment and snaps the Marker shut, pointing at him. “You are always that guy, John,” he retorts calmly, his voice soft with accusation. “You have no idea how much suffering you have caused her. This is the least you can do.”

He places the Marker between them again; a final chance, and waits.

John stares at it.

I’m respecting your decision to stay retired.

“I can’t help you,” he whispers heavily, and slides the Marker back across towards the Camorra heir. “I’m sorry. She understands.”

He knows you do. That you will. He hopes you will. He doesn’t want to lose you again.

It’s in a slow look upwards from the Marker to his face, that John sees a glimpse of the old Santino again. That cold-blooded rage that’s practically spilling out from him as he lightly licks his lips, trying to keep himself in check. But no matter how much he tries to contain it, Santino’s anger is so tangible John can almost feel its destructive burn.

He rises to his feet, and Santino does too. The Marker is already in the Italian’s hand and he pockets it carefully. He then slips his tightly clenched fists into his pockets, too, and cocks his head in a proud, scornful manner. If there’s one thing John can say about Santino, is that the man has never flinched away from his stare. Never looked away or lowered his eyes. He’s not sure if it’s arrogance or genuine lack of fear but he’s always admired that in Santino.

The Italian’s next words might as well be a knife straight to the chest though.

“You don’t deserve her,” he states calmly, coldly, looking him up and down as if disgusted. “You never did.”

Then he turns and walks away without a backwards glance.

For a moment, John is rooted in his spot, unable to form a coherent thought in his suddenly too empty head.

He follows after the heir moments later, dragging his feet after him.

Santino pauses in the doorway of his home, fixing his sleeves as he gives John a dispassionate little smile.

“You have a beautiful home, John,” he remarks thoughtfully, glancing around briefly with a slight grin. It dies seconds later and Santino turns away, dropping his overcoat around his shoulders with a sweep of his arms. “Buona notte,” he calls out loudly as he walks away.

John closes the door with a soft click and moves across the hallway a few deliberate steps at the time. His eyes trace over his home slowly, savouring the sight and the feel of it. He lifts a photo of him and Helen to his face, staring at those adoring, happy faces.

He can’t recall the feeling of that happiness anymore. Everything in his life has turned to ash.

A distant crash tears through the house and he raises his head.

The world around him promptly explodes into flames.

“Charon.”

The man greets you with a faint glimmer of levity in his eyes. His glasses reflect the light emitting from the computer in front of him, and he inclines his head in your direction.

“Miss Vipress. It is a pleasure to have you back with us again,” he says and your own smile stretches. “How may I help? A doctor, perhaps?”

Biting back a sarcastic retort, you quirk your eyebrow at his deliberate baiting and lean your elbows on the counter.

“No, I’m fine,” you reassure, tapping your fingers in a restless little rhythm. “Winston?”

Charon’s lips flatten in a professional line, and you already know what will come out of his mouth before he speaks. You have seen him adapt this cast many times before.

“Sir is currently away on business but he will be back by the morning,” he divulges and clicks the computer keys a few times without even glancing down. “Should I schedule a time for you?”

You both know it’s a formality and nothing more than that. For the sake of equality and appearance, you still “schedule” appointments if there are people around. Usually, you go to Winston whenever you please and the man has no choice but to put up with you. Obviously, he loves it when you do that.

But right now, Winston may be the only one able to get you information on where the Lovers have disappeared to. The rules state he can’t get involved in such matters as a manager but Winston is Winston. He lives by his own code, too. One you can’t help but respect and imitate yourself.

You hope he’ll help you because the alternatives make you battle down a weary groan.

“Please,” you voice politely, stilling your fingers when Charon’s attention drifts towards them. “As early as you can.”

He inclines his head in a courteous manner, ever the professional. “Of course. I’ll be sure to let Sir know you are looking for him as soon as he arrives.”

Bobbing your head, you let your hand settle on your phone and glance towards the lounge.

“Thanks. I’m going to grab a bite to eat. Anything good on?”

A thin smile appears on the man’s face, and his rare show of amusement surprises you.

“I do believe your favourite dessert is being served today, Miss.”

You snort, pushing yourself away from the counter with a brief look over your shoulder to make sure you’re not falling into anyone.

“Lucky.”

Giving him another smile, you move towards the lounge, definitely ready for some food.

During the brief walk, you also take a moment to text Santino.

Winston is out. Will be back by the morning. I’ll stay at the Continental for the night. Breakfast tomorrow?

You send the text and sit down at an empty table further away, grabbing the menu as you get comfortable. This thing is so long and changes so often that reading it feels like reading a fresh newspaper every time you come here.

You’re barely done with the starters when distinct footsteps approach your table.

“Sorry I’m not ready to order yet,” you call out without looking up. “Can you give me another five?”

No answer.

And then—

A scent tickles your nose. You know that scent. The strong, heady cologne.

Your head jerks up, your muscles locking at the sight of a large, looming figure standing before you.

He hasn’t changed much since the last time you’ve seen him.

Everything from the strong, sharp cut of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, and the icy, bored gleam in his bright blue eyes. His large, muscular build is as menacing as it’s always been, as is the pitch-black suit he wears that only accents it. But the most telling is the heavy tattoos marking almost every inch of his skin apart from his face. The ink is masterfully etched along his fingers and peeks from under his shirt as it trails all the way up to his neck.

He’s the type of man you would cross the street just to avoid.

“Lady Camorra,” he greets gruffly with a derivative curve of his mouth.

It splits his face apart into something as handsome as it is terrible. His beauty isn’t really beautiful. His beauty is the type you can cut yourself onto but still be fascinated by it.

Cool metal settles inside your palm, your body rigid.

He scoffs at your reaction and wanders towards the empty seat, gracelessly dragging the chair back as he seats himself down without permission. “Relax,” he mutters, irritated, and then adds a mocking, “And don’t forget about the rules.”

He looks huge seated against such a small, intimate backdrop. Danger crowds you, your instincts recognising the predator before you, and you slant your body at an angle, your fingers smoothing over a vial of poison in the seam of your coat.

No paralysers. Not with the Lovers still around.

“Don’t call me that,” you snarl lowly and he tracks your subtle movements with dull disinterest.

“Oh dear,” he drones with a slight sneer. “Did I accidentally reveal one of Santi’s wet dreams? My bad.”

“What are you doing here Hector?”

The man before you smirks, his expression morphing into something frightening, and the Camorra’s Devil bares his teeth at you in what passed for a polite greeting for him.

“Sightseeing.”

Your expression tightens, and you don’t bother masking your heated glare. “Feed that cork of shit to someone who actually believes it.”

As if Hector, one of Camorra’s elite guards, would come to New York for sightseeing. Hector who is known for his ruthlessness, for his unbreakable loyalty to Camorra. He was handpicked by Giovanni himself, recruited when he was only eight, and made into an elite guard at age eighteen. Only four such positions exist, and these individuals protect and answer only to the head of Camorra and no one else. He was the youngest and first non-native Italian to ever inherit the position. Many say Giovanni favoured Hector even above his own heirs for his brutality alone.

From what you’ve seen of how Giovanni D’Antonio treated his children, you would be inclined to agree.

Hector reaches into his jacket, and his smirk stretches at the way you gradually lower the menu onto the table, your blade glinting between you.

But the man only pulls out an envelope from his pocket, placing it between you. The cut is familiar as is the faint perfume exuding from it.

“Judging by your frowny little face, you already know what this is,” he notes and taps his knuckles against the invite once before his tattooed fingers lift. The rings donning them click softly and you follow the motion. You once saw those hands break bones like popsicle sticks. Effortless, quick, and brutal. “Good. That means I won’t have to waste my breath explaining it to you.”

Your eyes meet his warily. You don’t trust him or this entire encounter. “Why is she inviting me?”

To invite Santino to the inheritance ceremony is one thing, but you—

Hector sighs loudly, leaning back in his chair as if this conversation is already boring him. He grabs a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one with expert ease. As one would expect from two pack a day man.

Sometimes it still surprises you his lungs haven’t given out yet.

“Why won’t she?” he ponders with a tone that implies he doesn’t care to hear your thoughts on the matter. The vicious set of his features disappears in a puff of smoke but you don’t blink. Hector is not the type of man you take your eyes away from if you want to live. “She’s about to inherit Camorra and you’re the Vipress. You’ve worked for Camorra plenty of times before. Maybe she’s simply trying to build bridges.”

This time, you scoff. “Funny. Considering she’s the one who burned them.”

How funny that Gianna would come seeking to make amends now. After all this time, you don’t even think you’re upset or angry at her anymore but the timing of this leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

“Bore someone else with your little dramas,” Hector deadpans and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “If she was stupid enough to make an enemy out of you, I don’t particularly care.”

Your eyebrows lift, and you regard him coolly.

Giovanni’s prized little monster. Best of the best.

But Giovanni is dead now. And Camorra is in suspension.

It’s then, more than ever, that you see the reason for Hector’s dismissiveness.

He doesn’t want to be here. But he is, and Camorra doesn’t just send its best killer for delivery service. No matter how much of a personal touch Gianna may believe you will require.

“Don’t tell Hector.”

Step had known. His hesitance during your call days ago suddenly makes sense.

“Careful,” you purr slowly and tilt your chin. “That’s your new boss you’re talking about. Show a little respect. I thought you liked Gianna.”

He snorts, and slants his head back, staring at the ceiling above. Completely unconcerned with the fact that he’s baring his throat to you. He’s one of the very few you won’t immediately call an idiot for doing so.

“Like her? This has nothing to do with liking her or Santino better. Frankly, I don’t give a shit about either of them. Same bullshit over and over again with those two. ‘Papi loves me best’, Papi didn’t give a shit about either of them,” he mutters tensely, and his attention swings back to you, his pale eyes cutting. He leans on his elbows, the cigarette between his fingers still smouldering. “Giovanni loved Camorra and that’s who I now serve. The family, not the individual. Besides, you of all people should know respect is earned, not demanded.”

You toy with the blade on the table, your fingertips grazing against the honed edges.

The door is wide open for a metaphorical knife so you sink it deep.

“Yes, it must be very hard no longer being Giovanni’s favourite little pet,” you drawl knowingly and watch the way his eyes narrow, a muscle in his jaw fluttering. “Why are you here, Hector? Why didn’t Gianna send someone else? Why not Cassian?”

“Cassian,” Hector begins pointedly. “Is probably too busy fucking her to have time and play the delivery boy. Maybe she simply knows I’m your favourite,” he adds knowingly.

The fucking nerve of this prick.

The blade slips in between your index and middle fingers, and you spin it on the table smoothly; once, twice, thrice.

Hector watches the little show, a shade amused.

“When Giovanni threw me out of their estate, I recall your hands on me,” you remind him, and there is a frigid bite to your soft words. “If Gianna wants to make enemies, then she did well in sending you to me.”

His head tilts and he puts out his almost gone cigarette against the silver spoon next to him before glancing back towards you.

“Giovanni was my boss,” he states flatly. “If he had asked, I would have put a bullet in your head, too.”

It’s that simple for him. He, unlike you, or John, or even Santino doesn’t question, doesn’t hesitate.

That’s always been Giovanni’s genius. His ability to assure such absolute loyalty through any means necessary the individuals in question don’t even hesitate in carrying out his orders. Most in Camorra are recruited young so by the time they grow up, they have nothing else outside of it. Camorra is the only path for them; a maze without end. All the way until their deaths, and then they’re replaced in a matter of hours.

You have never met anyone who embodies Camorra more than the man before you.

“Assuming you could.”

A glimmer of a chilling smile graces his face. “Sweetheart, I’m not like the other three,” he points out lightly. “I would snap your pretty, little neck faster than you can blink.”

“You would be dead before you reached me.”

Hector makes a small, amused sound at the back of his throat, and shakes his head a little, a flash of white teeth filling your sight. “I’ll admit, things have been pretty boring without you around to cause havoc. You know how they get. So stiff.”

You hum, contemplative. “Is that why they sent you?”

Hector doesn’t like to waste his time on pointless chitchat, but he hates stupidity even more.

He nods his head, pleased you’ve caught on, and plays with the lighter between his fingers. It’s a motion just slightly too agitated to come off as completely casual though.

“Yes, well, it’s not every day darling Santi goes around throwing the word of old Camorra around, now is it?” he speaks and his tone is monotonous. “Do you think the old fuckers took it well? When they learned he tied the entire family to your whims? And now that you’re free of your chain it gives you a little too much power for their liking. What happened with the Lovers? Well that’s a pretty good reason to call in the said oath, now isn’t it?”

Your throat is dry and your own fingers are still around the blade. It had slipped your mind. The fact that for Santino’s oath to be binding, he would have had to inform the family head in order for it to be officially acknowledged. Since Gianna has not officially taken over yet, the news would have reached the collective council of Camorra first.

You can’t even begin to imagine the reaction that room had to learning about what Santino did.

Which makes you wonder only one thing.

“Are you here to kill me, then?”

This time, Hector does laugh. It’s a wrapped, ugly sound that rumbles from deep in his chest. Like the act itself is unfamiliar to him.

“If I were you would be dead already,” he states mildly and seems entertained by the slight, annoyed pinch of your expression at his statement. “But no, not yet. Hence the invite.”

“So Gianna wants to buy me instead,” is your bitter, tepid assessment.

The harsh planes of Hector’s features crease with exasperation.

“I don’t particularly care what she wants,” he shoots back briskly. “I’m only here to make sure that Santino doesn’t fuck up again because he’s so desperate to stick his cock inside you.”

He ignores your seething glower and rises to his feet, throwing the lighter in the air before catching it easily in his palm and pocketing it. He fixes his suit as he stares down at you, judging every scrape and bruise marring your face. The expensive, dark material stretches over his powerful, tall frame and you watch him carefully.

“Relax already, but do grow eyes at the back of your head,” he advises, almost pleasantly, and looks you up and down, unbothered by your glare. “I’ll be seeing you, sweetheart.”

And then he leaves you sitting at your table alone, your appetite long since gone.

You take the painkillers dry, not wasting time with water as you emerge onto the terrace, letting the warm sun wash over you.

Today is pleasant. These last few days have brought a spell of bright, warm weather and you can’t help but incline your head towards the light.

It reminds you of your dream when you just woke up after the attack but you shake it off, trying not to think about it.

You’re here only for the man you can already see seated at the table and drinking tea.

Winston’s head lifts at the sound of your approach, and his sharp gaze does one quick sweep over you before he takes another sip of his tea.

“Good God,” he mutters dryly before you can speak. “Did they drag you through those tunnels by the hair?”

Rolling your eyes, you huff a small breath, falling unceremoniously onto the empty chair before him.

“Ha ha. Hilarious,” you retort dully and pinch your voice lower. “I’ve missed you, V. So good to see you’re alive and well, my dear.”

Winston pauses, giving you a flat stare but his eyebrows furrow slightly as he examines you closely, seemingly confused. Maybe even a touch surprised.

“Hmm, you are in a chipper mood this morning,” he notes, sounding just a bit nonplussed, and takes another sip before writing something down in his notebook. “Handling this better than I expected.”

That gives you a pause.

“Handling what better?”

This time it’s Winston who pauses, his pen scratching to a halt as he looks up at you.

“You didn’t see Johnathan on your way up here?” he questions, his voice deceptively calm.

Something sinks in the pit of your stomach; an awful, curdling feeling of unease.

“John?” you murmur, confused. “Why would I see John here?”

John should be back home. Back with his dog. Enjoying his retirement. He should not be here, at the beating heart of your shadow world.

Winston’s expression eases into a cool mask you have seen hundreds of times before, and his next words make your heartbeat spike just slightly, “You don’t know.”

You force breath into your lungs. Slow and steady.

“Winston,” you begin softly. “Know what?”

The man sighs deeply, the look in his eyes probably the weariest you have ever seen, and he moves the teapot in your direction.

“Join me for tea, dear,” he says and gives you a look that makes you sit up. “I’m afraid this will be rather unpleasant.”

You have no idea what expression you have on your face but whatever it is, it makes Roberto cringe. His anxious stare as you approach is telling enough.

“V, wait!”

“Don’t.”

It’s a rasp of fury that manages to freeze the guard in front of you and makes his partially extended hand fall back to his side. His expression is torn, almost pained as he peers at you.

“He did it for you.”

He might as well have dropped a burning match into your stomach that’s full of gasoline ready to scorch its way through everything it comes into contact with.

“For me? For me?”

Ares steps from behind Roberto, her expression guarded and your glare narrows on her.

She knew. What happened last night must have been the reason for the tension between her and Santino over these last few days. The blood roaring inside your ears drowns out the sounds of lively chatter around you. The gallery is full, but you will see him. Regardless of the audience.

Roberto moves to the side, the look on his face full of understanding if not trepidation, and your eyes slide back to Ares. She’s blocking your way, but even she cannot hide Santino from you. Though you can tell by her expression it’s not because he ordered her to do so, and more so because neither she nor Roberto wishes to witness this confrontation.

Frankly, you don’t give a shit about what either of them wants right now.

He did it to keep you safe.

You ignore her words, instead biting out a grim, “Get out of my way. Now.”

Her blue eyes watch you for a tense moment, but she moves eventually. Only one small step to the side.

You brush past them both without a word.

The muffled noise your shoes create as you walk down the hallway echoes around you, and you emerge into a small section that houses a well-known collection to you.

He sits in front of an enormous painting of a battlefield, silent and alone. But doesn’t speak a word as you approach even though you’re the only ones here.

He knows you well. So he knew you would come.

This morning you woke up to a simple: Something has come up. Dinner instead?—Santi without any additional information.

Now, you know the something in question was going to John’s home to demand payment for a Marker you had no idea even existed until this morning. John never told you, and neither did Santino.

Winston thought you knew about the deal made to get you out of Tokyo, but he was wrong.

For his help in getting you out, Santino had asked for a blood oath in exchange. An oath he almost tied you to as well, even if he ended up changing his mind last second.

Bitterness in your chest swells till it’s almost suffocating you as you come to a halt before him.

His expression is serene, a melancholic smile lingering across the seams of his mouth while he sits with his hands clasped in his lap.

You’re so angry, you can’t even form a coherent thought, much less words. But he speaks first, still not looking at you.

“When I was little, my home used to be a kaleidoscope of colour,” he begins, and his voice is soft, almost dreamy. “Paintings everywhere you looked. My mother—she adored art. She even had a painting studio in the west wing. Did I ever tell you that?”

You don’t answer and he still doesn’t look at you.

“To be fair,” he continues after a beat of suffocating silence. “She was not particularly good at it but she loved it so that my father used to buy all these expensive paintings for her to hang around the house. One day, I worked up the courage to ask him why he would pay so much money for something he did not care for. To him, it was nothing more than a bit of paint on canvas. He had no interest in art nor its beauty. So I asked him, and he thought about it for a long time. So long that I feared my question might have angered him, but no. Mhm. He leaned back in his chair, blew out a puff of smoke, and said to me: ‘They make your mother smile.’ As simple as that. You see it was then I realised it had nothing to do with how much money they cost, or even the prestige of owning them. He bought them simply because they made my mother happy. Her happiness was worth any price to him.”

He pauses, swallowing thickly, and his lips tremble for a second before he presses them into a tight line. “Of course after she died, his indifference grew into hatred. He demanded that every painting was to be removed from his sight and from the house. The once vibrant walls of my home became cold and barren. And now, hm, now I look at these paintings from my childhood but they are only distant echoes of a past long since dead. Now, I see what my father saw. Some paint on canvas and nothing more.”

There is something lonely about his expression. About the way he stares at the grand painting before him like he’s half a foot in his past and half in the present.

“What did you do?”

It comes out softer than you’ve intended, but your anger hasn’t cooled—not even at hearing his little story.

Finally, Santino looks towards you. His eyes take you in and his slight smile sharpens.

“Judging by your expression, amore, you already know,” he states and blinks a few times before looking away. The smile on his face is growing colder and colder by the second, and you hate it. “Let me guess. Was it Winston?”

But you’re too angry right now and cut straight to the heart of it. “You blew up his house.”

John’s home; a home that’s a lot more than just a home to him. That house has been a part of Helen too. One of the very few reminders of her, and it was a place of comfort for John—a place where he could be soothed by the happy memories they’ve shared. And now—

Now it’s ash.

“And he refused a Marker,” Santino announces, his tone growing colder, more unforgiving. “We both know I could have demanded his head for that alone.”

You suck in a deep breath, taking a step towards him. “You had no right to that Marker in the first place!”

Your words are like a whip, brimming with fury, and Santino’s self-control crumbles. He rises to his feet abruptly and steps towards you too, his eyes a green flame.

“No right? I had every right,” he hisses and points his index finger between you. “We are not children, cara mia. We do not hand out charity, especially not me.”

Your slight chuckle is icy, as is your sarcastic smile. “No, you don’t,” you agree softly and your heart clenches in your chest. Why would he do this? Why else if not— “You just couldn’t let such an opportunity slip by, could you?”

Ever the businessman. Ever the need for more control.

Santino leans back with an understanding exhale of breath as he regards you.

“You think this is about power.”

“Isn’t everything with you?”

He saw an opportunity to get a Marker from the most feared man in the world, and he took it. You’re not foolish enough to believe it’s because whatever Santino felt for you back then was so pure and special.

But those words hit something deep, you can tell.

You don’t think you have ever seen him so furious in all the years you have known him. Except, maybe, once before. Back in Chicago. When that man—

“Let me tell you something about your precious Johnathan,” Santino bites out, his voice forcefully calm, but only just barely. “Let me shed some light onto his heroic actions in regards to Tokyo because clearly you either don’t know or could use a reminder. How many days were you stuck in that pit, amore? Hm?”

You stare at him blankly, uncomprehending.

“Ten days,” he forces out after a brief pause, and his words quicken with his fraying temper. This is not new. This is years of bottled-up frustration, spilling out at the most inopportune time. This is a result of you refusing to discuss John or anything relating to him for years. “Next question, when did John come to me, do you think? Did he ever tell you, hm? Did he?”

“No,” you choke out.

“No,” he repeats, but doesn’t look surprised by it. “How delightful of him. Day eight, cara mia. Over a week. But wait, it gets better. It was Winston who contacted him about you being missing. So he either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to check on you himself.”

Those words burn and sting and tear at the leftover shards of the girl you once were. So long ago now. Because no matter what, that’s exactly what you always feared, isn’t it? That either John didn’t notice or didn’t care enough. But you were the one who cut contact with him before Tokyo, so can you really blame him for not noticing your absence sooner? Can Santino?

For a very long time, you did.

But you’re tired of feeling the suffocating shroud of hatred and bitterness all the time. You’ve moved past it.

“Next question—and you are going to love this part, amore—how long do you think it took for my people to track down who took you? Hm?” he proceeds without waiting, and in every word he speaks, you hear the days, weeks, months, years all of this has plagued him. A storm he’s been holding back because it hurt you too much to talk about it. But everyone has a breaking point and it seems like Santino has reached his. “Six hours. Only six. You were there for over a week suffering and alone while dear John was busy charming, dining, and fucking some woman while I found you in six hours.”

Your heart, oh your heart, it hurts. It hurts so much it’s an effort to keep yourself still, composed.

Six hours.

Did it really only take Santino six hours to track your location?

All those days of pain and torture and—

You feel sick. Deep in your stomach, deep in your soul.

“So forgive me, amore, but demanding a Marker had little to do with having power over him,” Santino tells you, a bit calmer now, even if his breaths are still uneven. “It was a punishment. I am punishing him and I will continue doing so because it will never be enough. Because he failed you, broke our agreement, and then almost broke you, too. Because I, unlike you, am not so forgiving when it comes to his sins, cara mia.”

You stare at his tie, confused and speechless.

Another present from you. A little piece of you given to him because—

Because he’s important to you.

“He didn’t know,” you whisper weakly, trying to digest everything you’ve just learned.

“Oh, but if he loved you as much as he claimed,” Santino tells you quietly, and you see his expression soften a touch at your helplessness, his previous rage retreating somewhat. “Then perhaps he should have.”

You’re not sure what you can say in defence to that. If anything.

Your eyes find his and you search his expression for—

You’re not sure what, exactly.

“What did you ask?” you ask him instead. “To kill the Lovers?”

Why else would he want to drag John Wick into this? A quick, clean sweep to get rid of your enemies. A way for both of you to stay out of a volatile situation and safe while John hunts them down.

Santino stills and something in your stomach sinks at the look in his eyes. It’s that retreat again. Like he’s mentally preparing himself for whatever is going to happen next.

“Ah, not quite,” he says cautiously, and you can see him measuring his words—a rarity. “That is only a temporary solution. There will always be the next enemy and the one after that, yes? The only way to keep us both safe permanently...is if I become the head of Camorra.”

A breath shudders out of you, and with it the numbing understanding, a realisation of what he’s saying. There are only two ways he could become the head of Camorra.

If Gianna passes him the title willingly in an official ceremony.

Or—

“No,” you breathe, pained, and see his expression crumple at your reaction. “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t, Santino.”

He reaches for you, desperate, “It is the only way—”

You jerk away from his touch.

“She’s your sister!”

Santino chuckles, his expression stony and his wild stare cuts away from you, frustrated.

“My sister—” he begins and cuts himself off abruptly, exhaling once before he looks back at you. He takes a step closer, only a step separating you now. “Let’s not stand here and pretend that if the situation was reversed she wouldn’t do the exact same to me, amore. Tell me, if she set her loyal dog onto me, would you still be so defensive of them then? Still call them your friends? Or would you let them kill me? Eh?”

The anger blazing inside your chest grows cold and hard in a blink. Stinging hurt follows swiftly after.

“How dare you?” you whisper softly and his lips part, a glint of regret appearing before he masks it quickly. “How dare you stand there and ask me that? After everything,” you practically gag on the last word.

After all these years. After everything you’ve been through together.

Santino’s hands slip inside his pockets, a shield against you when you can see how your reactions are affecting him, weakening him.

“Perhaps it’s because unlike saint Johnathan, I don’t get all my sins blindly forgiven,” he states evenly, an old resentment coating his words. “Tell me, (Name), do I even exist in your eyes? Or am I simply a replacement?”

His words are delicate, almost like a part of him knows the answer but is preparing to hear you confirm it.

And you feel so angry—so angry he would just assume he knows how you feel better than you do.

“Stop. Stop dragging John into this when what this is really about is you,” you whisper harshly, your voice hoarse as you stare up at him. “This is all it’s ever been about. You and your thirst for power. You were always going to do this, weren’t you? You always wanted the seat above all else, except now you can stand there and feel justified in your decision.”

He smiles at you; an empty, distant thing.

“What is it that you want from me, (Name)?” he wonders curiously. “Do you want me to play at being a good man? Well, I am not a good man. I always thought you knew that.”

Shaking your head, you hate the helplessness you feel rolling in your chest, the despair of knowing how terribly everything is about to crumble apart.

“I never cared about you being good,” you confess gently, weakly, and his jaw clenches so tightly you can see the rigidness of it. “But how many will die in order for you to take that seat?”

Too many. All because of Chicago and what you both did. Or perhaps it would always end up the same. With both of you here, aching with things unsaid.

You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.

Santino hums, mock thoughtful. But his expression is still vacant. “Do you want me to confess the depth of my indifference then? Is that it?” he murmurs calmly and frees his hand, placing his fingers against your cheek, his touch as tender as always. He leans closer until you can almost feel the heat of his breath when he speaks. “Very well, cara mia. I would let everyone at Camorra, this city, and even my own sister die if it means keeping you safe.”

Your eyes burn as you stare at each other.

“Men like my brother are not capable of love. But if they find it, you will never be loved like that again.”

“Is that what you think I want, Santino?” you wonder faintly, leaning your cheek into his palm for a fleeting moment. “For you to tell me you would let people die for me?”

His grin grows more crooked and his eyes devour you like he’s imprinting the sight of you to memory.

“No, amore. I want you to understand that I don’t need them but I do need you.”

If this happens—if John does this, it will unleash a storm you will never be able to force back into the genie bottle. It will destroy everything you have ever cared about or change it irrecoverably.

“Take it back,” you plead, your voice thick. “The Marker. Take it back.”

The light in those familiar, green eyes gutters out. “Take it back?” he echoes distantly, and his hand drops away from your face. “If it were for you, (Name), I would not even hesitate.”

His hand lowers, his fingers tracing over the chain around your neck. Your expression contorts, your eyes fluttering shut briefly. “But I know you’re only doing this in an attempt to spare him. So no. For the first time, I’m afraid I must refuse you.”

The weight of his words settles inside your heart, squeezing it painfully. You feel hollow and empty all at once.

“Then we’re done here.”

You turn away from him, staggering away. But his hand latches onto your wrist, pulling you back.

His stare is frantic, desolate.

“Amore—”

You yank your hand out of his hold violently, breathing heavily as you meet his stare, “Don’t call me that! I’m not your ‘love’,” you choke out, your voice cracking as you add a trembling, “I’m not your anything.”

He reels back as if struck, his lips parting and his eyes—

I will never abandon you.

Spinning around, you stride away and don’t look back once.

There is nothing left to say.

. . .

an: ah, things we do for love, eh? :)

jkhfsdjkhf i aM SO READY TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS AND THEORIES ABOUT WHAT’S GONNA HAPPEN NEXT *AHEM* we also got both Santi and John POVs this chapter and hoo boi they were rushed and bad but any feedback (and whether you would like to see more of them) are welcome!!! also, if this chapter reads a bit at a rapid-fire pace, that’s intentional. domino effect, and we’re in the thick of it now heh. also,,,, hector? he’s going to be pretty important so keep him in mind. reddit crew sorry for the delay but here he is as promised lol. as always, I can’t thank you all enough for supporting this dumb series. it, and you guys, bring me so much happiness it’s crazy <33

see you next time!!

#john wick #john wick x reader #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick fic #santino d'antonio #john wick imagine #riccardo scamarcio #keanu reeves #fic: children of ares

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hatsukeii · 4 years

Text

I just squealed in my living room because I got a songfic idea and I AHHHHHHHH my mom thinks I have a problem lmao sorry madre

I’m gonna make it up to you with some pure fluff.

No angst, no mental issues, no tragic event, just fluff.

And it’s also not a request because I’ll do those later lol procrastination

And for once I’m giving you a non depressed Tsukishima so cherish the moment while it lasts because depressed Tsukishima is gonna be back

Frozen// Tsukishima Kei x Reader

Word count: 2000+

Warnings: Mild to no swearing

Summary: It’s fluff hours

Your entire body feels hot, as if everything inside of you is burning up. Your nose is tinted red as a blush spreads through your cheeks, a snowflake floating down and landing on the tip of it. Thank god it’s pitch black at night, or you would just dig a hole and crawl into it out of embarrassment. The coat that is draped around you only adds to the effect, warming your body up like a radiation heater. It’s a pretty big coat, considering the fact that it belongs to someone who’s a whole foot taller than you. You hug yourself under the thick fabric, taking in the scent as you snuggled into it. It’s snowing like crazy in the empty streets of Miyagi, and the only thing keeping you somewhat warm is this huge ass trench coat that Tsukishima was nice enough to borrow to you. “Dude, are we there yet? It’s cold as hell out here. I came to sketch flowers, not let you haul my frozen body back home as a statue.” You scoff, letting out a dry chuckle. “No one asked you to give me your coat. And just hold on, we’re almost there. Just take your coat back, I don’t want you getting sick.” The blond rolls his eyes, his face breaking into that iconic shit eating smirk. “You look like you’re getting pretty comfy with it.” “Shut up! I’m trying to be nice over here!” Tsukshima’s fingers fiddle with each other in his pant pockets. Just a few minutes ago, when he saw you start shivering, he didn’t hesitate to take his thick coat off and throw it at you. He would rather die than admit it, but he felt like a million butterflies hatched from his stomach, and made their way all the way up to his chest as well. Under the dim moonlight, if you pay enough attention, you should be able to notice the beet red in the tips of his ears. Although it’s negative two degrees out, he only feels slightly colder than usual. He’s wearing about three layers, not including the coat he gave you. A tight fitting long sleeved shirt, a slightly thicker shirt, and a wool sweater is enough to keep him warm. In addition to that, he’s also extremely flustered, his entire body tingling with warmth. He’s trying his best to flirt with you, teasing you and poking fun at your tiny figure who is now making sweater paws with his coat. His heart is thumping so wildly that he’s somewhat nervous about you being able to hear it. In his bag, a camera, a notebook, his phone, and his pencil case make occasional shuffling noises. Maybe that’s why you can’t hear the drums hammering in his chest, threatening to reveal themselves.

“Right ahead, they start blooming right under that bridge.” You point to a wooden bridge, a field of moon flowers starting to bloom in the pitch black night. The moon reflects off their surfaces, letting them illuminate the area around them a beautiful hue of maya blue. Tsukishima’s eyes sparkle in the moonlight as he stares at the flowers in awe. “Wow, they’re really pretty.” You chuckle, glancing back at him cheekily. “I told you, they look awesome don’t they?” The blond ignores you, completely mesmerised by the blooming moon flowers as he wanders onto the bridge, you trailing closely behind him. He grabs his bag, and sits down, back pressing against the railing. You take a seat next to him, hugging yourself in his coat. He reaches into the relatively large laptop bag, pulling out a camera case. You watch him fiddle with the settings, more so observing his face more than anything else. You watch as his eyes squint slightly as he tries toggling a knob, before bringing the camera up to his face and testing it out, before pouting slightly, continuing his toggling. Finally, he stands up, walking to the edge of the bridge as he snaps a photo of the moon flowers. He walks back to where you are, plopping down next to you as he pulls the picture up, blowing some snowflakes off of the camera. His lips curl up into a rare smile as he stares at the photo. “Nice.” You try your best to stay calm, but deep down inside, you’re about to squeal like a crazy fangirl. You didn’t think he could get any more handsome, but Tsukishima Kei looks like a whole ass god in front of you right now, the cold hues of the night complimenting his looks perfectly as tiny snowflakes make their way onto his lashes. The peaceful smile on his face is soon replaced by a sly smirk. “Enjoying the view or something?” If you knew better, you should’ve been able to tell how much he enjoyed the fact that you were staring at him. He doesn’t care if it’s just some random person that admires him, but when it comes to you, everything matters. You snap out of your tiny trance, going beet red. “I just dozed off with my eyes open, don’t get cocky idiot.” The boy chuckles, pulling his pencil case and notebook out of the bag. He takes a look at the photo, before starting to sketch. You sit there, not knowing what to do. Here you are, alone with the person you’ve liked for a solid two years, sitting in peaceful silence as he sketches moon flowers. This is everything you could possibly ask for, except you’re terrified to say anything. You hold your words back, not wanting to jeopardise the close friendship you managed to form with the cold middle blocker. You rack your brains, desperately trying to think of a way to interact with him.

“Hey Tsukki?”

The blond glances at you, pencil still in hand.

“Yeah?”

“It’s sad boy hours, wanna rant?”

He leads his eyes back to the semi-completed sketch, continuing to swipe tiny strokes on the paper.

“You want me to start?”

You nod, hugging yourself tighter.

Tsukishima sighs, glancing at you once more, before looking down. He contemplates his options. Should he rant about a real issue that had been bothering him forever, or a random thing that happened during school? He weighed the options, comparing the stakes.

“Sad boy hours are the best. I get to rant to you as much as I can. I’m gonna get it out there and just tell you this. There’s this girl that I like a lot.”

Your heart drops, but you play it off and wiggle your eyebrows at him.

“Ooooh Tsukishima salt lord Kei has a cruuuuuush~”

The blond rolls his eyes, feeling his cheeks go warm.

“Shut up and let me talk shortie. There’s this girl I really like, but I can’t tell her anything because if I do she might stop being friends with me. I can’t afford to let that happen, so I stay silent, but it hurts knowing that someone else can swoop in and take her any day. I- damn, she’s just amazing. It’s hard not knowing what she thinks about me. She might hate me, or she might like me back. I wouldn’t know until I ask, but I’m too scared to do that. It’s been bothering me since last year and quite frankly it won’t get out of my head.” He goes silent, waiting for your response.

“Dude, same. I feel you. I’ve liked someone for years, and yet I still haven’t confessed to him. Honestly it bothers me too, but I don’t know what to do myself. I can give you advice, but I won’t act on it because I don’t know how to. The risk is too high and I can’t lose another close friend.” You stop, playing with the hem of the thick coat as wind blows around you two.

“What do you think I should do then?”

You huff out, a puff of steam coming out from your mouth.

“You should totally just tell her. She would understand if she was a real friend. If your feelings end up unrequited and she stops being friends with you because of that then it’s just immature. To be honest she probably likes you too, I mean who wouldn’t? You’re literally top tier boyfriend material, there’s no way she hasn’t fallen for you yet.” Pointing at him, you wave your index finger in circles around him, hyping him up. Although you’re slightly disheartened by the fact that Tsukishima already likes somebody, you’re still determined to help him get to whoever this girl is. As long as he’s happy, your issues can wait.

The blond chuckles dryly, his mind racing.

“It’s not that easy you know. Are you sure this is gonna work?”

You slyly smile, nodding your head furiously. You’re all here for Tsukishima confessing to the girl of his dreams even if it hur-

“It’s you.”

Wait what?

Your mind goes blank for a second, trying to process the words that just came out of his mouth. His statement echoes through your head loud and clear. Your mouth slowly drops, hanging open as it curls up into a wide smile. You start to laugh until you grab your stomach and double over. Tsukishima stares at you in confusion. “What?” You wipe the tears in your eyes, continuing to laugh your ass off while you shake your head. “No way, there’s no way you like me. Never in a million years. Dude stop joking around and call your crush, I wanna see her reaction! Plus, I’m not good enough for you, you’re literally the definition of perfecti-”

You shut up as you feel a pair of lips on yours, and a hand pulling your chin in. You gasp in surprise, not knowing how to react. It’s like you’re suddenly hypersensitive to everything around you. The glow of the flowers seem more vibrant than when you first got here. The wind felt colder than it should have. The moon is blindingly bright, like a flashlight in a cave, illuminating everything. You can feel every single snowflake that lands on you, tingling your skin. Feeling the grip on your chin that loosened, you pull away slightly, eyes agape and face dusted red as you stare back at Tsukishima’s eyes. Those goddamn eyes that get you every time. His permanent frown is now a tiny, but slightly melancholy grin.

“Does that prove it?”

You don’t know what to say. Your composure is completely broken. The thumping of your heart is heavy and you can’t hear anything apart from that. Your face is completely red, warming you up better that his coat ever can. You try your best to make a clear sentence. “Kei I- I wa- Tha-” Giving up, you do the only thing you can think of to show him how you feel. Grabbing his sweater, you pull him into another kiss, this time squeezing your eyes shut as you appreciate the moment. You know that the moon flowers are still blooming, the snow is still falling, but you don’t care. All you want is for time to be frozen for this. You wish for this moment to last forever, although you know it’s impossible. Just you, and Tsukishima, pouring out your feelings for each other in a field of glowing flowers and silence in the darkness of the night. His hands find their way to your cheeks, cupping them tenderly as he smiles. This is the best he’s ever felt in a really, really long time. It’s as if a weight had been removed from his chest. He no longer has to hide his emotions. This is enough to show him everything. His notebook lays next to him, the pencil rolling off of it and onto the bridge. The half finished two page drawing is made visible by the moonlight, and it isn’t just a drawing of the flowers.

It’s you. He was drawing your expression when you saw the field of flowers, along with the blooming wonders in front of him.

The two of you stay in that position, lips connected, until you feel your lungs give out. Pulling away, you give out an audible gasp, giggling to yourself.

“Well that felt nice. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.”

The world might’ve still been spinning, and everyone might’ve still been sleeping soundly in bed, or they might’ve been doing whatever they were doing as the world moved on.

But just for a few moments, you swore that time was frozen for the two of you.

References:

Frozen by Sabrina Claudio

Lyrics from Frozen

A shit ton of weird flower searches on google

Tags:

@sunshines-and-tatertots @izzyphantomgamer @tiger1719 @trashcanweeb @just-another-bored-writer @justachillgirl @random-fandomlover @kaylacinderella @talks-a-lot-of-stuff @macaronnv @inlwlevi @mariechan123 @tiredgr3mlin @bokutokoutarou @for-ests @burnt-tomato @letshaikyuu @estherwritess @emsvegetables @artsamber @fullmetalfangirl21 @sakusasgarbage @agentvicinity

Dm or comment if you want to be tagged!

Wow for once Tsukishima is happy on this blog lmaooo

Have fun reading this thing that I spent like hours on

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenario #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu tsukishima #hq #hq x reader #hq scenario #hq hadcanons #hq imagine #hq tsukki #tsukishima kei #tsukishima scenario #tsukishima x reader #fluff #anime #please read this i spent hours on it thank you

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myherowritings · 5 years

Text

Fever Talk

— “Side effects may include: light-headedness, disorientation, and accidental confessions of love.” You help nurse a fever-ridden Ground Zero back to health, but little did you know it should have come with a warning.

pairing: pro hero!bakugou x manager!reader word count: 3.9k genre: pro hero au, sick fic, fluff

a/n: i wanna take care of sick bakubabe and tuck him in and make him chicken noodle soup and see his flushed face as wipe away his sweat wait what o.o

In the 294 days you had worked as Ground Zero’s manager, not once had he taken a day off.

Other than the government enforced national holidays (in which you still had to coerce him to stay home or spend time with friends instead of going to the agency to track new leads), not a weekday had gone by without you seeing him.

Until now.

You had received a call directly from Bakugou’s physician (because you knew if Ground Zero had his way, he would show up to work regardless of what his doctor said), and they told you he was to stay home for the next three days because of a 38.6 degree fever.

Your eyes bulged at the news. You haven’t had a fever that bad since you were in elementary school, and even then your parents made you stay home for almost the whole week.

“He shouldn’t overexert himself for the time being,” said his doctor over the phone. “I’m going to fax you the report and you have my full permission to use whatever means required to make Bakugou-san stay in bed.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, sir.”

“Of course it is, Y/L/N-san.” There was slight static coming from his line. “It is Ground Zero, after all. If you’d never arranged for a car to pick him up and bring him to my office, the only time I’d see him is if he were fatally bleeding out.”

With small huff of laughter, you shook your head. The sad part was you knew what the doctor said was true. Bakugou would work himself to death he could.

Thankfully, he had an amazing manager (you) to keep the stubborn ass (him) in check.

After ending the phone call with the physician, you settled down to get ahead on some paperwork while you could. But by the time one hour had gone by, you were already finished filing the pages and were left staring off into space as you wondered if Bakugou was doing alright.

You weren’t sure about him, but you definitely hated being left all alone while you were sick.

Making your own chicken noodle soup just wasn’t the same as having someone make it for you with a sprinkle of love.

You knew if you were the one with the 38.6 fever, you would want someone to come over and care for you. And you knew that although Bakugou would be utterly indignant if you showed up at his place to help him out, it would be better for him in the long run.

At least, that’s what you were trying to convince yourself as you clocked out of work and made your way to the nearest convenience store, grabbing the ingredients for chicken noodle soup along with cough drops, lip balm, aloe vera tissues, teas, moisturizer, cooling pads, honey...and then some.

Okay-- Perhaps you went a tad bit overboard with the care package, but it was only because you wanted Bakugou to feel better so he could get back to work as soon as possible.

There was definitely no other reason.

You were sure of it.

As you stepped out of the elevator and made your way to his high-rise suite, you fished the spare key he gave you out from your bag.

“Bakugou-san?” you called, knocking first for courtesy’s sake. When he didn’t reply you unlocked the door and opened it a small crack. “It’s Y/L/N! I’m coming in.”

You heard a low grunt coming from down the hall and took it as an invitation to head in.

When you walked inside, you noticed his living room and kitchen were, for the most part, exactly the same as it always did-- Well organized and thoroughly cleaned. The only thing out of place was the white paper bag on the counter with the medicine his physician prescribed.

Setting the groceries next to his refrigerator, you headed down the hallway with the care package in hand. “I heard you’re not feeling well.”

There was a quiet grumble of protest that made you snort.

“Can I come in?” you asked, stopping inches from his doorway. “I have some things for you.”

“Hmmph,” was his coherent reply.

The first thing you saw when you walked in was Bakugou in the center of his king-sized bed, comforter and blankets half strewn across him, half draped on the floor. His cheeks were flushed a pale pink and his bangs were clinging to the sides of his face. He had dark circles under his eyes and his shirtless torso was glistening with cold sweat.

You blinked, dragging your gaze away from his chest. “You look terrible.”

He coughed. “Wow, thanks.”

“Have you even taken your medicine yet?” you fretted, going over to the side of his bed and pressing the back of your hand against his forehead.

His only response was a groan.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

In a weak movement, Bakugou swatted your hand away from his head and frowned. “I don’t need the stupid medicine.”

You pursed your lips, checking his temperature once more only to have him shove your hand away. This game went on for a good five minutes before you cried out in frustration.

“Let me check your fucking temperature!”

His eyes shot open in shock before they narrowed in your direction. Through a fit of coughs, he yelled, “You’re not supposed to shout a sick person, baka!”

“There’s an exception if shouting is the only way words will get through the thick skull of theirs!”

With an exasperated sigh, you cupped his face between your hands and kneeled down until you were eye level with him as he laid down on his bed. You felt him squirm in your grasp but you were unrelenting.

“What the-- What are you doing?!”

In a split second, you gently placed your cool forehead against his warm one, comparing the two temperatures. It was something your parents used to do when you were a child to check if your fever had gone down. The effectiveness of the method? You weren’t quite sure if it was effective at all, really. But you ended up okay, so something about it must’ve worked.

As you felt the heat from his body reach a temperature almost too hot to touch, you frowned. Bakugou’s lips were parted slightly as he let out light huffs of breath.

“Y/L/N…”

You swallowed. His voice was raspy and his nose was flushed a cute pink color and you absolutely hated your brain for succumbing to the stupid Florence Nightingale effect.

You’re his manager, you scolded yourself. What were you thinking?

“Yes?” you said, a little breathless despite your better judgment.

“I have to…” He blinked slowly, a weird expression on his face and he softly but firmly pushed you a good distance away. “I have to fucking sneeze--!”

Turning his head to the side as fast as he could and covering his mouth, Bakugou let out the loudest goddamn sneeze you had ever heard in your life. You could’ve sworn his million dollar windows rattled at the force of his monster sneeze.

You looked at him, slightly alarmed. “Uh… Bless you?”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, wiping his nose with a tissue before tossing it into a trashbag.

Watching him with a curious--and also slightly grossed out--expression, you drummed your fingers against your upper thighs until you figured out what to say.

“Well,” you concluded finally, “you felt really hot.”

Katsuki gave you a blank look. “I could’ve told you that myself.”

You glared. “But I confirmed it.”

“Actually, the doctor confirmed it.”

“Do you want me to make you chicken noodle soup or not?!”

He instantly shut himself up as he straightened his position on his bed.

Tilting his head to the side, Bakugou mused, “You can cook?”

You considered his question. You weren’t as great of a chef as he was, but you could hold your own in the kitchen. “Well, I can cook chicken noodle soup.”

“Soup does sound nice…” he said dazedly, wiping the cold sweat off his hairline before shutting his eyes as a sudden tingle of pain hit him.

Your expression softened to one of concern as you rushed out to get his medicine and a glass of water. You returned to his bedside and poured the proper dosage of medication in a small measuring cup.

“Here. Take this and drink some water, Bakugou-san,” you said, extending your hands out to him.

He accepted the cup with a grateful nod. “Bakugou.”

You blinked. “Pardon?”

“Just Bakugou.” He drank the medicine in a gulp and washed the taste down with some warm water before meeting your gaze. “We yell at each other all the time and you’re here in my bedroom alone-- I think we’ve been past the honorifics for a while now.”

Your cheeks heated up. Sure, the two of you were close-- Closer than most managers and their clients. But officially dropping the honorifics seemed like a whole other step in your relationship. And you hated that you were so happy about it.

“Right… Bakugou,” you said slowly, testing out the sound. You smiled, growing nervous as you looked away. “Well, Bakugou, I’m going to make you some soup now. You just drink some more water and lie down, okay?”

Katsuki grunted in what you thought was a noise of agreement.

You turned around to leave the room only to be stopped by his sudden voice.

“Y/L/N?” he called, placing the glass of water on his nightstand. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you choked out, surprised by his show of sentiment.

And as you hurried out of the room towards the kitchen, you tried to ignore the pounding of your heart as a disoriented grin spread across your face.

Just Bakugou, huh?

- - - - -

“So, how does it taste?” you asked eagerly, staring at him as he took the spoonful of soup into his mouth.

“All my senses are dulled, but it seems good.” He swallowed the broth with a shrug of approval. “Do you really have to feed me though?”

You stopped blowing air onto the soup-filled spoon to face Bakugou with a wide-eyed look. When you had returned from the kitchen with a bowl of hot chicken noodle soup in hand, you found him sprawled out on his bed with an eerily peaceful half-smile on his face.

Meaning the medicine had just kicked in.

Naturally, you were quite concerned over his unnervingly lax state of being, but after reading the warnings and directions on the box, your worries quickly faded.

Side Effects May Include: drowsiness, nausea, fatigue, confusion, disorientation…

The list went on, but the only side effect you noticed was how disoriented and loopy he was. Katsuki was significantly less aggressive than his normal self and you could’ve sworn you even heard an uncharacteristic giggle or two come out of him.

As much as you admired the headstrong and determined Ground Zero, cute and frivolous Bakugou was something you would most likely never witness again in your life. So of course, you had to make the most of it while you could.

“Of course I have to spoon-feed you, Bakugou,” you said with a tsk. “What if you spill on yourself and get even more sick?”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” he mumbled, but still parted his lips as you brought the spoon closer to his mouth.

You sighed, amused. Even drugged up with a 38.6 degree fever, he was still a smartass.

“Just eat your noodles.”

His nose crinkled at the demand in such a way that made you want to tweak it, but you refrained, instead scooping up more soup and cooling it down with some air.

After the long (and rather difficult) process of making Bakugou finish his food and water, you quickly washed the dishes and cleared the kitchen, returning to his bedroom with a cooling pad in hand.

“Bakugou,” you said quietly, peering down at his resting form. “I brought you something.”

It didn’t look like he was in any pain, but his cheeks were still an angry pink color with damp hair framing his face. Kneeling by his bedside, you wiped a droplet of sweat from his brow with a hand towel and brushed his hair aside.

His eyes fluttered open at your touch and his half-lidded expression was filled with daze and vulnerability. Katsuki reached his hand out to poke your cheek and you froze.

“Wh-What are you doing?”

“Your face looks nice,” he mumbled in reply, his voice so drawn out you were certain it could only be the medication talking. “And your hair, too.”

He grabbed a strand of your hair and ran his finger through before getting caught in a tangle. Bakugou’s mouth quirked downwards into a pout and you wished you had a camera at the ready to capture that moment (and definitely not use it as a potential source of blackmail).

Although you knew his words came from a fever-induced haze, you still felt your face heat up at all the attention he was giving you. “Thanks. Y-Your face looks nice, too.”

“Hmm.”

With a satisfied nod, he dropped his hand and shut his eyes again, breaths growing steady.

You let out an amused breath of laughter as you continued wiping the sweat off his face. When Katsuki seemed significantly less sweaty, you pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. His temperature didn’t seem as hot as before, but he would definitely not be well enough to go back to work tomorrow.

“How are you feeling, Bakugou?”

“Hot.”

He tossed his sheets off him, revealing his perfectly toned chest and abdomen for the second time today. If you had known you were going to be attacked like this, you would’ve come better prepared with a cold water bottle and hand-held fan. Preferably with a mist attachment.

You cleared your throat. “I brought a cooling pad. Would that be helpful?”

“Hmm,” he moaned in confirmation.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

While a cooling pad wouldn’t reduce Bakugou’s fever, it would help make the heat slightly more bearable. And as you felt his body heat, you couldn’t help but wonder if his quirk helped him stay more tolerant of the high temperatures, or only caused him to feel hotter-- But that was a question for another day when he was no longer ill.

Pushing his hair back to reveal his forehead, you placed the gel cooling pad you bought from the store on his face, gently smoothing it down with the pad of your thumb.

Satisfied at your work, you smiled down at Katsuki, ready to stand up and take your leave. But as you stood, his sudden voice stopped you.

“Thank you...angel.”

Almost choked in surprise when you heard that word come out of his mouth. Was he referring to you? Well, of fucking course he was, you snapped at yourself. Unless he was talking to himself, you dumbass.

You open your mouth and clamped it shut a few times, completely speechless as he laid on his bed with what you could’ve sworn was an amused smile on his face. Thankfully, you didn’t have to think of what to say because he seemed to knock out as quickly as he said those words.

His breathing shallowed and you let out a sigh of relief knowing you were safe from further embarrassment for today.

“Why can’t I just tell you I like you?” you murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear as he drifted off into a deep sleep. “You’re a stubborn client and you make my head hurt, but I can’t get your stupid face out of my head.”

You glared down at him but, as expected from a sleeping person, the only response was a soft snore.

You sighed, pushing yourself off his bedside and wiping your palms against your upper thighs as you exited his room. “Get well soon, Bakugou.”

Maybe one day you’d have the courage to tell him your feelings when he wasn’t sound asleep.

- - - - -

Three days had passed since you helped nurse Katsuki during the peak of his fever, and now he was back and better than ever.

Actually, that was a blatant lie he told you on the phone as he called in saying he was showing up to work. Most employees called hours earlier to say they were calling out. But not the famed Ground Zero-- Nope. He was certainly something special.

When he showed up, he was still coughing and sniffling here and there, but attitude-wise, it seemed like he was in tip-top shape with his usual obstinance and unyielding passion you had grown to admire.

“Glad you’re feeling better, Bakugou-san,” you greeted when you entered his office, a friendly but obviously work-appropriate smile on your face.

He raised a brow when he noticed, adjusting the cuffs on his work shirt as he glanced at you.

“What happened to just Bakugou, Y/L/N?” he asked nonchalantly in what was almost a playful tone.

You blinked rapidly. Did you get sick and now this was just some weirdly vivid fever dream?

“Ah-- You had a fever when you said to drop the honorifics and so-- I figured it was just the illness talking.”

“Well it wasn’t,” Katsuki said simply. “Why would I say something I don’t mean?”

Quirking your head to the side, you stared at him curiously. “So when you said I had a nice face and pretty hair and called me and angel…” you trailed off teasingly. “You meant it?”

A subtle blush formed on his face as he rolled his eyes, scoffing to disguise his embarrassment. You tried not to smirk.

“Tch. I change my mind,” he grumbled, staring down at his unopened paperwork. “You’re right-- That was just fever talk.”

“Of course,” you agreed with an innocent smile that told Katsuki you didn’t believe him one bit.

Bakugou scowled. “What’s that smile for, baka? It’s not like you didn’t say embarrassing things yesterday either.”

“Oh, like what?”

“When you thought I was sleeping and told me you liked me.”

Your smile dropped and your face felt hot enough to burst into flames so big, it would’ve given Ground Zero himself a run for his money. When your gaze met his, you caught sight of the small smirk on his face and wondered how Bakugou was so quickly able to regain the upper hand.

You told him you liked him when you were certain he was sleeping-- Not when you thought he was. He was snoring when you said it, for crying out loud! So either he was bluffing about hearing your confession, or he was only pretending to sleep the other day to hear what you had to say.

Narrowing your eyes, you huffed. You certainly wouldn’t put the latter option past him.

“You heard that?”

“Memorized every word.”

“Well,” you said haughtily, a sorry attempt to save face, “if what you said was just fever talk, then what I said was just Florence Nightingale talk.”

He grunted. “That’s stupid.”

“So are you!” you cried, growing increasingly flustered by the minute.

“That’s not something you should say to your number one client.”

“And that’s not a tone you should use with your godsend of a manager!”

You felt the tension rising, but instead of him snapping back with a snarky comment that would send you to the grave, Bakugou let out a throaty chuckle that left you staring uncertainly at him.

“You’re right.”

You blinked. “I’m what?”

“You’re right.” He snorted at the confused expression on your face, but sobered as he said, “Thank you. For taking care of me the other day. I know it’s not part of your job description and you didn’t have to do that-- But you did. So, thanks.”

Biting the inside of your lip you held back a shy smile.

“O-Oh. You’re welcome,” you said, a faint flush on your cheek as you tried to let go of the topic. “Anything for my favorite Pro Hero.”

But apparently, Bakugou wasn’t ready to let go of said topic.

“Your favorite Pro Hero…whom you like?” he pressed, a mischievous glint never leaving his eyes.

A sinking feeling set in your stomach when you realized there was no use denying it any longer-- Bakugou would forever and always hold this against you and there was nothing you would do about it.

“Maybe,” you forced out, puffing your chest up despite the shakiness of your voice.

There was a beat of silence and you held your breath. The moment felt like it lasted for eternity and you were ready to plug your ears and run to the other room instead of waiting for his response. But you swallowed your pride and held your head up high… Only to hear a reply you were not at all expecting.

“Good. Because I hear he might like you, too.”

Your eyes widened. “What? He-- I mean you… What?”

“I like you.” Katsuki shrugged.

You blinked. “I also like you.”

His red eyes gleamed as he grinned. “I know.”

Bakugou took slow, purposeful steps around his desk until he stood mere inches in front of you. You gulped, eyes darting from the ceilings to the walls as you avoided his intense gaze.

“I like you and you like me. And we’re not dumb high schoolers in U.A. anymore, Y/L/N,” he said, an amused tone despite the serious look on his face. “So what are we going to do about it?”

“You tell me.”

His eyebrow quirked at the challenge and you mentally high-fived yourself for your uncharacteristically nonchalant reply. “I think I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do for a while now.”

Katsuki’s pupils were dilated and he looked at you in such a way that made exactly what he wanted to do quite clear.

You briefly looked around his office-- No one else was in the room, the door was shut and locked, and there was a handsome Pro Hero in front of you looking like he was seconds away from devouring his next meal.

“Then do it,” you said.

In the blink of an eye, Bakugou placed one hand on the small of your back to push your body closer to his while the other gently cupped your cheek, tilting your chin up as you met the teasing brush of his lower lip. A quiet gasp escaped your mouth at the sudden spark and you found yourself throwing your arms around the nape of his neck to steady yourself, fingers softly gripping the base of his hair as he deepened the kiss.

Katsuki kissed you until your head felt like it was spinning, then kissed you again once you had the chance to catch your breath. It was deep and passionate and all your senses were filled with traces of him.

“Well, we definitely did something,” you managed to say in between pants as his mouth found the sensitive spot behind your ear.

“Took us long enough,” Bakugou mumbled, lifting you up by the thighs as seating you on top of his desk. “Now, if we’re done talking, I think we have more things we need to catch up on.”

It was safe to say making out with Ground Zero in his penthouse office would forever be one of the best moments in your life.

a/n: whoop, the end! okay i know they don’t exactly act like manager and client but pfft i’ve been playing bts world and my managerial skills are great so i’m def qualified to write this ;p anyway hope you enjoyed this mess of a fic! i struggled so hard writing this request and i’m not that proud tbh but i hope it made you smile at least! :) xx sof

#bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bnha x reader #bnha fanfiction #bnha imagines #mha #bnha #mha x reader #mha imagines #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha bakugo #bnha bakugou #reader insert #pro hero bakugou #fever talk #katsuki x reader

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ears-awake-eyes-opened · 4 years

Text

The Gift

(I’m giving some January weather ❄️ to the characters in my July ☀️. This prompt is incredibly sweet, and I realize it didn’t include a request for *coconuts*. That said, sexual content slipped into this fic regardless because ...Hayffie 🔥. Anyway, I hope the ending feels sweet enough to offset other intensities.)

***

After years of hiking up her skirts and unzipping bodices, loosening corsets and slipping them down just enough, unbuckling garters and sliding thongs to the side, they were playing now with nakedness.

Total nakedness.

It had happened a few times, and Effie was still adjusting to the sensations. The vulnerability of her skin fully against his was one thing. Her heart open to him was another.

Their first time face-to-face, unencumbered by clothing was intense. They started kissing and didn’t stop until they came, moaning into each other’s mouths. It was almost too much. The eroticism, the intimacy, the deliciousness all broke down her boundaries. Effie was definitely on board with nakedness DURING sex.

The textures AFTER still felt awkward to her. His body became a furnace, drenching her in sweat, especially when he’d been on top. And she loved having him on top. With her legs wrapped around him, she could take subtle control of the pace, the depth, their closeness.

Complete nakedness was freeing; it was also messy and overwhelming. Having sex with Haymitch had always been contending with chaos, but now...

Now.

“I need to breathe,” she gasped as the pulsing slowed inside her.

He thrust once more, milking the last drops of pleasure, then rolling off of her.

“Fuck. That was...”

“I know. ...God.”

Catching his breath, he slid his hand along her sternum, down to her waist where he curled his fingers around her side.

“Honey, don’t touch me right now. Your hands are sopping fire.”

He let go, still panting. “You’re hot too, sweetheart.”

An anxiety she didn’t understand crept over her. “EVERYTHING is wet. I need to take a shower. We need to change the sheets.”

He chuckled, “I’d say loosen your corset, but I already took it off.”

“Haymitch, don’t tease. You know this is new for me.”

He did know. “It’s kind of like taking your virginity.” He grinned. “Can’t help wanting you wet, and can’t help wanting to touch you when you’re like this.”

Effie scoffed at the notion of herself as a virgin. “That ship sailed over 20 years ago.” Lying apart, she’d cooled enough to reach for his hand and interlace their fingers. “But the sentiment is charming.”

He pulled her knuckles to his lips. “I’ve been a lot of things, but *charming* isn’t one.”

Effie shivered as the moisture evaporated from her skin. She went from hot to cold in body and emotions faster than he could flip a coin. He’d stopped trying to figure her out long ago.

“I’m going to go take a shower. Will you turn up the heater?”

“About that...” Haymitch hesitated, knowing she’d be pissed. “The heater wouldn’t turn on this morning.”

Effie sat straight up, dropped his hand and glared. He tried to stay focused on her eyes rather than the beads of sweat dripping between her breasts. His attention was divided.

“It’s January! There’s snow on the ground, and your heater is broken?! Couldn’t you have mentioned that detail BEFORE I got on the train? You could have come to my apartment instead, then we’d be warm right now!”

“We warmed up real good on our own, honey. ...Besides, the train was already halfway here by the time I woke up today.”

“So he says — an hour before we die from hypothermia!”

Haymitch reached for her waist again. His hand was still warm, and this time she welcomed the touch.

“Let’s take a shower and talk about all the things we can do tonight to prevent hypothermia.”

“You think this is amusing!”

“We have a fireplace, wood in the shed, a forest next door, and a town full of coal. This is 12. We can manage a weekend without a furnace.” He spoke gently, tracing circles on her hip.

Her anxiousness lessened, but she was still vexed at him for not waking up before noon and for not knowing how to repair a furnace. Though in all these years, annoyance had never stopped her from wanting more of him.

“The water better be warm.” She reached for his hand and pulled him up with her.

***

Effie’s teeth chattered later as she rummaged through her bag with towels wrapped around her body and her hair.

“I brought nothing warm to wear!”

Haymitch lazed on the edge of the bed, avoiding the spots where the sheets were still damp. “What about the 5 layers of clothes I took off when you walked through the door?”

“That’s outside attire.” Effie was miffed by his unyielding ignorance regarding even the most basic matters of fashion. A pair of leggings was the best she could find. “I wasn’t exactly planning on wearing much inside.”

“Sorry the furnace fucked up such a fine plan.” He was enjoying the view of her wearing nothing but towels, but he didn’t want her shaking, at least not from cold. “Let’s get you warm. Look through my drawers and wear anything you want. I’ll go make coffee and build a fire.”

Effie looked wary. She was all too familiar with the limits of his wardrobe. Though she did slip on his shirts when he left them at her place. They smelled like him and felt like him and, though she wouldn’t admit it, they helped ease the loneliness she always experienced after he’d gone.

He caressed her ass through the towel. “...Or you can just wear this all evening. You choose.”

She turned her head and kissed him as he passed her on his way out. She just got here, and she hated the loneliness she was already anticipating at the thought of leaving tomorrow. She refused to waste this time together fuming about a broken heater.

She closed each drawer quickly after opening it. “All your clothes are grey!” she hollered downstairs, “Grey is not even a color!”

He muttered under his breath, “Grey is too a goddamn color.” Then he hollered back up to her. “Feel free to stay in the towel!”

She opened the drawers again and dug deeper, determined to find something she hadn’t seen at first glance. A white sleeve poked out from between layers of grey. Effie pulled out the shirt and recognized it immediately, though she hadn’t seen it in years. He’d worn it the night before the third Quarter Quell — the first time he kissed her, as she was falling apart.

She slipped it on now over bare breasts and snuggled up in the memory and the scent of him. The shirt was soft and thin. She needed another layer, a sweater maybe. She kept digging.

In the back of the bottom drawer she felt something velvet and silky. A blazer perhaps? Reaping Day attire? Why would Haymitch of all people hold on to something like that? As she pulled it out, she realized it wasn’t a jacket but a shawl — a red velvet shawl, embroidered with swirls of golden thread and trimmed with silk. The fabric was old, smooth and beautiful. It smelled like cedar laid over memories.

Effie felt a degree of reverence as she slipped the shawl over her shoulders, hoping it wouldn’t fall apart. The construction proved to be sturdy, clearly hand-sewn by a talented seamster.

What meaning did this have for Haymitch to keep in a dresser in his bedroom? “Look through my drawers and wear anything you want,” he’d said. Could he possibly have meant this glorious piece of art? Effie intended to find out.

A pair of his thick woolen socks completed the ensemble with her leggings, his shirt, and the shawl. Effie blow dried her hair, and applied light layers of mascara and lipstick. Then she followed the fragrance of coffee downstairs.

The house was already warming up from the fire burning in the hearth. Haymitch was mixing their coffee with shots of bourbon and spoonfuls of honey and cream. With his back to her he asked, “Did you find some color?”

“That depends... Is this okay?”

***

He turned around and saw her.

He flashed back to winter mornings in the Seam when coal burned in the stove of his childhood. As the house grew warm, his mother would take off her shawl and drape it across the back of the rocking chair. His little brother would toddle out in footed pajamas, climb up in the chair and wrap up in the shawl.

“Careful, dear, that’s precious to Mama,” she’d say, “But not as precious as my boys.” She’d kiss Haymitch on his forehead as he brought eggs in from the goose house. “Wipe that snow off your boots before stepping off the mat. This house may not be much, but we don’t need to be entirely uncivilized. Then she’d sit with his brother in her lap and rock him a few times until the griddle was hot enough to fry the eggs.

When these kinds of memories showed up, they usually kicked him in the teeth, but Effie looking all beautiful softened the blow. A swallow of bourbon helped too.

“I wasn’t sure...” Seeing the pain now in his expression, she felt she’d made a mistake. “I can go change...”

He crossed the kitchen in three steps, kissed her forehead, then buried his face in her hair. He held her tight, and she returned the pressure of his embrace, feeling how much he needed this connection. She held him in silence, asking no questions.

“This is precious,” he said, not letting go of her.

“The shawl?”

He pulled back just enough to see her face, and nodded. “...But not as precious as my girl.”

My girl?... My girl... The words echoed in her chest. She felt them pushing and drawing out something new. “...Me?”

“Nobody else, sweetheart.”

For once in her life, Effie was speechless.

“No expectations,” Haymitch clarified, “I just don’t wanna feel this shit and pretend like I don’t.”

She’d loved him from her earliest memories, all the while pretending with other words and fucking other men who didn’t matter.

“I don’t want to pretend either.” She tasted the whiskey on his tongue. There was nothing simple about this. “I don’t want to be naked with anyone else. I don’t want anybody else inside me.”

He wanted to be inside her again, right now, on the sofa in front of the fire, but there was more to consider. “Are you warm enough? Did you eat on the train or are you hungry? Peeta brought over some fancy things.”

“Come here,” she said, easing away from him and moving toward the counter. She added a few items to the platter of Peeta’s croissants: butter, a knife, and the jar of honey. “Bring the drinks and follow me.”

Haymitch put the bottle of bourbon in the crook of his elbow and held the mugs of coffee in his hands.

She led them to the sofa. Mind reader, he thought.

She pulled an end table between them and the fireplace and laid down the platter. Before he could set the drinks beside it, she chastised him. “Coasters!”

“Coasters?” Fuck. She always did know how to delay a mood. “Not sure where they are.”

Effie went back to the kitchen and searched the cabinets for saucers. Those would substitute in a pinch. “We might be without central heating, but we don’t need to be entirely uncivilized.”

The coffee was still too hot to drink, so she curled up next to him on the sofa. He traced the golden swirls down her arm, caressing her through the velvet. “This shawl was my mother’s.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I wondered.”

“She sewed all of our clothes.”

“She was an incredible seamstress. This stitching is remarkable.”

“Nobody’s worn that in 30 years. ...I wrapped up in it once, after they were killed. But the memories were too painful, so I put it away. Never took it out again.”

“Haymitch...” She covered his hand with hers. “If I’d known, I never would have... Should I put it back?”

“No, honey. Such a pretty thing shouldn’t be in a drawer. You’re giving it life again.”

“Life has these ways of sleeping, you know? Sometimes I think there’s nothing left, and then suddenly it’s filling me up again.”

I feel it when you’re here, he didn’t say.

I don’t want to leave tomorrow, she didn’t say either.

They weren’t pretending, and they weren’t being entirely open either. Nakedness takes time to reach its full expression.

***

The next day Effie folded the shawl and laid it at the foot of the bed. She dressed in her layers of *outside attire* and took the train back to her heated apartment and her sleeping life.

She unzipped her bag and found inside a brown paper sack, haphazardly crumpled shut. On the outside, Haymitch had written, “Stay warm.”

Effie opened the sack more carefully than it had been closed. She pulled out a piece of notepaper folded in half. On the front he’d written, “For my girl.” She flipped the paper open, and the note within read, “It’s yours. Thanks for making me feel alive. — H”

She knew what she’d find at the bottom of the sack. Red velvet swirling with gold. She could barely see it through her tears. It held fragrances now of coffee and whiskey, croissants with honey, and Haymitch’s hands on her. She slipped the shawl over her shoulders. It was almost too much.

It was perfect.

#yep #i’m crying #hayffie #hayffie fanfiction #effie x haymitch #haymitch x effie #haymitch abernathy #effie trinket #thg #thg fanfiction #the hunger games #hunger games #post-revolution #district 12 #effie in red #too much #HayffieFics

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adonis-koo · 4 years

Text

don’t call me angel

Note: a parting gift for the new year! I hope you all enjoy because snarky best friends Seokjin/MC is my new favorite trope 🥺

↳ Summary: Life as an assassin was never what it was supposed to be, filled with bloody knuckles and bruised skin, sleepless nights and empty tears spilled. Life was hell, but it looked like just a fracture of heaven when Seokjin was with you. Until he’s become distant, tense when you speak to others, different, but just enough for you to subtly notice.

↳ Genre: Assassin!AU, angst, fluff, smut, fwb(?)

↳ Word Count: 14k

↳ Pairing: Seokjin/Reader, Jimin/Reader

↳ Tags: MC and Seokjin act like an old married couple, so much banter, jealous!Seokjin, dirty talk, begging, MC cries during sex, breathplay, overstimulation, oral (female receiving), tongue fucking, vaginal fingering, sex toys, bondage, possession kink, spanking, did I mention begging? Begging kink? Penetrative sex, MC doesn’t like to sub but Seokjin turns her into a little bitch, angry sex, HEAVY degradation, edging, cumplay

Namjoon | Seokjin | Jungkook

The seat was cold, the good news was your ass had become numb at least an hour ago, regardless, the metal outdoor chair that had been seated in front of the cafe that was well past closing time was anything but comfortable. Your knuckles were nearly blue and you had kept your teeth from chattering. How the guards didn’t bother to ID check you at this hour was honestly god sent. One lonely girl, three in the morning, a silenced beretta strapped to your stomach that was concealed by the hoodie you wore.

You thought at least the weeb kitsune masks you had begged Seokjin to buy would’ve raised some suspicious if not their interest in harassing a young girl late at night. But alas, it was early morning, freezing and you could tell even with an AR-15 in hand they all would much rather be in bed asleep. Surely they would’ve seen your lip twitch in a scoff had it not been for the black medical mask: Sloppy.

No wonder this was like stealing candy from a baby when your target hired shitty club level security. Glancing back down at your phone your eyes flickered up once more to the figure across the narrow street, also seated on a bench, Seokjin never did like the cold either.

You couldn’t even finish typing before fumbling with your phone at the familiar sound of the silenced shot sound, pulling the pistol from its holster you had quickly rolled from your chair to kneel before firing two shots into the men who had hardly any time to witness their coworkers splattered like pancakes on a sunday morning onto the ground.

“Can you fucking wait five seconds!?” You snapped standing up as you pushed the safety back on your firearm, “You’re lucky we’re as well trained as we are.”

Seokjin who had been strolling across the road suddenly flung his arms up in the air, his face shielded by the- in his opinion- ridiculous kitsune mask and medical mask both. But you knew his expressions well enough by now to practically see the snarky, raised brow and incredulous look, “You were the one who wanted to take governors avenue! Seokjin it will be faster.”

Your lips curled in anger as you squinted at him from your skewed, darkened vision of your mask, this little shit was mocking you! “It was! Who the hell wants to fucking scale a cliff at three in the morning!? Not me!” You opened your mouth only to scowl as you twisted around to face the direction you had been slowly commuting.

Technically the more discreet route would’ve been cliffside but that was also under heavy regulation and Yoongi didn’t have enough clarence, or strings to pull to get you an entry card. Therefore scaling would’ve been your only option, but jesus fuck! Three in the morning, nearly negative ten degrees. It would the slowest pace, but safest.

But for fucks sake you killed people for a living who wanted to freeze their ass off cliffside when you had a direct path. It was the most risky and crawling with security but goddamn was it less cold between the buildings and a whole lot closer to your destination, so honestly? The choice was obvious to make, Seokjin just wanted to complain and gripe about not getting his way, to which you’d ignore or tell him to suck it up, like now.

“You know what? Whatever, the longer we stay here the more likely trucks will be on rotation, come on put the bodies in that alley way, snow will cover up the rest of the blood.” You were already dragging the meathead of the group into the narrow alley as Seokjin groaned, kicking at the fresh pile of snow before- most likely rolling his eyes and doing as told.

“Wouldn’t have to put a body in an alleyway if you did what we were supposed too.” Seokjin grumbled under his breath as he slumped the last body down next to it’s new grave for the next...hour at most? Your brain was constantly ticking in the future, that would be enough time...If everything went too plan.

“Oh shut up where’s the fun in that.” You slapped his back earning a grunt from him as you let out a breathy laugh, appearing out of the alley way as you made your way back up the street.

This villa was technically under curfew yet the guards on rotation really just didn’t seem to give a shit, most likely out of not getting paid enough and less loyalty to their boss then to their wives, it was the cars Yoongi said you’d have to watch out for. They were the higher rank and the ones that could track you down if things went from bad to worse.

The good news was that was the last hurdle of this night...well on the outside of the mansion, The lights were all on and you could hear the music blaring even from here, they’d surely be up all night in celebration, Wonho and his cronies at least. Everyone else...well they might get the hint the party was over when you took your leave.

Seokjin and you had parted ways as he made his way to the watch tower that overlooked your room, or well the vacant one you’d be scaling too. The mansion was a little more tricky, guards were suspicious at every rattle and noise they heard and the time slot for you to scale up five floors was going to be crunched.

“Any day now.” You sighed, leaning back against the brick wall, branches uncomfortably sticking and poking every end of your body as you did your best to not breath as any time you did the bushes would rattle, a thin layer of snow was nearly coating your whole body and you couldn’t feel your fingers anymore, “Seriously for fucks sake, what are you doing? Taking a piss off the tower? It’s fucking cold and the little paranoid freak won’t stop staring at my bush everytime I try to move.”

“Staring at your bush?” Seokjin’s voice crackled from your intercom as he tutted, sounding thoroughly unamused and you could almost see his snide lip curl, “You need to go back to languages class.” You only rolled your eyes as he continued, “I just set up camp and got rid of the bodies, you’re underneath your window right?”

You managed to get up against the building and set yourself down but two guards just wouldn’t leave the perimeter despite rotation, glancing up you could see the ledge of your room’s window even from the ground but there was no way you’d make it fifteen feet without a bullet in the ass, or potentially head, “Yeah but those two won’t leave, can you get them out of here?”

“No there’s two over on the east side that could see from the position they’re in, let me wire Yoongi and see if he can help. Just sit tight for now.” You let out a silent groan as you pressed back against the wall.

You couldn’t say you weren’t getting paid enough for this, because in most casing you definitely were but honestly? No amount of money was worth sitting in ass freezing snow waiting for god only knew how long just to get inside. You closed your eyes trying to imagine the inside of the mansion, Wonho was rich, he’d have heating, it would be warm, maybe you could even get a drink if you’re lucky.

You nearly jumped out of your seat at the sound of the two guards who had been on standby suddenly rushing over to the east as if something urgent had happened. Fuck you could only hope Kim hadn’t blown his cover, he was a careful guy, there was no way it was him. Hopefully, he should be in the building by now.

“Yoongi scrambled their gates lock system, you have five minutes before west guards make their way up.” You didn’t need to be told twice as you stood up, wasting no time to utilize the window seals for your climb. Had you not been awake for over seventeen hours this would’ve felt like a piece of cake.

Your arms were still strained however as you paused, groaning as you muttered, “Namjoon better have unlocked that fucking window.” Kim was supposed to prep your room before making his way down to scope out the main floor, he was never sloppy, but being tired, sleep deprived and the first phase of hunger setting in was really making you question your life choices. Or what little choice you were given at least.

“You know if you keep bitching they’re gonna see you.” Seokjin replied, suddenly snorting as he continued, “Actually, bet they will. I’ll finally be free from your constant whining and stubbornness.”

Clacking your tongue you pushed open the window before climbing through, sighing you collapsed on the ground, temporarily closing your eyes as you replied, “Maybe, but your life would be a hell of a lot less fun without me.”

“Well it will be if you don’t get your ass up, come on Y/n we don’t have all day. Some of us don’t get the luxury of going inside.” Seokjin complained as you rolled your eyes, standing up as you shut the window. Turning around you made your way for the closet, pushing the hood down and peeling off your facial wear.

“Boohoo, suck it up. This shouldn’t take longer than a half hour at most.” Stripping down you let your skin bask in the heated warmth of the indoors. Your blood was pulsing and throbbing at the drastic temperature change as you began to dig through the closet. You could only hope Wonho had already drank enough to not be entirely straight on his feet or else this was going to be a lot longer than you wanted.

This however, was a celebration after all, Wonho just successfully took down one of Rio’s biggest militias and long time overseas rival. Everyone would be drunk tonight, and if not they were well on their way.

“Wow you couldn’t even dress for the occasion,” Seokjin whistled low while tutting, as if in disappointment as you stood up straight, glaring over your shoulder at the window where he undoubtedly had the scope of his sniper aimed on your ass, only covered in a plain pair of black thermal underwear in hopes of keeping you warm. It did not.

“I’m here to lynch him Jin, not sleep with him.” You rolled your eyes as you pulled the dress from the closet, pulling it over your shoulders before tugging down the tight material that strapped against your body, your cleavage decently on display, hopefully enough to keep Wonho’s interest compared to all the other, more than likely attractive women to keep his attention. Kicking off your boots and peeling off your socks you could hear Seokjin scoff through the static, “Could’ve fooled me.”

You decided to ignore his comment as you slipped on the heels, you were already fairly tall as it was and if he couldn’t see you before he definitely would now given you were at the same height as a fully grown man, “Alright, I'm on my way to location, keep me updated if rotation for guards changes.”

“On it.”

Shoving your clothes into the bottom of the closet you firmly shut the door before making your way out of the room, the hallway was packed just as you assumed yet no one questioned you stepping out of the room, all to absorbed in their conversations, or the person they were lip locked with. Shuffling through the hallway you made your way to the elevator, the woman inside was almost completely wasted, knocking you to the back where the greasy older gentlemen stood with a slight drunken leer in his eyes while licking his lips at the sight of your breasts.

Grimacing you folded your arms as you ignored the packed, alcohol reeked scene, finally breathing relief at the ding of the door before exiting the elevator.

The main floor wasn’t much better, it had been completely trashed and bottles had littered the floor. Honestly it rivaled that of a much more expensive, and dangerous version of a frat house. Your eyes however weren’t trained on the floor anymore as you scoped the crowd, your eyes landing on the three piece clad blue suit and slicked, styled hair as you swooped in, strutting towards the figure before standing beside him with a hum, “Fancy seeing you here.”

“We were briefed on this in the same room Y/n.” Namjoon glanced at you as he rolled his eyes, ever the pragmatic, glancing at your figure before giving a small nod, “Good to see you didn’t bust your ass trying to get in.”

Your lips twisted into a scowl, you were never known for your scaling skills and maybe that was why you snubbed Seokjin’s idea of using cliffside to get in, regardless, you made it and that was what counted, crossing your arms you said, “And if I had, do you think you could get Wonho to swing the other way?”

To that he rolled his eyes once more. Namjoon and you...had a long history one that was naturally shared with Seokjin of course. He was the leader of your group...well...as much as he could be. Operations were rarely held as a full team but usually he’d always lead them when they were. You and Seokjin were the first two to be assembled onto the team, or the first to meet Namjoon at least. You had met him before when you were younger though, briefly.

Not only was Namjoon a good assault expert and spy but he was like the glue that kept everyone from killing each other. He had your respect and that was the highest honor someone could ever receive from you. He was an excellent leader.

“You are the most stale person I’ve ever met,” You muttered under your breath, his lack of banter however was always something that made you grumble, he was dry, pragmatic and could always be relied on to get the job done. But where was the jazz? Where was the spice? The drama? Talk about boring, “Is the target on sight?”

“Back corner of the room on the right. We have company.” Namjoon tutted, his tone of voice suddenly on edge making you stand up straighter, glancing around in search for what he meant. What you found however was the familiar sight of burgundy hair and a charismatic smile that could rival the sun.

Squinting your eyes slightly you felt confusion suddenly cloud your thoughts at the unexpected appearance of your interrogation expert, “What is Hoseok doing here?” You glanced at Namjoon curiously but his expression told you he was just as in the dark, and his brooding eyes let you know he was less than happy about it.

“Who knows,” His eyes flickered to the ground, his icy glare enough to freeze someone had he looked up, “Park loves keeping us in the dark.”

It was the truth, in all fairness. Park almost always used the whole team for an operation yet never told one another, just leaving you all in the dark as the puzzle pieces fell together. You supposed you didn’t have a reason to know why Hoseok was here, but a heads up would’ve been nice had things gone sideways.

This was how Park ran though, it’s what made his business, his elite group from potentially selling him out and turning on him. You can’t leak an operation if you don’t know who else is apart of it. He always had more than one motive for something like this. You knew he did, you just couldn’t figure out what.

You shrugged, glancing at Hoseok’s figure one last time before letting your eyes slowly flicker to Wonho, he was still cramped up in the corner with his friends and right hand man, all laughing and looking about as drunk as you had hoped. Good.

“Where’s your little protege at?” Your lips curled slightly as you quipped.

Namjoon couldn’t stop the snort from escaping his lips as he curved an eyebrow at you, flecks of amusement in his eyes, “Sitting at home probably beating the shit out of a punching bag. Made him sit this one out, it’s too important and I don’t think he has enough experience for something like infiltration yet.”

Humming you glanced back at your target, “Not a lot of faith there huh. He’s never gonna gain experience if you don’t let him.” It was ironic for you to be the one saying that given he hated your guts for an unbeknownst reason but you did feel for the kid. He had potential, he just needed to hone it, and maybe mature a little.

“Maybe when he doesn’t threaten to choke slam you anytime you’re in the same room.” Namjoon replied as you threw up your hands, you couldn’t help it. Well maybe you could, you were well known for instigating when someone was in a bad mood but still, you had to keep yourself on your toes somehow.

“Alright fair enough,” You surrendered with a sigh, “Let’s just get this over with, stand here any longer and Seokjin is gonna be up my ass about how he’s cold. You should head for rendezvous, I got things from here.”

Namjoon only nodded as he replied, “Copy. Good luck L/n.” With that Namjoon took a step back before disappearing into the crowd, leaving you alone as you subtly kept your eyes on your target as you began your trek over to his location. Lingering around the bar as you shifted your expression into a far more pleasant one. It took a few more minutes but you had caught Wonho’s eyes just as you had hoped, tossing him a shy smile as you glanced away.

It was almost too easy getting his attention, you had played this little game for only a few more minutes before you watched him abruptly dismiss his friends as he walked your way. You had to drop your gaze back to the floor the glass you held still completely full despite acting as if you were casually drinking.

“I don’t think we’ve ever met, the names Lee Wonho.” Wonho had smoothly introduced himself as he loosened his tie, his eyes not leaving your figure as you bashfully glanced up, resisting the urge to let your lips cave into a full blown smirk.

Rather you kept the seemingly innocent look on your eyes as you smiled sheepishly, “O-oh...I...I didn’t realize you were the owner of the estate, Choi Dahyun, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

It was like a fish and reel and Wonho was practically racing towards the dry land as he wolfishly grabbed your hand you had extended, pressing it to his lips as he smirked, “The pleasure is all mine.” You had to resist the urge to cringe as you smiled once more. Easing into conversation with possibly one of the biggest underworld leaders at the moment.

It took months to set this up, to get to this moment in time. Finally, you’d be able to rest once this was over. It was almost amusing to think about, Wonho was a man in his mid forties, a whole empire behind him that had been passed down to him by his grandfather, he dealt in mafia affairs, one of the biggest narcotic dealers on the blackmarket and his stock of stolen military weaponry was uncanny. And yet, he was about to meet his demise by a pretty face and a set of tits. The irony was something you’d revel in for days and something that would look shiny on your resume.

It was almost too easy getting Wonho up to your room, you had even kept your eyes peeled, feeling as if this was too easy. Did he know? You could feel the small sliver of paranoia in the back of your head. Did Wonho know who you were? Was this apart of his plan? You couldn’t help but wonder. At this point though, did you have a choice? It was now or never.

You nearly grimaced at the way Wonho’s lips practically sucked against yours, his teeth messily gnashing as you pulled him into the room. The door shutting behind him as he whirled you around pressing you into the wall.

What you didn’t expect as your airflow to suddenly be cut off with a gag, Wonho only pulled away enough to look at you, smug and sneering as he hummed, “Nice try but I know Park’s bitches when I see them.” You gave an ice cold smile as you winced at the squeeze of his hand on your neck, “Why did he send you huh? Were you looking for the storage of narcotics? The data we hacked from Jang? Or did you just wanna get your little panties wet with the best?”

You let out a squeezed scoff, “You think you’re some hot shit don’t you? Well let me tell you, trying to be mr badass and take me on by yourself was the worst thing your dick driven ego has done yet.”

“Uh Y/n we have a problem.” You could hear Seokjin on your intercom, “I’m seeing a big head count on the eastern end of the perimeter, I think the bodies from earlier might have been discovered, are you almost done with Wonho?”

You could hardly focus on his voice though when you were thrown across the room, wheezing as you were knocked against the dress, falling to the floor with a thud as your body ached in pain, “You underestimate me little girl. You think I’m the leader of the most powerful group on the planet? I’ve already crushed Yun’s little militia, next I’ll sweep Jang out from under his feet and when I’m done with him? I’ll fucking string Park on his ass for his little boy to watch. I could be god-”

You jolted at the bullet pierced through his head, blood splattering the ground and leaking from the now grotesque state of what was once left of the man-god Wonho, or so he proclaimed himself to be. Sitting still for a total of ten seconds before you finally spoke, “Thanks- but I really wanted that on my resume…”

“Can you be grateful for once in your life? Get dressed and fucking light the place up we need to go now. There’s a helio on sight and I think Wonho was storing a good portion of his army in the warehouse.”

Standing up you made quick work of your dress and heels before opening the closet and dressing in your outfit once more, your lips curled into a smile at the sight of the small bottle of gasoline Namjoon had left as a parting gift. Perfect.

Pulling the hoodie up you popped the lid off the bottle before splashing gasoline throughout the room, opening up the window you poured the rest down the wall, your nose wrinkling at the pheromone smell before quickly throwing the bottle over your shoulder and scaling the wall. You could hear yelling and gunshots in the distant causing your adrenaline to spike as you swore under your breath.

Pulling the lighter from your pocket you lit up the gasoline, the fiery path licking at its substance as it spread up the wall and into the room. Quickly you glanced each direction before hurrying back to the watch tower. What was the gunfire from? And furthermore you couldn’t hear the helio.

“I’m headed for rendezvous, you good?” You had quickly pushed yourself up against the wall. Holding your breath as the two guards hurried past towards the west side, what happened?

“Already halfway there, you better hurry up before I decide to leave you.” Seokjin tutted as you scoffed, was that a challenge? He knew you could never say no to that.

Getting to the plane was already difficult as it was, the place was crawling with guards and security and by the time your room had exploded the whole place was being evacuated. It was an absolute mess. But the large crowd of panicked civilians gave you a big out to escape through the crowd on the bright side.

You couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when you saw the plane, Seokjin leaned up against the set of stairs in place scrolling on his phone, “Did you hear about Hyuna trying to get into Jimin’s pants last night?”

Peeling both masks off as your hoodie knocked down you looked at him incredulously as you both stepped up into the plane, nodding at the guard who shut the door as you huffed, “We literally just finished killing one of Korea’s biggest crime lords and you’re fucking concerned about who Hyuna is sleeping with?”

“It’s a valid concern!” Seokjin replied indignantly, pushing his own hoodie off before throwing his masks onto the other couch, collapsing on the couch you both stood in front of as he groaned, “Should be for you too since Jimin is the one trying to get in your panties.”

You groaned at his words, sluggishly flopping down next to him. Seokjin had been incessant on bringing up the younger college boys crush on you the past three weeks and just as every other time you still didn’t understand what he was getting at. Your body involuntarily curling against his own as Seokjin pulled you close. His chin resting on your head as you dug your nose against his neck, “Shut up.”

Seokin only snorted, “You know I’m right.” You could only let out a yawn, ignoring his probing. The kind he did when something bugged him but he never wanted to outright say it. It had been like this since you had the unfortunate luck to garnering Jimin’s undying attention. You had never pried though as to why it bugged him. At least not until he got on your nerves.

Regardless, you were glad the day was finished. Wonho had finally been lynched and you would get the well deserved rest you had earned.

“Shoot her.”

Your heart was racing and it hurt to blink. When did things come to this? No… you always knew this would be the outcome. Everyday of your miserable existence was spent in preparation for this, all the blood that stained your hands, all the screams that would forever haunt your memories, you knew it would come to this. You just didn’t think you’d be on the losing side. If there was one thing you were never prepared for, it was him who’d pull the trigger on you.

“I said: shoot her.” He snarled, the gun aimed at your forehead had been shaking, god you remembered this so many times.

Glancing up weakly his expression was one you’d never forget, the way Seokjin’s eyes were blown out, his knuckle white from how harshly he gripped the gun, adrenaline in his own veins forcing it’s view into life as it shook. He looked horrified, as if living the horrors he’d dream of every night, “Shoot her Kim and you could go places. You’ve come so far, you’ve already killed so many...What’s one more?”

You swallowed thickly, fear shooting through your veins at the way Seokjin’s expression morphed, his fear suddenly dampening as if curious by his words, his eyes leaving yours as he turned his head ever so slightly, as if listening to his every word, “Seokjin jesus christ don’t listen to him. Please.”

“Do it. Pull the trigger Kim, just another faceless person to add to the body count.”

Fear twisted onto your face at the way he tightened his grip on the gun, slowly his lips curled into a smile, almost sneering down at you. Of course it would end like this. The way it was supposed to end, “Better luck next time L/n.”

The scream in your throat had ripped out as you shot up from the sprawled on position in bed, the wet substance of tears dripping down your cheeks despite the constant tremor in your body, your breath shaky as you ran a frantic hand in your hair. It was just a dream! It was just a dream! Seokjin would never do that to you. He never did.

You jumped at the sound of the door opening, a small whimpered sob escaping your lips at the sight of Seokin’s sleep ridden appearance, having heard the familiar cry through the walls as he sat down on the bed, wordless as you practically flew into his arms, a hiccup escaping your lips as you burrowed into the safety of his neck.

“Shhh, it was just a dream.” Seokjin hummed gently, lips pressing into your hair as you choked out a soft sob, “Was it the same one?” Wordlessly you nodded as you forced the ugly sob down your throat, tears silently treading down your cheeks as Seokjin laid you both down, his arms securely around you as he tucked you away against him.

Your tears slowly began to cease at the feeling of his hand stroking your back, occasionally tangling and playing with your hair as he continued to pepper your head with soft kisses soothingly, your heart rate had finally begun to slow down as Seokjin murmured, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” You spat out, your voice raspy, anger twisting in your veins despite your watery eyes, your hands had balled into fists against the white shirt he wore, “I hope he’s rotting in hell.” Seokjin only sighed, pulled away a little as he laid his head on the pillow you both shared.

His eyes had that soft gleam in them, the kind he’d only reserve for you in moments like this, when it was four in the morning and you’d have to be up soon for debrief, “You know I never intended on shooting you, right?”

Your eyes dropped to his chest as you felt his long fingers brush your near cold tears from your cheeks, “Yeah, but that doesn’t change the fact that he still tried to convince you too,” You were well aware of the bitter tone your voice held as you bit out, “Wish I could’ve been the one to kill him. I would’ve been a hell of a lot less merciful.” You snarled anger twisting in your eyes at the mental image, “He’d be begging for me to kill him.”

“Y/n…” Seokjin could feel a piece of his heart chip at the borderline insanity in your voice, the kind he and you both tiptoed on every day, you had been put through such a horrendous childhood, it amazed him Park hadn’t put you both in a mental ward yet, or at least in therapy, ”He’s dead.” Seokjin cupped your cheeks, his gaze penetrating your soul the way it always would in these late, dark hours, “You need to let it go. Holding on to this isn’t going to do anything for you.”

You felt your lips quiver, a small scoff escaping your mouth at your own patheticness, a new fresh stream of tears trickling down your cheeks as you murmured, “I wish I knew how.” You knew he was right, that you needed to let the resentment that had festered in your mind for your childhood, the horror you went through, you needed to let it all go. But how? Where could you begin? There was just so much. And it wasn’t like you could go to a regular therapist for this.

“Shhh.” Seokjin cooed softly, pulling you close to him as you let out another soft sob, curling against his warm body for safety.

The only person you would ever trust on this planet, you both had gotten on one another's nerves now more than anything. But Seokjin was all you had left in this world, you’d never let go of him, “Just try to fall back asleep, I’ll be here if you wake up.”

Your eyes were already falling heavy against your cheeks, the smell of strawberry body wash he insisted on using lulling you back to sleep, you’d be okay. You’d be okay as long as Seokjin was with you.

“So, rough night?” The boldness in your casual words, as if you hadn’t been sniffling and bawling your eyes out last night, was immense, if not annoying to everyone in the room, all dead eyes with a lack of sleep. You raised your brows at the silence you were met with at the oval dining table everyone sat at as you took a sip of the motor oil Yoongi considered coffee.

The only person who had been absent at the table was Taehyung- who had been getting cozy with a governor's wife in Peru, not out of actual interest for her. But for his job at seduction and information retrieval, he could undoubtedly have everyone their knee’s for him in the matter of ten seconds if he wanted. The power of being hot and knowing it.

Namjoon only sighed as he facepalmed, his protege though- the one with the permanent brooding scowl on his face ever since he laid eyes on you let his face screw into an even more sour look, as if that was even possible.

You couldn’t stop the snort from escaping your lips as your eyes met, “We’re not here for small talk.” Jungkook suddenly snarled at you, as if breathing the same air as you pissed him off. It probably did.

You whistled as you leaned back in your seat, thoroughly amused at the way he gritted his teeth and snarled like a rabid dog, “Aite damn. You don’t have to give me such a constipated look though- I mean seriously, you look like you’re about to bust the fattest shit since birth.” The gurgled choke came from Yoongi- the only person who could appreciate your dry yet somewhat cheeky sense of humor.

Jungkook suddenly stood up from his seat, slamming his hands on the table as he growled, everyone not bothering to intervene, as they all knew this was the only form of entertainment they’d ever get when you were all in the same room, “Is this some fucking game too you? Park has never called for all of us to be in the same fucking room. And all you can do is crack a joke?”

You clacked your tongue as you leaned back in your seat, such a hot head...Namjoon’s protege was something else. Not that you minded though, at least not completely, it meant you had someone to provoke meanwhile until Park could be benevolent enough and make time for you all, “He’s never called us together since you’ve been here,” Your eyes cut slightly and your words pointed, “This isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. Now get your panties out of a twist, me and Seokjin just lynched Wonho, whatever this is, can’t be more difficult than that.”

Jungkook was, the newest addition to the team by a little over a year. You didn’t know the details and furthermore you didn’t care.

As long as Namjoon trusted him you would as well, as you did trust his judgement. He was pragmatic and had a good read on people and if he thought Jungkook was worth taking in, then you’d imagine he had a good reason to believe so.

And the more you worked with Jungkook- against his will, you could understand why. He was a remarkable marksman and a hell of a shot, but he was also ill tempered, foul mouthed and had the maturity of an eleven year old boy, dare you mention it made sense given he was the youngest out of you all at the staggering infant age of 21.

Jungkook would have chipped a tooth at how hard he grinded his teeth together, glaring you down as if you’d explode upon contact, his childishness never ceased to amaze or amuse you, his sour expression almost made you laugh. Fortunately, it was a good thing you still had some self restraint left, being ever the observant and noticing the bulge in his pants you were almost eighty seven percent positive that was not a boner.

You didn’t think Jungkook would kill you, but you wouldn’t put it past him to take out a kneecap if you pushed enough buttons.

The doors, thankfully opened to the sight of Park Woojin, CEO and billionaire to one of the world's largest corporations, he was well known for his reserved yet charming nature and was almost always doing good works, funding for charities and such. He also just so happened to be your boss, the one who owned his own elite team of assassins and special unit for his every underworld need at the drop of a hat. He was untouchable. He was the devil in a three piece suit, walking in as if he had owned your lives.

It only served to make you angry that he did. Jungkook was a talented kid, he was smart and a good shot, you could commend him all day long- though never to his face as he didn’t need an ego the size of Park’s- but if there was one thing you couldn’t understand, it was why in gods name did he willingly sign his life away.

On long nights you and Seokjin often mused the question; why would he do something so stupid? It was different with the rest of you, you didn’t get a choice in doing this, being who you were, Park did own you, he owned all of you. And for Jungkook to just...sign the contract. You couldn’t wrap your head around the concept. He didn’t just sell his soul to the devil, he gave it to Park on a silver platter.

“Good you’re all here.” Park pulled the seat out at the end of the table as he sat down, everyone had quickly straightened in their seats…besides you, too tired and not enough of a will to live anymore as you stayed slumped in your seat with said cup of motor oil in hand, “I have places to be so I’ll make this quick. L/n and Kim have terminated Wonho Thursday early morning. I’ve only found out last night that they were actually in deal with Jang.”

His dark eyes suddenly pierced on you, “You said Wonho was planning on destroying them correct,” You gave a brief nod, “My thoughts are he was attempting to earn their trust and take them out from the inside. Jang refuses to believe that and is out for redemption at the moment. You’re all to keep a low profile for now. They don’t know I was the one who sent you and right now we’re under suspect. No one is going on any missions or operations until this is resolved, understood?”

Everyone gave a nod yet no one spoke a word making Park stand up as he nodded, “Good. You’re free to stay or go but make sure you’re discreet in public. Especially you Y/n, you were the one inside the mansion last seen with Wonho.”

You only yawned with a nod, not taking his words too serious. This wasn’t the first time this had happened either. And if Jang seriously thought his shotty guys could take you out he was an actual idiot. Or at least that’s what you told yourself because you honestly didn’t have the energy to care anymore. Briefly you noticed Jungkook seemed to tense and Namjoon had shot him a look making you and Seokjin both glance at one another, as if catching the same moment.

At least there would be something to gossip about later.

Most people assumed by your dry, snarky and cynical personality you were above mundane things such as gossip. They were wrong in every way possible. What could possibly be more fun than to laugh at others misfortune and continue to spread false information, you and Seokjin took delight in hearing about any sort of campus drama, teammate drama, anything you guys could get your filthy hands on for discussion.

Hoseok was the first to jump out of his seat with a groan as soon as Park shut the door to the room, “Could’ve just sent us a text. Thanks for lighting the whole fucking mansion on fire by the way.” He sent you a sharp smile, yet when you looked closely you could see the minor flecks of annoyance that could cloud any sunshine smile he gave.

You clacked your tongue as you shot him finger guns, ignoring his annoyance because in all honesty if he wanted to get pissy with someone then he should’ve mentioned it to Park in the five minutes you briefly saw him, “Not my fault Park didn’t let us know we’d have a little imp crawling up everyone's ass last night. And here I had hoped you got toasted with the rest of that place.”

Hoseok couldn’t stop the laugh from escaping his lips, though annoyed, he was also one of the few who didn’t mind you. Well, most of the team didn’t mind you honestly. Hoseok in particular enjoyed word spar with you and was possibly the only person who never took it personally, “I’m like a roach babydoll-”

“Gross and ridden with diseases?” You cringed, initially realizing where he was taking the sentence but unable to resist another potshot.

“Unkillable.” Hoseok sent a wink, he was about as much of a playboy as Taehyung was, in all honesty, but the fact that he had really likened himself to a roach was both, cringeworthy and ballsy at the same time.

Seokjin lifted his lip slightly in disgust as he scoffed, “Babydoll and roach don’t belong in the same sentence.” He stood up as well, stretching out with a yawn, his hair dusting over his bangs and his eyes just as tired as everyone else's yet you could notice he seemed tensed and a little annoyed for reasons unknown.

Hoseok only let the smile curve on his lips again, pushing his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants as he replied, “And Y/n would still jump in my bed if she went home with me.” You indignantly parted your lips to reply you most certainly would not. But then again...No words came out of your mouth as you considered, honestly, who were you to object to that?

“I...yeah okay fair enough.” You had come to terms with it, mutually agreeing that you would definitely sleep with him in such a scenario while watching Seokjin grit his teeth, looking at you sharply though you didn’t understand why.

Hoseok sent you a wink before exiting the room making you snicker, you were a shameless person, you wouldn’t lie and pretend like you were offended by his words when he was right.

Shrugging you stood up to join Seokjin as he rolled his eyes, choosing to say nothing though you could tell something snarky was on the tip of his tongue. You supposed you’d have to confront this new behavioral change eventually, just not right now when everyone was curiously eyeing you both.

“Y/n! It’s so good to see you!”

You froze at the angelic, sweet voice. All you wanted was a warm croissant roll and something sweet to drink. Was that too much to ask for anymore?

Coughing you whirled around to see the beautiful face of Park Jimin, his smile precious and sweet and eyes were practically sparkling at the sight of you. Why, why did he have to like the grungy, dead eyed kid that didn’t even go to college? You only hung around for the overly expensive coffee at this cutesy cafe.

You see, the problem wasn’t Jimin, well it was, but it really wasn’t because of him. He was the sweetest soul you had ever met and for some reason, had the most heart melting crush on you, except it was one sided.

Awkwardly, given he was your bosses son. If Park ever caught wind Jimin was associating with you, you were positive not even god could help you in that situation.

You still couldn’t see it. The fact that they were actually related. Jimin was nothing like his father, he was sweet and gentle, he’d probably cry if he ever had to hurt a fly, let alone a human.

And that was the saddest part.

Jimin wasn’t even aware of the empire he would soon inherit. The girl he had a crush on that he’d have to string up like a puppet and use for his benefit. You’d have to watch his father crush every ounce of innocence he had. The idea, actually hurt to think about.

You couldn’t help but wonder some days, if his smile would be the same after his father told him you were a slave assassin, that you had killed over hundreds of people and tortured plenty of others when Hoseok needed an extra hand, would he still like you when he saw the blood that stained your hands and the wrath in your veins?

Jimin, was the only person on the planet, that could possibly make you feel ashamed for who you were, what you did for a living. Jimin was like the sweet humanity you had been void of your whole life. You liked his presence, you genuinely could see yourself with him. Happy. But that was a reality you’d never indulge in. No this wasn’t a fairytale, and you weren’t going to act like there was a happy ending for you when there wasn’t.

“Don’t you have class?” You didn’t mean to come off as standoffish, but you could never fully get to know Jimin, at least comfortably. Furthermore, as much as you enjoyed his company you couldn’t help but wonder if Park knew about it already. About this, about his son’s interest in you. Was he waiting for the right moment? It was difficult to say but you didn’t want to risk it, you could toe the line with Park all day long but you knew when it was time to straighten up. The sooner you could shoo Jimin out the door the better.

Jimin raised his brows slightly, the soft tufts of honey blonde hair covering his forehead as he tilted his head in confusion, “It’s winter break Y/n. Are you busy…? I’m sorry if I interrupted something.”

You could almost feel invisible sweat bead down your neck as you gave a tense smile, “No of course not! I just uh…” You glanced away, unsure of how to tell him the truth, you were avoiding him like the plague in some false hope he’d get the hint and stop coming around, “Sorry, you know I’m not in college. I don’t know off weeks for shit.” You offered a weak, apologetic smile, accepting your fate that you’d just have to entertain him for a few minutes.

At least until Seokjin got tired of waiting for his french hot chocolate you were holding and you knew he got pissy if you took to long at the counter. Jimin only laughed softly, that pretty smile on his plump pink lips and his nose was red from the cold weather outside, “It’s okay, going to college isn’t for everyone. But that’s why I’m here, I…” He trailed off for a second and you could vaguely see the pink dusting his cheeks that couldn’t have been from the cold weather, “I noticed you haven’t been here in awhile. I was almost sad at the idea you were avoiding me…”

“Why would I avoid you?” You gave a strained laugh, forcing your mind to not list every single reason on the long list in your head, “I was just out of town visiting family. But uh- I’m back now. I have some time off from work too so it’s nice.”

Jimin’s eyes suddenly lit up, the way they always did when you brought up your personal life. It wasn’t a secret he was curious about you more then he should’ve been and you would always shut down questions that borderlined too close to the truth on who you were.

So to see you volunteering information like your job and family had Jimin obviously excited. You couldn’t help but mentally cringed at your lie. If only he knew you didn’t have a family and your job was far from artsy and cute like his major in photography.

“Oh? I’m glad to hear then! I sometimes get worried I mean...I know you have your roommate but I just can’t help but get worried if you get lonely, you can always call me you know.” Jimin gave a sweet smile causing you to shift in your spot, glancing away as you gave a cough, rubbing the back of your neck as you shrugged.

“I really am fine...think of me like the hermit on the mountaintop- besides me and Seokjin have known each other since we were kids, I’ll be dead before he crawls out of my ass,” You huffed making Jimin laugh once more, his eyes crinkled like little crescent moons and his whole being radiated nothing but warmth and gentleness.

“Y/n,” You jumped at the sound of the devil, Seokjin held your upperarm like his life depended on it making you wince as you shot him a look, “Hey Jimin!” He gave a tensed smile before leaning a little closer to you, “Y/n we’re supposed to head to the grocery store, do you have our drinks?”

You furrowed your brows in confusion at his tense tone, you never went with him to get groceries either…”Uh...yeah?” In your line of work you never openly questioned him in these moments before shooting Jimin an apologetic smile, “Sorry....See you around though.”

Jimin looked a little disappointed, his face falling slightly making your stomach sucker punch as his eyes flickered to Seokjin’s hand on you, “Oh...of course! I’ll see you later Y/n, take care.” You couldn’t even hear Jimin finish his sentence as Seokjin dragged you out of the cafe, your lips twisting into a snarl at his heavy manhandling.

“What the fuck is your problem?” You dug your feet into the ground as you glared at him, you were waiting for him to interrupt but he didn’t have to drag you out of the building! And what the hell kind of excuse was getting the groceries? You were supposed to stay in the cafe and enjoy your drink instead of staying outside in jack frost’s asshole.

Seokjin only dragged you along the street, gritting his teeth as his eyes flickered around, his voice low and stern as he snapped lowly, “Guy seven o’clock by the entrance hasn’t took his eyes off you since we entered the building. Call me paranoid but given what just happened I’m not risking it.”

“Oh for christ’s sake.” You dug your heels into the ground as you forced him to stop, groaning as you threw your arms up in the air, “No seriously what the fuck is your problem? I don’t give two shits about the guy who was checking out my ass from where I stood, guys can’t even breath in my direction without you getting all pissy anymore.”

Seokjin suddenly glared down at you his eyes darkening a little as he grabbed your arm, “Stop fucking shouting,” His growled with a low voice, “Let’s just get home you’re being delusional.”

Your lips parted in offense, brows shooting up as you scoffed. You could endure a lot, you could be called a frigid bitch when you turned down guys, you could be called a whore, a slut and everything else in between. But you would not stand for being called delusional when you knew damn well you were not.

“Delusional!?” You shouted purposely as he dragged you along the sidewalk, “I’m not the one who looks like something crawled up his ass and died just for talking to Jimin. You did the same shit yesterday morning at that meeting too! Just fucking admit you have a problem and tell me what it is!”

You nearly yelped as you were shoved into a back alley, your drink dropped and your back pressed into the cold brick wall and Seokjin towering over your as he shoved a hand over your mouth, You scowled while looking up at him as he mouthed for you to ‘shut the fuck up’. You could hear muffled talking and the distinct sound of a radio before crunching footsteps walking past, “Fuck I just saw her.” “Shut up and spread out she’s around somewhere.”

You swallowed keeping your heartbeat steady as Seokjin let go of your mouth, quietly grabbing your hand before you both began to further down the alleyway, “Are you done being a drama queen?” Seokjin grunted quietly, glancing at both ends before dragging you to the right and popping back out onto a main side street, you shouldn’t be too far from your apartment but you’d need to be careful if you didn’t want to be followed.

“This conversation isn’t over.” You snapped back quietly, letting Seokjin lead you to the safety of your shared home. The rest of the trip back was silent and most people glanced at you both like you were two delirious crackheads and to be fair you felt like one too with how much sneaking Seokjin made you both do.

Sighing you opened the door to the apartment walking inside as you tucked your tongue into your cheek, choosing to stay silent as Seokjin carefully shut the door before locking it, his eyes peeled on the small glass panel that revealed the outside world as you crossed your arms. Sighing he back away from the door as he stretched out, “At least we’re stocked up on food, those guys will probably be around for the next few days, which means no going outside.”

He gave you a pointed look as if having already forgotten what you had said while outside. Seokjin paused after a moment, noticing your lack of banter and complaint before honing in on your rarely serious expression.

Sure you looked dead most days, and most would assume you were always serious and both glaring at everyone, which was partially true. But most didn’t see your furrowed brows and lips pressed together as if focused on Seokjin’s figure alone, “Oh jesus christ…” Seokjin groaned as he turned around walking towards the kitchen as he ran a hand through his hair, “I don’t care who you choose to sleep with Y/n, it’s not that deep.”

Your lips twisted into a scowl as you followed behind him, glaring holes into those stupid broad shoulders of his. He could act like he didn’t care all he wanted but you knew something was up and obviously it needed to be addressed before it bled over into your work life, which could potentially be fatal for you or him, or possibly both of you, “Don’t feed me that line of bullshit Seokjin! You’ve been broody for the past month, whatever is bothering you just fucking tell me.”

Whipping around Seokjin’s eyes suddenly squinted into a glare as if warning you to drop the subject, his jaw beginning to clench as he growled lowly, “Who says I’m brooding? That’s you’re trope not mine. Drop it Y/n, when have you ever cared before?”

You suddenly stepped back at his venom like words, your jaw dropping before you felt anger shooting through your veins that heroin had nothing on as your fists suddenly bawled up. How dare he say that! After everything you both have been through? How dare he fucking act like he had the right to say that! “Where the fuck did you get that idea? Are you dead in the head?” You snarled, stepping closer into his bubble as you shoved at his chest, “We’ve been through over ten years of utter hell and you have the fucking nerve to say I don’t care!? I’ve done nothing but try to talk to you and you won’t stop bitching and acting like you’re fine when you obviously aren’t!”

“And when I said drop it you won’t fucking listen. You’re so stubborn you know that?” Seokjin snapped, suddenly stepping closer as he backed you against the wall, “You only bothered to ask because it fucking suited you in the moment- don’t you act like some saint- like you actually didn’t notice beforehand. You’re only asking because I took you away from your idiotic dream boat Park-fucking-Jimin.”

You couldn’t even believe the words you were hearing at the moment. You could admit he was right, you had noticed beforehand but you didn’t assume it was detremential, or that it was something he even wanted to talk about it. And fair enough, you should’ve asked anyways but seriously!? Bringing Jimin into this was such a low blow, “Do you ever hear yourself right now!? What does Jimin even have to do with this!? I’m fucking tired of being dragged away, glared at with snide comments anytime I interact with another male, so I’m sorry it just so happened to be with Jimin, and who the hell gave you the right to dicitate who I like and who I don’t huh?”

“Oh so you do like him?” Seokjin accused vehemently, anger burning in his eyes as he lunged down, caging you between his arms, his breath hot and nose close to brushing against yours, “Like him, when he doesn’t even know who the fuck you are? What you do for a living? That you’re his dad’s personal assassin at beckon call? I’ve known you my whole life, have had your back for fucking years Y/n, years. I know who you are and I don’t give shit- I never did. So why are you out daydreaming about shit that won’t happen? Can’t happen? I won’t fucking let you run off on some childish notion and get killed because of it okay!? You are all I have in this goddamn world and I’m not about to lose you!”

Your lips had been sealed shut and your pupils dilated as your head pressed back against the wall as you glanced at him, he...he what? It was quiet for a moment but Seokjin’s intense gaze didn’t falter, as if waiting for you to argue back. As if anticipating your resistment, yet it never came. Instead, you let out a snort, as if realizing what this was about and why your partner had to be a dramatic premadonna, “Are you seriously jealous? For real?”

You watched him part his lips several times like a fish out of water before snarling, “I’m not jealous! I’m just being your babysitter before you do something dumb.”

Clacking your lips you sighed exasperatedly, you should’ve known something like this was going to happen eventually, “I never said I liked Jimin, and where the hell did you get the idea I was gonna run off with him? Where? Do you honestly think I’d leave? I mean, seriously.”

Seokjin’s face was flushed now, looking both embarrassed but too angry to admit it as he clenched his jaw once more, his hands suddenly grabbing at your hips with a possessive squeeze he was well known for when he became insecure.

“You look at him like some doe eyed damsel in distress,” He growled, stepping closer, his hot breath against your ear stirring your body as you felt his hands slide to your ass, giving it a harsh squeeze.

“And I’m the delusional one,” You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way warmth quickly spread between your legs, “Seokjin, we’re partners. We have and always will be. Maybe the idea is nice but you're right.” You let out a breathy moan at the feeling of his lips suddenly attaching to your neck, giving a nip at your skin in warning as if not evening wanting to hear about you liking the idea of being with Jimin, “You’re the only person I have left too dumbass, the only person I trust, you’re just as stuck with me as I am you.”

Seokjin immediately hauled you up against the wall, the muscles packed against his arms bulging against his white shirt as he held you up, tongue hot and lathing against your neck before letting his lips drag against the shell of your ear, “Never said I was complaining dipshit. Im gonna fuck you in every single room tonight,” You’re lips quivered with a quiet moan at his hips thrusting into yours, his thick hardened cock restrained in his jeans brushing against your thigh, “Make you forget everything except my name.”

“God you’re so possessive.” You sighed as he kept hold of you, moving you to the counter to set you down before grabbing at the hem of your shirt, peeling it up as his lips moved down your neck. You could feel a brief smile on Seokjin’s lips, as if knowing you were right, yet not bothering to apologize. It was okay, you didn’t want one anyways.

When you knew him your whole life, it was easy to say this wasn’t the first time this had happened, whether it was him or you. Sleeping together was both convenient and safe. You trusted one another more than anyone else, it made sense you’d keep one another satisfied sexually.

Seokjin made quick work of your bra before attaching his plump lips to your right bud making you let out a louder moan, his hips slotting between your thighs as you squirmed beneath him, your cunt already sticky and clinging to your panties, “Mmm fuck, you like it though, I know you do. Always moaning like a little bitch when I say you’re mine.” Seokjin gave a cocky smirk as he squeezed on your left breast before sucking against your right bud again, your breathy laugh mixed with another moan.

He was right, you did think it was hot, there was nothing like angry rough sex at three in the morning, rough whispered words saying who you belonged too while the bed rocked into the wall, “Well if you’d just fucking admit you’re jealous this wouldn’t happen.” You wheezed at the feeling of his hand wrapping around your neck, squeezing just enough to make you gag at the expense of your airflow, “You know choking me is a good way to get a roundhouse kick in the gut. It activates my fight or flight response.”

Seokjin glanced up at you, his eyes lidded and smug as he dragged his tongue down your stomach, edging against the hem of your pants as he loosened his grip on your neck, “Can you not be sexy for five minutes?”

“Impossible.” You sighed dramatically as you leaned your head uncomfortably against the cabinet that held all of your mugs, acting as if this was an everyday topic rather than him about to eat the soul from your pussy, “We aren’t newly weds Seokjin, is foreplay really that necessary?”

Seokjin scoffed between your thighs, popping the button on your pants and unzipping them before curling his hands beneath the material as he peeled them off along with your panties. The cold air of the apartment was enough to make your soaked cunt all the more excited.

It had been too long since Seokjin had properly fucked you and your body was ready to wither beneath him, covered in sweat and cum from round after round of sex, “It isn’t when you’re that easy to make wet, look at that cunt,” He licked his lips, grabbing your thighs as he put them over his shoulders as he leaned down, a small whimper leaving your lips as your pussy lips spread and your wet cunt on display as he licked along your inner thigh, “So fucking wet and we haven’t even gotten started yet.”

Your lips twitched in annoyance at him as you replied, “Well if someone wasn’t so picky about where we had sex this woul-Oh!” You let out a high pitched moan as Seokjin wrapped those damn plump lips around your sensitive clit, having not been touched in over two weeks making your eyes snap shut at such intense attention, “Oh fuck…” You moaned softly as your hands tangled in his fluffy tufts of black hair.

“Yeah that’s what I thought,” Seokjin hummed before letting his tongue drag back against your clit once more, your hips eagerly rolling along his tongue as you felt his hand follow up your thigh until his fingers began to tease your entrance, “Mmm fuckin’ mine, bet Jimin wishes he was buried in this little cunt right now.”

You couldn’t even properly respond as Seokjin pushed a finger inside you, your walls clenching as his tongue lathed against the sweet spot of your swollen clit making you yelp as you kicked against his back, “F-fuck, Jin.”

Pleasure was rapidly spiking through your body and it was nearly pathetic how quick Seokjin could make you cum when he wanted too. Pushing another finger inside you he curled his fingers into that spongy little spot that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, your back arching in probably an unflattering way as you whined, “Beg for it,” Seokjin lazily demanded, as if he could suck on your pretty clit all day, and if challenged, he probably would, “Fuckin’ beg for it.”

“You’re such an assh-Oh! Fuck please! Please jesus christ Jin please!” You whined at the way he harshly sucked your clit to get you to shut up, his fingers digging into your g-spot making your walls rapidly clench and convulse around his fingers, your orgasm as close as your hands tugged against his hair, “Mmm! Shit please, let me cum all over your face please.”

Seokjin let his tongue slip past his lips as he continued lathing against your clit, eyes focused on your fucked out expression as you clenched around him nearly screaming at the way your orgasm hit you all at once, walls squelching around his fingers as they were coated in your cum. Seokjin expertly helped you come down from your hazey high as your thighs began to tremble, pulling his fingers from you as he stood up, licking his lips smug as he demanded, “Suck.”

With quivering lips you parted them obediently as Seokjin pushed them into your mouth, sucking the salty thick substance from his slim fingers as he gleamed down at you proudly, “Bet he jerks his little dick to the idea of you sucking on his fingers too.”

Popping his fingers from your mouth you huffed, running a hand through your hair before clacking your tongue, “How many times do I have to say I don’t like Jimin.” It seemed that was the wrong wording though as any mention of Jimin’s name from you had Seokjin curving a brow, picking you up by the thighs Seokjin had lead you down the hall as he nipped against your neck, “Stop saying his fucking name.”

You were dropped at the head of the bed, subjected to watch Seokjin pulled his shirt over his head to reveal the godlike body beneath, there were more than plenty of scars and bruises, a few nicks here and there but his muscles were chiseled and toned from his years spent as an assassin. You’d kiss every scar on his body if he’d let you, “I’m not saying anything, I’m just saying Jimin- oh shit.”

You swallowed when he opened the nightstand drawer to grab the handcuffs that had been conveniently left there from the last time you both had slept together, his tongue tucked into his cheek as he raised his brows, your cunt dripping in arousal and cum at the way he always looked so hot when he was pissed, “Oh shit is right you little brat.”

He didn’t hesitate for a second as he straddled your stomach, your first reaction was to fight him but it was little use as he grabbed your arms, shoving them above your head as he wrangled your wrist into one side, “Maybe you shouldn’t be such a fucking smartass and I wouldn’t tie you up.” Seokjin successfully cuffed you to the railing, leaving you at his mercy as he straightened up, looking down at you like you were dirty beneath his feet, “But that little cunt likes it right? My filthy little bitch likes to be tied up and made to take what she’s given, right?”

Your pupils narrowed into a glare, not in any position to be objecting when your pussy was coated in cum and begging to be stuffed full of his cock yet you couldn’t stop the words from leaving your lips in a bratty fit of rage, “More like you can’t keep me in one spot without the help.”

Seokjin’s lips twitched at your defiance, yet on another hand also not surprised by it long too used to your bratty ways as he grabbed slid off you to grab your thighs, pulling them back over his shoulders before you felt a sharp sting on your ass making you yelp, “Should I gag that little bitchy mouth too?”

You couldn’t even find a haughty reply before suddenly whimpering, the feeling of his wet, warm tongue plunging inside you making your walls clench around him while giving a breathy moan, his fingers teasing their way up your clit before circling your sensitive bud, “Fuck! A-ah! You’re such a dick.”

His hand immediately left your clit to slam his hand against your ass in warning, the sting traveling to your cunt in excitement as your walls clenched around his tongue once more, a laugh escaping your lips that you disguised as a moan before curling your back at the way his tongue roughly dragged into your g-spot, the skin of your hands digging into the cuffs as you rattled against them.

Your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your hand as Seokjin let his fingers circle over your clit once more, a whine of objection leaving your throat as he pulled his tongue from your, licking his lips as he continued to play with your sensitive bud, “Have you considered shower sex before?”

No amount of pleasure in the world could keep the glare off your face, watching the way that little shit’s lips were tempted to pull into a smile as you sneered, “You want my pussy at all or should I go ask Jimin for some help?”

His gaze twisted into a mutual glare, eyes darkening and it was only now you realized you had royally screwed yourself over as he dropped your thighs, almost ignoring your words for the moment as he stood up.

Your eyes however dropped down to his pants as they slid to the floor revealing the thick angry cock bouncing up to his abdominal, it was not only long but it’s girth had your body clenching all over against and his bulbous tip would always be a painful stretch no matter how much prepping, “Oh yeah? Well how about we give him a call then? Let him decide if you’re being taken care of?” Seokjin asked, his voice in a near sneer as he grabbed your legs, pressing them against your chest making you whine, “Let him know this pussy is getting stuffed and cumming all over my dick?”

You struggled to kick your legs as the feeling of the thick shaft of his cock running against your wet, cum coated cunt, rubbing past your clit as you moaned, too much teasing being done to you as Seokjin growled, “Want my cock you little slut? Then beg, I want to hear how bad you need it.”

Whining your face twisted into a rare pout, you had already begged once today and he was really going to make you throw your dignity out the window? You whimpered with a gag at his hand suddenly grabbing back against your throat again, “Should I get out a vibrator too?”

Your body was heating up with fresh arousal at the idea but before you could even reply Seokjin squeezed at your throat, “You know what? I will, I wanna see my little bitch in tears tonight, see how bad she needs me.”

Seokjin leaned over your body before grabbing the wand that was inside the nightstand, your thighs already rubbing together in need of another release. You couldn’t help but swallow at the click of the vibrator, the buzz worst then any gun to your head could imitate, “Spread your cunt, I know you like being a little whore and putting it on display.”

“Maybe I’d like it more for Jimin.” You challenged, eyes squinting as Seokjin gritted his teeth, not hesitating to pry your legs open before roughly pressing the vibrator into your clit, a loud whine echoing off the walls as your hips spasmed and rocked up into the vibrator.

“Jimin this, Jimin that,” Seokjin rolled his eyes, his jaw clenched as he turned it up a setting, moaned whimpers escaping you as you tugged rapidly against the restraints that held you, “Just admit you like being turned into a little bitch, you like when I play with this cunt until it’s dripping wet and soaked in cum,” You cried out at the feeling of two fingers plunging back inside you, the lewd wet squelch of your walls rapidly clenching around him as he clacked his tongue, “Is your little pussy gonna cum again? Do you need cum?”

“Please.” The cracked whimper wasn’t as enticing as you had hoped but you could hardly process a word anymore, too much stimulation overwhelming you as Seokjin sneered at your pathetic attempt

Seokjin suddenly curled his fingers inside you with a growl as you kicked your legs and your eyes began to burn with tears, “I know you can do better than that. I said: Fucking beg.” His fingers continued rapidly curling into your g-spot, the vibrator in your clit almost too much to handle as he skillfully continued to edge you.

“Mmm! A-ah fuck, please! Please! Shit, wanna cum so bad, please!” What was left of your dignity had completely crumbled as the words flew from your lips, vision blurring with tears as your body burned to intensely only for Seokjin to pull away, “Please! Need it so bad, please.”

Seokjin let the sadistic smile twist onto his lips, watching the way your body quivered beneath him, the tears trickling down your cheeks and completely submissive beneath him, turning down the vibrator before letting the tip circle around your entrance, enjoying the way your body twitched as he hummed, “Are you gonna be a good girl and apologize? You should be thankful I play with this cunt as much as I do.”

Dragging the vibrator up your slit before coaxingly rubbing over your clit, a small sob escaped your lips as your hips bucked up into the vibrator, his fingers pushing back inside you before curling once more into your g-spot, “A-ah I’m sorry! Please, please, please I’m sorry!”

Your cracked, whimpered words like music to Seokjins ears as he felt your walls tighten around him, “And what do you want baby? Use your words.” His mouth near watering at the way your hips rolled against his fingers, your little hole taking his fingers so easily as your face became nearly unrecognizable to anyone else besides himself. “Mmm! Please!” You whined your clit thrumming with vibration as you cried, a new stream of tears dripping down your cheeks at his torture, “Please let me cum, please! Need it so bad, please.”

Seokjin let his tongue graze against his lips, reveling in your pleading as he finally let out a smile, turning the vibrator up once more that gained another sob from you as he coaxed, “There’s my good girl, now cum all over my fingers, be a good girl and cum.”

Your walls were rapidly clenching around him and your clit was throbbing as the moan caught in your throat, the force of the orgasm enough to rip it out into a scream as a new sob escaped your, your body twisting and snapping in hot searing pleasure.

“Mmm fuck that’s a good girl.” Seokjin guided you through your orgasm with ease before gently pulling his fingers from you and turning off the vibrator as your thighs trembled. Your mind nearly blank as you continued reeling from pleasure.

You barely even registered when Seokjin had uncuffed you from the bed while whistling, “Jesus, I think this is the most fucked out you’ve ever been, are you gonna be able to take getting stuffed full?”

Despite his words he and you both were well aware this was far from the first time you had been this fucked out, Seokjin didn’t even looked worried at the way you trembled, having become so well acquainted with your body, “I didn’t just beg like a cheap pornstar to be told I’m not getting dick.”

That was enough to cause that annoying windshield wiper like laugh to sound as he spread your legs making you jump, mirth in his eyes at your crabbiness, having never been a fan of begging- or subbing before but Seokjin was also aware he was the one exception, “I know you love my dick but calm down it’s not going anywhere.”

A breathy whine escaped your lips as Seokjin let his thick bulbous tip circling against your entrance before pushing inside you, the stretch burning and pleasure shooting through your sensitive walls as Seokin didn’t bother to wait for you to adjust, his hips immediately slamming into yours as your back arched with a whine, “You know- you never did answer me, should we call him? Let him listen to your little pathetic moans? Let his dick get hard at the idea of fucking my girl.”

Your mind could hardly register his words, too caught up at the feeling of his cock squeezing into your small hole and brushing over your g-spot with each stroke as your hands clawed against his back, “Fuck- are you insane?” You tried to turn it into a snap but all it came out as was a pathetic whine, hips rolling with his as his hand dragged down to rub over your clit again, a moan escaping your lips at the sensitivity as you clenched around his thick shaft, “My phone’s back in the kitchen.”

Seokjin let out a moan before huffing, “I’m trying to be sexy, can you play along for once?” You both couldn’t help but let out a shared strained laugh as his hips continued to roll against your’s, his cock completely coated in both your cum and arousal making a mess against your thighs. Unexpectedly Seokjin pulled out of you making you whine as you popped up indignantly, royally fucked out with dried tears on your cheeks and a hoarse voice, “I am not finished with your dick yet.”

Sitting up Seokjin pulled you into his lap, the first time you’d gladly be manhandled all day as you quickly grabbed his throbbing dick, pumping his base a few times before properly sinking down on it, a quiet moan escaping you both as he let out a strained chuckle, “You’re such a fucking-”

You yelped at the loud smack of his hand stinging against your ass, “Cockslut.” Your walls clenched at the degradation, hips suddenly rolling as you bounced against his thick cock, whining as you buried into his neck, “Oh you like that? Being my little cockslut?” You moaned at the feeling of his hand spanking against your ass once more, the sting burning in your skin making your walls clench harder, “Riding my dick because you’re a needy little slut? Does that cunt need my dick?”

“Mmm please...!” You whined, having been teased too much to challenge him anymore, skin slapping against skin with every bounce of your hips, you were so fucked out on his cock you could hardly focus on anything but the way it’s thick throbbing shaft split your pussy open and the way it rubbed just the right way into your g-spot, “Yes, my pussy loves riding it.”

The wet squelch of your body clenching around him forced a moan from Seokjin’s lips, “That’s right, my dirty little bitch.” You whined at the smack of his hand on your ass once more. Seokjin’s hand dived down to your clit once more, rubbing it as you cried out tears immediately stinging your eyes once more at how sensitive it was, hips bucking and bouncing against him as his tongue dragged against your neck, “Gonna cum all over my cock? Make a big mess like the little bitch you are?”

“Y-yes.” Your voice desperate and cracked as Seokjin rubbed down on just the right spot against your swollen, sore bud causing you to clench once more, Seokjin let out a long deep moan as you felt the warm thick string of his release cream inside of you leaving your pussy a swollen, sticky messy as you slowed your hips down.

“You know…” You had to pause for a second as you let yourself heave and gulp for air, coming down from your high of sex before continuing, “If you ever feel like you’re being replaced, you should just talk to me about it- seriously.” You leaned a little away from him to look him in the eyes.

While angry sex was a personal favorite between you both, it was by no means an actual remedy to your problems, and Seokjin knew this, his eyes a little bashful as he sighed, arms wrapping loosely around your waist, “No...I...I was just childish...I never liked sharing you when we were younger either, this isn’t any different I just…”

He set his chin down on your shoulder to get away without having to look at you, feelings were always something that felt a little awkward to discuss, but you cared about one another so much you both would always force it out from the other, “You mean so much to me Y/n, I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, whether it’s from dying, or you just getting tired of me and leaving-I just- I need you. You’re the only reason I have left to keep going.”

“Seokjin…” You sighed, pulling yourself off his now softened cock before properly seating yourself in his lap, your legs loosely wrapped around his waist before wrapping your arms around him in a much accepted hug, “I’m not going anywhere. And if you feel like I’m going too, you need to talk to me about it. I know you’re a total dumbass and it’s difficult to believe but you’re all I have left too. I’m not going anywhere, we’re partners, always have and always will be,” You pulled away from him before giving him a cocky wink, “Til death do us part motherfucker. Now let’s go watch a movie or something, your cum makes me feel like a sperm bank.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Seokjin furrowed his brows as you stood up, hobbling over to his dresser as you grabbed a hoodie.

“The same thing as beatface.” You wiggled the hoodie over your head before rolling your eyes. Your life was anything but easy, and there was still so much to come, but you’d be okay, you and Seokjin would always have one another’s back, and even the sky could fall but you’d be fine. As long as you had him, “You know what? Nevermind, you’re worthless Kim, just pick a fucking movie.”

#bts #bts x reader #bts x y/n #seokjin x reader #seokjin x reader smut #seokjin x y/n #jin x reader #jin smut #seokin smut #assassin au #assassin!seokjin #assassin!reader #bts au #bts assassin au

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withoneheadlight · 4 years

Text

| kegboys | billy & tommy speak a bit of spanish. translations at the end |

"Do you have to eat your ice cream like that?"

Steve looks up at Billy with a frown, licks at his thumb, his middle finger. Takes another mouthful.

"Lai-wah?"

They're sitting on the sidewalk in the back of the Starcourt, entrenched in a patch of shade, Tommy in between the two of them, the soles of their snickers slowly cooking over the boiling pavement. It’s the third day in a row that Hawkins has reached the thirty-five degrees mark, and Tommy can tell Billy is growing restless, wearing his skin thin, like he's burning from the inside out with the heat of the season.

"Less like you're blowing it, more like you’re eating it" his voice sounds hoarse, dangling on some kind of edge.

It sounds hungry.

Steve keeps on looking at him like he doesn't understand, eyes round and big. Manages to catch some syrup right before it slides down the edge of the cone, but gets a bit of cream on his nose. Wipes it with his palm.

He looks devious and adorable and Tommy wants to lick him whole. He hopes it doesn't show when he says,

"I think he means a little less–uhm—dirty?"

Because when it comes to Steve and Billy, shockingly enough, Tommy is the one mediating.

And no, the heat is not helping.

"Dirty" Steve repeats, lips pursing, and takes all of his force of will not to stare at how red they look, how much they stand out of his skin, out of the electric-blue of that fucking uniform "Billy thinks I'm dirty" he crosses his legs at the ankles. His socks are pulled up. Tommy has never wanted to kiss this bad someone that wears his goddamn socks pulled up.

Steve thinks he looks ridiculous in that uniform. He doesn't know shit.

"For the lack of a better word" Billy smirks, canines bare. Looks at Tommy like he's thinking it too, that there isn't really a lack of words, there are plenty.

(Like filthy. Like obscene. Like hot as fuckin' fuck. Like I want you to do to me what you're doing to that fucking ice cream)

Steve rolls his eyes. The ice cream keeps on melting, dripping all over his knuckles. He sticks out his tongue and licks them clean, a long stripe all the way up to the tip, his mouth full of syrup and whipped cream and cookie bits and when Billy breathes out a ragged holy shit, he looks fucking pleased.

"Well, maybe Billy," he says, looking intently at Billy "shouldn't get all that squeamish. Considering the amount of disgusting shit he makes me witness on a regular basis"

It's not like he's not right. Usual circumstances, Billy is gross, he's nasty, but right now, and for some whimsical reason he's eating his ice cream with careful, deliberate precision, making it turn against his tongue, not missing a drop. And Tommy doesn't want to wonder how would it be to have all that meticulous intent aimed onto a different place but he does. He does. Even if it's not as if something like that could ever happen. Because Tommy knows about Billy and Billy knows about Tommy, but that only means they can torture each other about how much they lust and long and pine for Steve. That's all.

(They've only kissed once. Only to know what it feels like. Two days after getting so drunk together, so thoroughly high, that Billy ended up confessing the inconfessable "I would kiss him all day, Tommy, I swear. I would sit on his lap and do nothing fucking else. Just kiss him," two days after Tommy's ribcage pressed inwards, clutching at his heart "Sorry, Hargrove. But I saw him first", two days after Billy laughed at his face "Like that's gonna make any difference." They kissed because there's no one else, because when Billy asked, he did it straight into his ear, voice dripping down the hem of his shirt, sliding his sternum, and lower "If you want, I'll let you pretend I'm him". A single kiss that lasted for fifteen minutes straight and ended the moment Tommy began to feel his cock filling up in his jeans –the moment he began to realize that knowing that Billy Hargrove kisses as if he wants to drag you out of your own skin, that his mouth tastes sweet and warm, spicy with the aftertaste of nicotine, that it feels nothing like he imagines Steve’s would– is a little more risky than he had anticipated)

"I'd do that, but you're getting all filthy, King Steve" and the tone of his voice could pass for mean it wasn't because Tommy knows he always sounds meaner when he's horny (they've touched each other only once. No kisses. No closeness. Just hands. Cramped in the minuscule rectangle of Tommy's bed, because "What it is Tomas? Are you too scared try?" "I'm not scared" "Then pull your pants down" And Tommy shouldn't know he can't stop talking ––dirty, violent, like a fucking heart attack–– while he's coming but he knows, God he knows. "And we don't want those poor costumers getting the wrong impression about what was their lovely Scoops Sailor doing to stain that uniform, do we?"

Tommy sighs inwards. Takes a bite of his almost finished freeze pop. If it wasn't because the idea of his two best friends having a crush on him wouldn't occur to Steve in a million years they'd be totally screwed. It's not like they've been exactly subtle. Especially Billy.

"Mmhh. Guess who's not getting free ice cream next time?" says Steve, tone as bratty as it gets. Daring.

Billy bares his teeth.

"You're forgetting I have Robin, pretty boy"

"Oh. But you are forgetting whose side Robin is"

He’s smiling that angelic smile he always puts on whenever he is about to screw you. Opens up his mouth and sucks on the ice cream, lips pressed around the tip, lets out a groan of pure pleasure and swallows "It’s still too dirty for you like this, Hargrove?" he asks pointedly and Tommy shouldn't, really shouldn't be staring at him but––

(Tommy and Steve have never touched, never kissed, but Tommy knows that he snores softly when he falls asleep with his head buried in your neck and that you can tell how he feels by the way he’s saying your name. He knows how big he feels, how hot, when he gets hard against your thigh, even if it was just once and by pure accident, the two of them rubbing against each other while fighting for the remote, Steve red up to the roots of his hair, repeating "Sorry oh my god Tommy I'm so sorry" and Tommy feeling so thankful for the rough fabric of his jeans being tight enough to hide his own erection)

And there are a million other things that Tommy would like to know, a million times, but he can't.

He can’t)

"-mmy?"

"Uhm?"

"Can you help me clean this up?"

Steve manages to catch the drop of ice cream that's sliding down his neck, licks at the corner of his mouth, but he still has syrup just below his lower lip, on his cheek, and it's not the first time Tommy wets his thumb and wipes whatever he's gotten onto his face, there's been hundred before, but this time Steve looks at him with eyes blown into an impossible dark and Tommy is achingly aware that Billy is watching them too. His heart beats in his throat while he wipes Steve clean, ––his skin soft, sun-warmed–– while bringing his pad into his mouth to clean it up, tasting strawberry and vanilla. And it would also taste like caramel and cinnamon and that spicy aftertaste of the nicotine, if he turned right now and Billy let Tommy kiss him a second time.

(And Tommy will never know, but sometimes he wonders how the three of them would taste like together. Because sometimes Billy comes up from behind and leans all his weight against Steve's back, embraces him, when he's studying or eating at the cafeteria or sitting at the edge of the pool. Sometimes he sits beside him in the back of the car or at the movies, puts an arm around him and Steve lets him, always lets him. Allows Billy to insert himself point-blank into his personal space and Tommy should feel jealous, should feel weird, but what he feels is the blood rushing to the center of his body, pooling in there like an itch he shouldn't dare to even think about scratching)

Tommy hears the click of a lighter, catches the smell of the smoke. When Billy speaks, his voice doesn't reach Tommy's brain, it goes straight down to his cock.

"Cuidado, Tommy. Si lo sigues mirando así se va a dar cuenta de que es a él al que quieres comerte"

When Tommy turns to look at him, he merely raises an eyebrow, and it looks like he's trying not to grin but his teeth widen around the filter like he can’t stop them.

Because Tommy knows about Billy and Billy knows about Tommy, but this is all they do. Picking at each other. Playing games too close to the fire. And Tommy's skin feels burnt, aching, like this thing inside of him is about to peel it up, crawl outside of him.

"Vete a la mierda" he says, makes it a warning, but Billy blows the smoke to his face, blows a kiss after. Tommy pushes him "Gilipollas"

"Oh but of course" starts Steve as he gets up, brushing off any dust that might have got stuck to his pants, throwing the rests of his ice cream in the trash "You two are such a good example of fucking good manners, aren’t you?" He smacks Tommy on the head, steals Billy’s cigarette and takes a long, deep drag “Maybe instead of sitting here doing nothing for the rest of the fucking afternoon you two would grow a pair and talk about making a move about that thing you keep bickering about so secretly all around me” he says in one sitting, looking them alternatively in the eye, and Tommy only realizes that his mouth is hanging open when Steve leans in and places the cigarette between his lips “I'm starting to get a bit tired of waiting."

“But you don't spe–” Tommy starts, but Steve cuts him off before he can finish.

“Oh. No I don’t. But Robin does. I guess it's a good thing that you two were dumb enough not to take it into account" cocky, a little wicked “I'm out at eight”

The door closes behind him. Billy reaches out to retrieve his cigarette. Inhales so deep that in his lungs mustn’t be any room left for the oxygen.

"Fuck"

They hold each other's gaze.

Fuck.

He’s feeling the heat in a lot more places now than only those reached by the burning sun.

At eight.

Translations:

“Be careful, Tommy. If you keep looking at him like that he’s gonna realize its him what you wanna be eating”

“Go fuck yourself”

“Asshole”

#kegboys #key boys #harringrove #tomgrove #stommy #steve harrington #Billy Hargrove #tommy hagan #tommy h #tommy hernández #keg gang #xkegboys

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a-secondhand-sorrow · 4 years

Text

growth in the grey areas

The @sincerely-us gift exchange is always SO much fun to participate in, and I’m so happy to share my gift on this summer’s holideh. As a fun little surprise for @thatfriendlyanon... we are 2 for 2! thank you for your gorgeous prompts and I hope I could do them justice 💜 (here’s an ao3 link!)

***

Imagine, if you will, a dollhouse.

Imagine the façade first; imagine perfect white siding, trimmed and shaped plastic shrubs, pristine windows with freshly-painted sills. Now travel inside, moving past stickered-on wallpaper and furniture you are free to arrange at will. See the people living inside, their hair perfectly shaped and mouths curved into perpetual smiles. Nothing is complicated or difficult - there are shadows and there is light, and they never mix. There is Good and there is Bad, nothing beyond.

Imagine, if you will, that the Murphy family’s house is a dollhouse.

It truly has every appearance of one, from the shrubs to the wallpaper to, at first glance, the people inside; carefully curated with a precision only money can buy, packaged together in a box to nod your head at as you pass in the store and not look at much for longer.

Now, if you will, crack the dollhouse open right down the middle.

You’ll first see the house, as impeccable as always, but the people inside are not congregated together in the kitchen as they were before. Only the newcomer remains in the kitchen, far less of a newcomer than he thought of himself. Slide your eyes to the left, over to the other half, and you’ll see gray hair slicked back carefully and a painted-on shirt collar recently undone from hands worrying it standing over a box of memorabilia, a permanent crease molded between his brows. Slide them up over floors and walls to see hundreds of pages clutched between an ever-impeccable hand, another hand pressed to mouth to stifle something while seated on a bed that is not her own. And, finally, locate the final person, doll, pawn - over the grid of plastic that separates all of them, find her one room over, curled into a position you didn’t know she can manage, her hands pressing to her face as though they alleviate building pressure. Imagine, if you will, them - that whole picture.

If you understand what it is to be falling apart inside a picture-perfect life, you may begin to understand what it is to be a Murphy.

I. something shatters

Evan read once that, after a sonic boom, all is deathly silent. Surprisingly, that isn’t because all machinery and living beings present are completely destroyed; no, the silence is from the explosion itself. If the force is powerful enough, it will create a vacuum where air levels are so low that sound doesn’t travel. You could curse, you could scream, you could beg to go back in time for a minute or an hour or a year and it wouldn’t matter. Your lips would move and no sound would escape. That was what true silence was.

He passed physics as a freshman, so of course he understood that concept in theory, even if there was always a part of his brain that never fully registered just how awful and harsh and real that vacuum could be.

He never understood until he uttered those words, those explosive words, in the Murphy’s kitchen over the sounds of phones ringing and the people he’d grown to love breathing and speaking. He never understood until they rode the explosion out and away. He never understood until he was left in the aftershocks, no air left for him to speak with.

He wishes he’d understood that before, that kind of choking silence. Of course, that may just be guilt. Heidi always says that guilt is the most unproductive emotion - it’s useless, he can hear her say in his mind in between sniffles, you can’t go back and change the past - but he knows he has no hope of curbing the swell of it inside of him all the same.

His ride was, originally, Zoe. How funny that seems looking back with hindsight. Not even an hour before, he’d felt that he belonged enough to have a guaranteed way back to his house, to monotony and crushing stability. He’d been able to rely on that tiny routine.

Without it, he feels liable to break apart and shatter into a thousand pieces.

He still has to get home, though, and so he curbs that particular impulse and accepts the fact that he’s just ruined the only good things in his life. (You were bound to ruin them when you first lied to them, something in his mind says, which is nothing he doesn’t know already.) He never sat down, so save for a brief pep talk (or mental beration) to his feet to get them moving he manages to make his exit from the Murphy household swiftly. Evan walks the whole way home, and he knows that he must pass some landmarks - trees, houses, even Ellison Park is on the path back. But when he reaches his front door, he can’t remember anything about the walk. The only thing that reminds him of the walk he just made is his aching feet. And, of course. the house in front of him.

Heidi’s car is out front, and he’s not sure whether to be terrified or relieved. He’s not given a chance to settle on one or the other before his right hand is cold on the handle of his front door as his left stays firmly planted in his pocket. The interior of the house is maybe a degree or so warmer than the outside air, and the contrast lands softly on his cheeks for a moment as the door clicks shut behind him.

His mother sits on the couch in the living room, only ten or so feet from the door. She’s still wearing her scrubs, but her laptop is on her lap all the same. Their eyes meet, and Evan knows he won’t be able to brush past her and get to his room. The suspicion only confirmed when she opens her mouth, and that’s when he finally places the expression on her face; shock.

“Have you seen this? The note that Connor Murphy...?”

Evan nods, finally closing the distance between the living room half of the room and the entrance part. His limbs warm the further in he walks, but his hands continue to fiddle with his sweatshirt hem all the same, his neck bowed. He can’t bring himself to meet Heidi’s eyes.

“It’s all over everyone’s Facebook.”

She looks back at her computer screen.

“Dear Evan Hansen…” She shakes her head slowly, letting out one long sigh like a deflated and punctured balloon.“Did you… you wrote this? The note?”

Evan nods again.

“I didn’t know.”

“No one did,” Evan says, taking a tiny step forward. He gestures with one hand in the rush to assure her, still at the level of his hem.

“No, that’s not what I...I didn’t know that you...that you were…” Her voice can be so soft, so gently imploring, almost tenuously polite even to her own son. Like she’s terrified of saying the wrong thing, and she knows how to cushion her words in case it goes wrong. Hearing something that sounds so similar to his own brain pains him for a moment. “...hurting like that. That you felt so...I didn’t know. How did I not know?”

“Because I never told you.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

He shakes his head, bowing his neck further and pressing his lips into a line.“I lied. About...so many things. Not just Connor. Last summer, I just...I felt so alone…”

She speaks again as she always does, right in front of him when he needs her presence - soft, supportive, her voice gravelly with how serious it is. “You can tell me.”

Shaking his head against the building pressure of tears, Evan chokes out “you’ll hate me.”

“Oh, Evan.”

“You should. If you knew what I tried to do. If you knew how I am, how,” the hand gestures return with a vengeance, emphasizing nothing in particular. “...broken I am.”

“I already know you, and I love you.”

That gets him to break. He’d been slowly edging forward towards the couch throughout the conversation, but with that, he drops to perch on the edge of the cushion.

“I’m so sorry,” is all he can say, and Heidi takes his hands with a gesture that makes him feel more seven than seventeen, and it’s then that the vacuum around his throat finally lifts and he falls apart.

***

He feels like a goddamn fool.

Larry should be - well, he should be furious, shouldn’t he? This kid waltzed into his life, his family’s life, to build up some fairy tales about what his son was supposed to be and then he has to go and tear it all down just when they need them the most. He should be blind with a white-hot rage, like the one he’d felt when they got the call that early September day. He should be breaking things and making shout-filled phone calls.

Anger can be quiet, he reassures himself. Anger can be silent. Anger can be standing up from a table and staring down someone who lied without saying a word. Anger can be walking so that your steps make no noise against the floor and keeping heavy eye contact, being the last to leave the room. Anger can be leaving a kid who made a mistake to fend for himself when he was practically the son you never really had an hour before.

Larry passes a hand over his face with perhaps more force than necessary.

God, he’s not angry. He’s just a fool.

Connor’s been buried six feet under the ground for over three months, but Larry still half expects to hear him call him a fool to his face. Or probably some expletive-riddled alternative. When the words never come, he appears strangely off-balance. He tilts right where he stands in the garage, driving his fist into the nearest object - conveniently, a wall. His knuckles crack on impact and he regrets the eruption immediately but still, he doesn’t shed a tear for either the punch or for his son.

Apparently missing Connor turned Larry into some faded and worn version of his outbursts.

That thought sobers him right up, and he takes a deep, controlled breath in response. The movement reminds him of his daughter, how she does the same over almost every family breakfast and trying conversation. He’d be admiring her self-control if he wasn’t lacking so much himself. Still, he manages to calm himself enough that he lowers his fist from the wall, wincing all the way as his skin snags on the rough concrete. He turns back to his previous task. Any given member of the family would scold him at the sight of the baseball memorabilia, a fact that he knows well and has tested one too many times. The cards are an addiction he can’t quite kick, but it’s a preferable one to pulling out the whiskey in his desk drawer. Or whatever the hell Connor had been hooked on. Dealing with the memorabilia is easier than dealing with the mediocre reaction and the stew of feelings he has. Breaking down into tears would be easier. Flying into a blind rage would be preferable. Instead, he’s just sedentary and mindlessly occupying himself.

Larry knows that he should be joining his girls, trying to be strong, to kick away habits in favor of human connection. He should be allowing himself to process grief in a natural way, as the grief counselor said at the very beginning of this whole nightmare. In so many ways, he’s right back at square one. But at least this time around, things are not as hazy. With Evan and his stories and his emails - things were better, happier. But they were fuzzy, too. Now he’s wide awake, but he can’t find it in himself to tear away from the all-consuming sorting and looking and sorting and looking that the garage requires. The task is a thousand times emptier without Evan asking questions and filling up the negative space in the garage in a way he rarely filled up any other rooms, but it’s a distraction and a release, and Larry - who has always, always been a fool - takes the piles of Orioles cards under his hands for the blessing and curse that they are.

***

“I deluded myself to think that - to try and justify it as though maybe, maybe I wasn’t the only person who craved a normal life - who craved being accepted, being part of something bigger than myself. It’s no excuse, I know that - there is no excuse. But I hoped that I was helping other people when really all I was doing was bolstering myself. I hoped that maybe I wasn’t the only broken person.”

The only broken person.

From the moment Evan spoke those words, Zoe hasn’t been able to get them out of her head.

So many other parts of his speech present themselves for her to mull over, to cry over, to scream and be furious about. After all, quite a bit of deceit was revealed. The freshness of their presumed break-up, their family tensions being aired for the whole internet to see, and, of course, Evan’s backdated and misread and completely and blatantly nonexistent relationship with Connor all battle for dominance on her heavily-weighed mind, but above all are those echoing words.

The only broken person.

When she reaches her room, where she’d run out of force of habit rather than any real intent, she collapses back against her door. It clicks satisfyingly against the frame. She barely hears the sound before she’s cringing away. Something about the combined sensation of the door moving and the unexpected sound clash in her mind. Zoe expects the door to crash open at any second, and she chokes on tears and sobs and the stilted, heavy air in her room as she tries to put as much distance between the door and her as possible.

It takes a moment for reality to return to her, and she stills halfway between her door and her bed, the hardwood floor biting into her calloused fingers and sensitive palms. Her head aches, her heart aches, and all she can think is the only broken person, only they’re not in Evan’s voice, they’re in hers. The words drip with so much Murphy family venom that she can feel them trail a burning path down her throat and brand themselves into her upper mouth until her vision fills with little white dots.

But Zoe is nothing if not resilient. She has always been the last one standing, the strongest and sturdiest, the one with the best poker face who is willing to play the game. And so Zoe pushes herself up in a wave, hands to elbows to give herself the momentum needed to move upwards. Once she finds her feet she staggers forward towards the bed. She can barely see in her darkened room. The only light comes from the stars outside her window, but they’re blurred around her tears. She curls onto her duvet without crawling underneath, bunching it between her arms as though it could be another person instead of just fabric. For a moment the blanket might be Evan - she’s grown so used to his weight beside her that lying without him is cold and lonely by contrast. And a moment later she can even imagine it’s Connor like it had been when they were little kids. No matter what she thinks, however, it really is just cloth.

It’s a step up from lying on the ground, at least. A small comfort in a day that has been filled with anything but.

She’d told him she loved him in this room. On this bed, this duvet. He’d told her that he loved her, and she’d felt safe, certain for the first time that no one was on the other side of the door. That they were truly alone in her room, the rest of the world falling to the wayside. He’d murmured the words into her lips, peppered them across her face with her freckles, spoke them each time with a reverence deeper than any devotion she’d ever heard until she was incapable of doubting the truth in the words. Not a single moment passed where she doubted that she was loved while they were together.

In the aftermath, she has to doubt every single moment, and that somehow makes everything worse.

So much hurts. There is a Connor-shaped hole in her that he punched into her himself, one that Evan expanded and twisted with his declarations that Connor really did love her, that he didn’t want to hurt her. And there’s a new Evan-shaped hole in her chest and in her bed and in her soul that she never would have expected existing in August. Her phone won’t stop ringing, either, and the ringtone her friends picked out as a joke about how bubbly Zoe was is starting to repeat so incessantly in her head that she’s ready to crawl right out of her skin.

She could put her phone on do not disturb, but instead, she throws it as hard as she can across the room. Some part of her, the part of her that shadowed Connor incessantly and took some sick pleasure from the familiar rhythm of her parent’s fights, wants desperately to hear the phone shatter. But it’s thrown from an awkward angle, so her hopes aren’t high for destruction. All the same, when she hears it buzzing against the floorboards she is disproportionately disappointed.

Zoe wants to scream. She wants to get up and really shatter her phone like Connor and Evan shattered her family. She wants to settle on her heart and her soul by feeling either love or hate and not some jagged mix of both. Mostly, though, she’s tired. She has always been the strongest of all of them, the last one standing, the ever-composed and happiest, but her legs are beginning to shake under the strain of standing stock-still. For the first time, she thinks she understands why her family takes to shouting under the slightest duress. Anything must be better than leaving everything she experiences to weigh on her chest until she holds so much that the pain of it all starts to jolt her.

Maybe the most suffocating part of the whole situation is that she knew all along. Knew that his lies were too good to be true. Knew that Connor would never say those things, even if he didn’t hate her (and now she’ll never know whether he did.) Knew that Evan’s stories, for all their sincerity, didn’t hold up to any given timeline. From the moment he sat at her dinner table and fumbled over a conversation about the wretched skiing trips, she knew not a word that came out of his mouth was true. If she looks back, she knows she never really believed him. But instead of saying anything, she kept her mouth shut just like she always did. She swallowed her pride and his lies because they went down easier than the idea of never knowing for certain, of living the rest of her life in limbo over what Connor thought of her. They hurt less than the idea that she’d helped lead to his demise.

She knew all along, but she went along with his story all the same because the cracks in her sentry became more pronounced day after day, the chest-crushing anxiety that sometimes made her wonder if her heart finally succumbed to a heart attack and the blatant disregard for her own physical safety as she moved through her day only multiplying into dizzying numbers. She splintered under the constant pressure and the unrelenting lights like she never had before, and she was seconds away from falling to the ground before Connor died and even closer than that when Evan walked into their lives. Before that dinner, she had wished with a futile hope - one she couldn’t remember using since she was small - that Connor hadn’t taken so much from her, including the only way out. His pain overshadowed everyone else’s, and once he was gone nothing was left to hide hers behind. Evan’s lies eased it, propped her up. Maybe that’s why she grit her teeth, flashed a smile, and accepted it.

Connor may have been broken, and Evan too, but they were far from the only ones.

Zoe curls further into her bed, searching for something solid to grip onto, before she pushes herself upright just as she always does.

***

Cynthia runs out of tears sometime around the fortieth email.

It was bound to happen at some point - she can only physically produce tears for so long, after all - but she can’t help but feel hollow as her eyes dry and her breaths begin to steady out. Her head begins to grow heavier with the familiar fatigue that follows crying, but none of the satisfaction follows it. No resolution to the truth that made her cry appears. She wishes she would just continue crying instead of sitting still and empty on her son’s bed.

Instead, she turns another page and reads until her eyelids dry out and her eyes catch on them as she moves them back and forth, left to right, as though her life depends on that one action.

Now - now she can see it. How much each one of these, even the ones from ‘Connor,’ just drip Evan all over. He’d had her fooled, he truly had, but now that she knows he wrote them she can’t unsee it. The words are a little too stiff and structured to be her son’s. They are so much like Evan himself, pieced together to try and make others happy while sacrificing his own happiness. Common sense dictates that she’d miss that at first when she barely knew him (and barely understood Connor). Now that she knows him so well-

Well. Maybe she doesn’t really know him at all. That’s the thought that really stings.

Cynthia looks up from the page. Her daughter had made it a foot or so into Connor’s room without Cynthia hearing at all. A pang of guilt hits her as she takes in Zoe’s bloodshot eyes and eerily still features, save for the bottom lip being worried between her teeth. She’d been forgotten again. Cynthia had forgotten her again.

The severity of the guilt feels dampened, somehow, but she’s not quite sure why.

Zoe doesn’t say anything. Where Cynthia is so accustomed to Connor’s explosive words, Zoe is always silent, something Cynthia never quite wraps her head around. The opposite is also true, of course. Where she is used to Connor’s weighty silence, Zoe always manages to surprise her with a sarcastic mutter or an occasional scathing sentence. Only since his death has her voice ever raised above a normal speaking tone when speaking with her or Larry, and only then to scold Cynthia for defending Connor.

Something has to replace Zoe’s occasional shouting at Connor, Cynthia supposes, but the earlier guilt crawls back and kills the thought.

Instead of speaking, Cynthia just watches as Zoe crosses the line of bookshelves on the front wall and nestles herself comfortably on the floor between two of them. The location is an odd choice, but Cynthia can’t find it in herself to be surprised.

(Of course, Cynthia wouldn’t know that that spot is where Zoe always used to sit, mostly in middle school before Connor completely tore their relationship to shreds. Back when Connor would let Zoe sit and do her homework while he drew or read instead of chasing her out of the room if she so much as crossed a foot in front of his door. She wouldn’t know how many hours Zoe spent quietly consoling Connor and curling up to sleep on the floor in the months before Connor kicked her out and she was forced to sleep in front of his door instead, just so he knew she was close.

Zoe stopped halfway through freshman year. She had to. But the habit of sitting nestled between the two bookshelves remains two years later.)

Cynthia doesn’t speak. She doesn’t know what she would say if she did. She just sits, and Zoe sits near her. After a beat, Zoe holds one hand out expectantly. Cynthia divides about a fourth of the emails off the top of her stack after only a moment of deliberation to hand them to her. They look so large in her daughter’s hand, and Cynthia is abruptly reminded just how young Zoe is. She recognized the same fact the night that Connor - well. Zoe had a similarly lost edge in her eyes that night. Cynthia had looked into those eyes, the eyes that Zoe and Connor shared, and that's when Cynthia realized no one had ever taught her this. She’d read her fair share of parenting books once Connor started to go downhill, but no one prepared her for that moment. For the look in Zoe’s eyes when she realized Connor was gone, when Cynthia was the one to tell her for good. No one can ever teach you how to handle that.

That was the first time Cynthia realized just how young Zoe truly was since normally she was so carefully guarded and built up that she seemed several years older. But Cynthia had let herself forget, again, how young and small her daughter was.

Now Zoe, the version Cynthia is truly seeing for the first time, flips through pages at a rapid speed. Her eyes scan over every line.

“I can’t believe I read these,” Zoe whispers. Cynthia can’t tell if Zoe meant for her mother to hear it or not. “I can’t believe I…”

“Believed it?” She offers, bitterness curling into the words. They’re nasally, probably because of all the crying. Zoe doesn’t respond, just flips another page with a light scoff.

They read in silence for some time. A shadow falls across the doorway. When Cynthia glances up, it’s to see her husband leaning against the doorframe. His lips are in their same perpetual thinned form, his forehead creased and the corners of his eyes hardened.

No one taught her how to fix any of this. She should know how, shouldn’t she? It should be on her to fix this. Not a group of teenagers who can barely hold themselves together while they scatter, no, it should have been her to provide that for them. She should have taken on their burden, their pain, because that was her job. She was too caught up in her own grief to save theirs and so they acted rashly and painfully, just as she has done by trusting them, just as Connor did - she can’t let this all happen again, not when circumstances are so dire. She must fix everything for them.

But Larry is in Connor’s room, instead of hiding away downstairs, and so when he holds out a silent hand for more papers she relinquishes half of her stack without much thought. And the three of them stand their ground, flipping through fabricated pages silently but together. They are closer together than they’ve been in years.

It’s a start, maybe.

Cynthia - for all that has been torn away from her day by day, second by second, as Evan’s lie crumbled apart slowly - can hope.

***

II. and slowly, quietly, imperfectly

Heidi insists on a session with Dr. Sherman first thing the next day.

It’s a Saturday, so he can’t really deny her request. And she’s already bartered for the whole day off, or so she informs him.

That early winter chill fills the air, the one that makes him feel weirdly like a little kid. Everything is cold enough that snow should coat the ground and purify the landscape, cover in every broken crevice in the ground until the world is a blank slate. But it’s too early for that kind of snow, and he has to settle for greying skies and cheek-stinging wind. The weather is perfect for curling up under the covers with someone you care about, or for visiting your therapist and probably crying until your throat hurts.

But Heidi held him close for so long the night before, and when she’d pulled away it was only when he’d initiated the separation. She had only strayed away from him to make him the matzo ball soup she always made him when he felt sick, anxiety-based or otherwise, as a little kid. Eating it is like stepping into little Evan’s life for just a blissful minute, and for that time he remembers just how much she loves him. It tastes like he thinks caring about someone feels, and Evan is certain he won’t be able to argue with his mother again.

Maybe that was her intent all along with the soup. That would’ve been a pretty impressive con.

Almost all of the Dr. Sherman session is spent spilling his guts of every secret he’s kept over the past few months and chose not to share. All Dr. Sherman does is regard him over his steepled fingers for a moment, nodding all the way. He thought saying everything out loud would make the guilt in his stomach curdle and choke, which it did - he had to stop several times just to catch a breath when recounting everything, and he’d swear he was seconds from passing out or throwing up or something - but by the time his session is over, his soul feels a bit lighter, too. Like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. He’s been experiencing the same sensation since standing in the Murphy’s dollhouse of a life to tear it to the ground - like for once, he can sit up a little straighter and nothing will come crashing down on him. Fewer things can crumble from the sky when everything is already lying on the ground in the rubble.

Heidi’s car waits for him outside - he sees it from the window of Dr. Sherman’s office - but when he finally exits with slightly bloodshot eyes he sees her sitting in the waiting room. She doesn’t fidget like Evan does, her entire body almost wearily still at most times, but he catches her teeth biting at the edge of one nail before she’s up and facing Evan and Dr. Sherman, composed as ever.

Afterward, she’ll ask all kinds of questions about his meds and how the session was and if he’s really okay. But for then it’s kind of nice to just have her there at all. Evan isn’t naïve enough to hope that she’ll be back again, but for that moment he draws strength from her arm looped in his and the warm car he knows is waiting outdoors.

“I’m a bad person,” he says once he’s buckled up in the passenger seat. Before Heidi reaches over to take his hand, he doesn’t realize his hands are shaking. “I’m a terrible person. I knew that, I did, but I couldn’t realize how much - just how terrible.”

“You’re not,” is all Heidi says.

“I am. I did terrible things, and I can’t fix them.”

“You are not a bad person, Evan,” Heidi repeats, a little more forcefully. “I’m your mother. I know you. If you gained something from this situation it was...accidental. You’d never have done this if you didn’t want to help them.”

“But I didn’t,” he parrots, ignoring how completely she understood his motivation without him explaining it to her. “I mean - I wanted to help them, but I knew what I could gain. I...I knew I was hurting them but I did it anyway. I never helped them.”

She’s quiet for a moment, her other hand reaching to cup his left hand. “The world isn’t so binary, Ev,” she finally settles on. “This may have been bad, but you’ll find a way to balance it out. Just because this hurts now doesn’t mean that you’re a bad person forever. If you were truly bad you wouldn’t feel like this.”

He shrugs, trying to hide his burning eyes.

“You’re a...a good person, with a kind heart,” she says, pushing past Evan’s noise of disbelief. “You did something bad. But I know you, Evan. You’ll make it right. Life is messy and complicated, but you love so fiercely, Ev, and you care so much. You’d never want to hurt someone. That doesn’t make you bad. No one is really bad or good, anyway. We live in a complex, dark world, and you’re about as good as they come.”

At last, he shakes his head to break the fog around it. “You have to say that. You’re my mother.”

With an airy laugh, she withdraws her hands, choosing instead to wrap them around the wheel. “Maybe so,” she says, her crooked grin returning. Evan smiles back at her.

***

A Jazz Band concert is scheduled for the next week.

Zoe practically begs off sick. God, she wants to beg off sick. She doesn’t want to plaster a smile on her face (because she can’t do that without thinking about him) and she doesn’t want to look out to the audience and see her parents looking politely interested but privately bored (because that’s him all over, too) and she really doesn’t want to play guitar in front of everyone.

That’s him, too. Both hims. Every all-consuming him in her life.

But if there is one thing Zoe has inherited from her family, it’s the all-consuming need to arrive where she’s supposed to at the time she’s supposed to. Her parents did, too, so they drive her and wait for the performance. Half-asleep, her feet make the journey backstage with her guitar case clasped in hand. She nods absently to some of her classmates, at least the ones who are nice enough to acknowledge her with some warmth. Between the letter and her relationship and subsequent breakup with Evan, most had taken to ignoring her or sending icy glares in her direction. Any true confrontations normally take place behind a screen, but Zoe is still distinctly shut out from most of the school.

As she pulls her guitar free from the case and begins tuning it back to standard instead of open D, as she’d tuned it for the sake of an earlier song and was too lazy to change back, a girl who plays sax compliments her outfit. That comment is probably the nicest direct thing anyone has said to her since the letter came out. Though Zoe only abstractly remembers picking out an appropriate outfit and applying her festive winter makeup, she scrounges up a smile and thanks her classmate all the same.

The smile untucks something from the corner of her brain, and suddenly she’s extremely hopeful Evan won’t be there.

He has no reason to be, she reminds herself when trailing out towards the stage. He has no reason to be, she repeats as she sits and everyone settles on stage and in the audience. He has no reason to be, she reminds herself as they launch into the first song after the director’s brief remarks. Don’t look. He has no reason to be here.

She looks anyway.

Zoe hopes that’s not his outline lurking towards the back of the theater. She really hopes he wouldn’t put them both through that. Zoe has to be at the concert, of course, since she has no choice. But Evan - Evan was at liberty to make the decision to stay home. Evan could stay away from this experience and spare them both a bit of pain. God knows they both have more than enough hurt to last a lifetime. For him to see her now would be too familiar, too intimate. After all those hours in her room, him tracing her movements with his eyes and applauding enthusiastically after each and every song - tracing the curve of the unconscious smile with his eyes while she played and then tracing it with his own mouth, both their hands tracing everywhere, every outline, every happy little smile line - him being in the same room is too much.

She knows it’s him. Not realizing the figure is him is probably impossible, when she knows - knew - knows him so well. But she pretends she doesn’t recognize him all the same, letting her eyes fall back to the other side of the theater, a stupid little fake smile tucked in her lips and her fingers plucking out the familiar melody.

This is one of her first Jazz Band concerts without Connor. Although he normally sank so low in his seat that Zoe assumed he was sleeping, he was always present. And in her haste to forget Evan she remembers Connor all over again, because the two are forever and always linked directly in her mind. One doesn’t come to mind without the other lurking just behind.

She half-expects to see Connor in the audience all the same, but when her gaze falls to her parents, they are only the two figures visible.

Her fingers never slip on the strings, but she forgets where she is for a moment. Instead, she is back in her room, Connor sunk low in her beanbag, clapping politely as she strums a basic chord progression. If she strains she can remember his eyes, how they softened and narrowed to see her, like looking into a mirror as always. Gentle, almost, although the word is laughable to her now. And then a fresher memory, when Connor’s eyes fill with steel and snatch the guitar from her grasp - the siblings are quiet now because Cynthia and Larry are asleep, but his words carry with the harshness laced through them. Anger, too. Not his normal anger, not senseless, not splintered doors and screaming “fuck you” and the bitter scent of destruction, but instead something edged in concern, like an overused washcloth and a scabbing wound and blood sharp on her tongue from biting her cheek. Her memory is blurred because she was tipped over that hazy edge of intoxication where everything was cause for giggles and everything was a thousand times more consequential, but his eyes are clear where everything else is soft at the edges. Her intoxication causes his angry eyes - she drove herself home alone well past midnight, and he took it upon himself to be concerned. She has her own anger couched between giggles. Don’t pretend you don’t do this all the time, Connie, I’m just trying to be like you, you know, that’s all I ever wanted. And Connor’s strained voice just barely reaching normal volume, stone-cold sober for once, saying take that fucking back, you don’t want to be me, I’m a fuckup and you’re- when Zoe, startlingly honest in a way only being high can provoke, replies oh but I’m already as good as dead on my feet so I might as well do as you do, what’s the point in pretending I’ll ever be okay while you destroy yourself, can’t I want this-

Connor takes the guitar from her hands and smashes it to pieces against her dresser before she can finish, and then she’s back on stage with applause filtering through her ears.

***

Evan stands in the back of the auditorium, watching Zoe play guitar with an intensity he can’t remember watching her with before, and suddenly it’s difficult to breathe.

Evan is no stranger to panic attacks, but this is not the same throat tightening that panic brings him. Panic is sharper and quicker, but this is all-encompassing and gradually taking over his lungs in a new and more frightening way. Tearing his eyes away from her, striking on the illuminated stage as she always is, he makes his way out of the double doors and into the empty hallway before he can even begin to understand why his breaths are difficult to come by. Guilt is a familiar force behind his pricking eyes, and he falls back against the (blessedly empty) corridor wall with perhaps a bit more force than necessary, his head tilted back to hit against the stone wall before the rest of his body. Guilt. Shame. Longing. Love. All of them are spurred from the sight of Zoe for the first time since the confession, and they make a bitter combination burning down his throat like the unwanted sting of alcohol. They’re just as all-consuming, too.

Evan brings his hands to his face and just tries to breathe.

(It’s difficult because he used to breathe the same air as her. As often as she’d taken the air from his lungs she’d gifted it back to him, easing the painful jolt of being alive with a small smile and her hand in his. He’d stolen hers in return, cut her off mid-song to feel her breath in a hot puff against his lips until it hitched in anticipation of his lips pressing to hers. Those safe moments where they breathed easier even though they shared almost every breath, every joke and giggle and sentence buried into each other’s mouths. She made it so easy and natural where now there is only difficulty. Just seeing her makes it impossible to get air into his lungs. It’s difficult because he’s reminded that he loves her too much to be healthy and he’s lost the right to do so.)

Once he catches his breath he pulls his phone out. He doesn’t have a ton of options, but he hesitates all the same. Finally, he sends his mother a text, and she responds at once, so she must be out of class.

Leaving is probably the safest option for everyone involved.

He leaves his haunt outside the auditorium doors, opting instead to make the trek outside and wait. As soon as he’s out of the door there’s a shock to his system, the cold night air washing over him like a bucket of freezing water. He breathes the air in anyways, and it goes down easier than any of the air indoors had. From the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of silver. His mother’s car.

Evan meets her halfway, jogging to meet the car and open the door quickly.

“Hey,” she says, hesitant and cheery all at once. Her class must have gone well. She opens her mouth again as though to speak, but the words die on her lips. When Evan is silent, she tries again. “How was…I mean, did you talk to-”

“It was fine,” he cuts off. His voice is soft out of fear that if he gets louder he’ll get emotional. “I didn’t. I saw them, but I didn’t... do anything.”

“That’s okay,” she hurries to say. “That’s perfectly fine, sweetheart. It’s probably better that way.”

Evan nods, tilting his head to hit the window pane.

“I guess you just want to go home?” Evan nods mutely for a second time. “I’ll order a pizza or something, yeah? That sounds good?” With Evan’s third nod and a subsequent little smile on his face, Heidi nods herself and finally shifts back into drive.

***

Admittedly, they have a little difficulty focusing on high school jazz band jazz, but Larry and Cynthia make the attempt valiantly anyway.

In normal times, or times of pride instead of grief, both of them excel at small talk. Be it career schmoozing, dealing with extended family, or interacting with anyone from Connor and Zoe’s schools, it’s a necessary evil for almost every aspect of their lives. They have small talk down to a fine art, always ready to uphold their image and chat with a friendly face.

It is not normal times, but they try anyway.

The first parents they see avert their eyes and hurry through the theater doors before either of them open their mouths. The air is stiff with all the eyes on them, but the gazes are quick to drop away when they glance around as no one is keen on making eye contact. Cynthia goes out of her way to say hi to one of her friends from the Parent’s Association, but when she’s only met with a strained smile and a wave, the Murphy parents wordlessly decide to cut their losses and just find seats.

By force of habit, they sit leaving one seat open on the aisle. Neither says anything about it, nor do they move to fill the seat. Better to leave it empty than to pretend they didn’t wish it was full.

As far as Larry is concerned, the concert can’t be over quickly enough. That urgent coil only grows in his chest when the kids file out and settle down on stage. No one exactly looks like they want to be at a Jazz Band concert because they are a bunch of high schoolers on a Friday night with better and stupider things to be doing. Impatience threads through everyone, and as an event the concert appears to be doomed.

Cynthia’s gaze bounces between the students on stage, but Larry focuses on his daughter, his vision practically tunneling to her. Her eyes steady on a point towards the back wall, but her smile doesn’t waver throughout. Larry absently wonders if she’s employing the technique she used in middle school back when she had terrible stage fright, where she focused her attention on a focal point in the back instead of looking around the audience. He can’t blame her if she is. But towards the bridge of the song (at least, Larry thinks it’s the bridge. He never can tell with jazz) her eyes slide along the rows of seats until they land right by him and Cynthia. Zoe’s face tightens almost imperceptibly, her grin thinning just the slightest bit. A shadow passes over her eyes, and Larry’s sure that if he weren’t her father he wouldn’t notice. Her eyes divert a moment later, but the shadow won’t get out of Larry’s head.

It's the closest he has seen to Connor in a long time.

The rest of the evening passes without incident, which is all they can truly hope for. They greet Zoe in the hallway afterward. Larry is a little late, as he made the trip back to the car for Zoe’s bouquet. When he nears Cynthia, he can see that she’s finally gotten ahold of Zoe. Her eyebrows pinch together just slightly as her hands lightly rest on their daughter’s elbows. Still, Cynthia practically radiates pride, and neither Zoe, Larry, or the other students and parents are heartless enough to take that away from her.

Larry presents Zoe the bouquet with very little ceremony, simply bending down to press a kiss to her cheek. Zoe rolls her eyes when Larry straightens, but her unconscious smile is back all the same.

“Congrats, kid,” he says, gesturing to the flowers.

“It’s the same thing I’ve been doing since middle school.”

“It’s damn impressive-” Larry starts, but he never finishes the sentence.

“Didn’t you help arrange some of those?” Cynthia presses with little preamble. “That’s a first.”

“I mean, kind of?” Zoe replies, making a vague hand gesture towards the auditorium. “It was a first, yeah, but I didn’t really do-”

“Nonsense, I’m sure it was all your-”

“I really didn’t-”

“Either way,” Larry cuts in, raising his voice just a little to cut off their identical, increasingly frustrated tones and scrunching faces, “We’re proud of you, Zo’.”

“We are.” Cynthia seizes her in a sudden hug, and Zoe pretends to gag again, but Larry is pretty sure it’s at least seventy percent for show.

***

III. it all mends

Zoe drives herself to the orchard.

She can’t even get out of the car. She doesn’t think that’s why she drove there at all, really. She didn’t really intend to get out and exist in that space - the one that screams The Connor Project all over and hides Evan in every shadow. She didn’t really intend to do anything, after all, except for getting in the car. Her hands guided her to her final destination.

Maybe the intention, all along, was just to see it. She hasn’t even seen the outside, and that strikes her as wrong, for some reason. Because a dull ache won’t leave her chest, and seeing the orchard will either ease it or transform it into a sharp pain. At this point, she’s willing to take either over the constant, infuriating, numbing guilt and grief slowly gnawing away at her.

It helps a little, and a little goes a long way.

Even though she just sits in the car, the air is easier to breathe, somehow. Knowing that something new, something with the possibility of a future, came out of the Connor Project Fiasco is...nice. What they did wasn’t completely in vain. Something will live beyond Connor, beyond all of them, that shares his name.

A kind of karmic balance is in that cycle, Zoe thinks. For all the pain Connor caused her, something beautiful will share his name forever. Other kids can go to the orchard as they did, grow up and older and more mature. Maybe those kids will gain just an ounce of joy from the growing trees and emergency-landing lake. Maybe the bad things he did don't have to mean he’s remembered as bad forever. Maybe this orchard will be the grey area in Connor’s memory, where black and white mix and mingle and lay out some kind of future.

That grey area can live in her, as well. Because Connor was the brother who made her life a living hell with his fists and his raised voice, but he was also the brother that taught her the constellations and drew her doodles of flower-wielding superheroes as an apology until he hit middle school. He may have given her nightmares throughout her teen years, but before then he was the one to chase them away with an arm slung around her shoulders. He protected her and made her need protection all at once, and at that moment outside the orchard, with her head cradled in her hands as she sits in the driver’s seat, Zoe realizes she doesn’t have to remember him as one or the other. The good and the bad of what he was can be simultaneously true.

It’s that thought that accompanies her home safely and in relative peace.

***

Evan lies sprawled on his bed.

In terms of sitting down, sprawling quite different from what he’s used to. Normally he is a huncher rather than a sprawler, always sitting with his legs crossed or folded and curled over a book or a laptop instead of lying horizontally.

In that context, he’s definitely branching out in this new horizontal - or really diagonal - position, all across his bed at an obnoxious angle. He takes up space in a way he never used to, and for once, his spine doesn’t curl reflexively as though in a shell. A journal is nestled under his fingertips, the possibility for creation only seconds away. He’s sure the succulents nestled around his room in little bursts of green help ease the flow of oxygen into his lungs.

It’s a nice day.

It’s nice to let it just be a nice day. He’d never appreciated nice days before, really.

“Lazy day?” Heidi says, popping her head into his doorway. He nods absently, bent over a page with a pen clenched in his hand, before he really looks up and smiles at her. She smiles back. “I’m leaving for a shift in five. Enjoy it!”

“I will,” he promises, his voice quiet and steady. She smiles again.

“You’re like a cat, always curled in the sun,” she comments with an easy finality before leaving his room. And, well. Evan can’t really dispute that fact.

***

When Cynthia drives to the orchard, Larry is absorbed in his phone on the passenger side and Zoe gazes out the window in the back. They used to make that drive all the time, and something about the path is achingly familiar. As with all familiar things, it makes Connor’s absence clear as day to Cynthia. At this point, that ache is almost comforting to her. Though never quite gone completely, missing him has begun to dull out into something not as noticeable. She almost feels guilty that the experience has eased for her; some part of her thinks every day should be as painful as the first was. Maybe that’s what Connor would have wanted, or maybe he would have wanted to just disappear from their minds completely. She’ll never know, and she refuses to make up her mind about it, so she leaves herself to be guilty alone.

Once the familiar gate of Ellison park comes in sight, Cynthia parks the car in record time. They each grab an assortment of items and hurry past the plaques by the entrance. The day is too nice to spend fighting back tears.

Larry spreads a picnic blanket, and Zoe lays out their food with a practiced precision and a critical eye for plating. For once, nothing plastic hides in their movements. They really appear natural and relaxed. If Cynthia didn’t know better, she may say they look happy.

It may be the closest they ever get, though what that says about them Cynthia doesn’t know.

The Murphy’s are content to eat in silence. None are particularly adept with words, and fighting would only sully the beautiful afternoon sunshine. That’s why no one argues when Larry pulls a book free and flips it open. The same applies to Zoe popping in a pair of earbuds and scrolling idly through her phone. (Cynthia almost lets a snarky comment slip about enjoying nature instead of her music, but she bites her tongue at the last second.) That leaves Cynthia to enjoy the park, and she does so from her spot seated criss-cross on the ground. She gazes out to the horizon line. Saplings dot the bright sky, new life growing where destruction and deadeends once dominated. Their tiny frames stand in silhouette against the blue, and Cynthia's eyes burn a little with the contrast.

Change buzzes in their air and clings to her skin, and for once it seems like a good thing. A positive thing. Loss brought them to that point, and loss will trail them for all their future days, but the product of their grief is also the reason those trees will fight year after year and grow into something large enough for someone to climb and find comfort in. Some kind of balance is in that, isn't there? Some kind of benefit to living in the grey area between past pain and future hope. She and Zoe catch eyes over the edge of Zoe’s phone, and Zoe gives her a tiny smile. Her freckles, inherited from Cynthia, wrinkle a little in response to the movement.

“It’s balanced,” she says softly, as though she read Cynthia’s thoughts. In the afternoon light, she almost looks like Connor used to. Cynthia, as Connor’s mother, will never see the similarities end. But somewhere in Zoe’s eyes is hope and life and a bright, albeit tumultuous, future. She will never see that in Connor’s eyes, although the two sets are so identical they were often mistaken for twins.

Cynthia nods, and her responding smile is genuine and strained and a little bittersweet.

For once, the ground is even beneath their feet, and that may be enough to go forward.

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