#*gritting my fucking teeth so hard they crack* I deserve it i can afford it i deserve it i can afford it i deserve it i can afford it

[dumbbullet]

I've had a trash week of being sad sludge so fuck it, Hozier round 2.

[hoodieofholland]

Okay, what Im requesting really angst so I get if you don’t want write,

boyfriend!Tom starting to feel things to his co-star while y/n is waiting for him to come back to her and when he coms back he tells her the turth. She runs pf with tears and have a serious car crash and Tom regrets what he did and blames himself for her injures.

(Oh god I love jerk Tom so much)

(love your writings <3)

a/n: took a little while to write this, but it's done, finally! Hahah. Feels like ive been writing a lot of angst lately lol, what you guys think? Thanks anon for requesting, hope you like it!

Warnings: angst, mentions of cheating, heartbreak, mentions of blood, car accident, language.

Broken. That’s how you felt, staring into those brown chocolate eyes, full of regret, guilt and fear. Your heart clenches inside of your chest, desperately trying to find some sort of comfort while your heartbeat only seems to increase each second you pass looking at him.

“What?”, your voice is cracked. Your eyes are glistening with the threatening tears.

You still can hear the reverberation of his words inside of your head: I think I’m having feelings for someone else. Someone else. His co-star. Tom had just admitted to you he was having feelings for his co-star.

You and Tom have been in a relationship long enough to know this would inevitably break your heart into pieces. Those words didn’t even make sense to you. Though both of you were feeling a little off lately, like your relationship wasn’t the same anymore, you were sure this was just a phase, you were willing to bring you two back on track. But right now you could see you were the only one with hope and this made you feel ashamed of just standing in front of Tom, feeling extremely exposed and weak.

He sniffles, averting his gaze to the ground. “I- I’m so sorry, y/n. I didn’t mean to blurt it like that, it’s just-“

You blink your tears away, your whole body shaking slightly, not under your control anymore. Your hands close into fists as you try to control your emotions and the unbearable pressure on your chest. “What is it, Tom? What is happening? I- I can’t understand, I thought-“, you didn’t even know what to say. You bite your lips to prevent you from crying. “Since... since when, Tom?”

He breathed out, cheeks buffing as he runs his hands through his curls. “I don’t know. Honestly”, his voice was full of sadness, “I just- I realized it today”.

You feel your knees getting weaker. “Did you-“, you gulp, too afraid to ask, “Did you cheat on me, Tom? Did you do something with her? Did she touch you? Did you touch her?”

Though you knew pretty well none of that was important anymore, that betraying your feeling while still together was equally as bad as kissing or sleeping with someone else, you couldn’t ignore the feeling that physical contact would make the whole thing worse. You couldn’t stand the thought of being there, waiting for Tom to come home and maybe have a nice dinner so you could enjoy time together and make things work out again, while he was out there fucking another girl.

But he shook his head no, and you released a sigh in relief. He had a frown between his brows, genuinely hurt by the path of that conversation. “I’d never, y/n”, he rubbed his eyes. “I know this doesn’t make me a better of a man, but I- I swear to God I just realized it now. It was today, when we were filming and... and I couldn’t go another minute without telling you this. This is so fucked up and I am so fucking sorry, but I thought that it would be better for both of us if I just told you this and-“

A sob coming from your parted lips breaks his attempt to explain, watching you fall apart for something he has done. Tom didn't stop loving you. It felt different, but he still cared about your feelings and how you'd deal with the fact that your relationship wasn't working anymore. He felt guilty and even disgusted at himself for breaking your heart. But that didn't stop him neither.

"Can we talk about this, darling?", he mumbles, trying to reach your hand, but you step back, body trembling as you fight back the need of giving in to his embrace.

"Don't. Don't call that", you cry out, letting the tears fall freely on your cheeks now. "Fuck, Tom, what did I do? I didn't deserve this. I- I was by your side, I never left. I knew this day would come, but I was trying my best..."

"It's not like that, y/n", he mutters, feeling defeated. He didn't intend to take it this way. He never wanted to make you cry. He promised he would never make you cry. "I've tried. And I love you, I love you so fucking much, but I... I don't know what happened".

You wipes the tears away furiously, too frustrated to care about the look on your face right now. You just didn't want to look fragile, or broken, or weak - all of the things you actually were feeling like.

You look at him clearer, the man you so desperately love, the man you most felt affection to. Tom was everything you always dreamt of. If there was a man you could say you trusted in, it was Tom. And he betrayed your feelings.

It wasn't his fault and you had to admit that. He fell for another woman. He just didn't feel the same about you anymore, and though you were suffering, you couldn't blame it on him. It was just human nature. Life itself, playing tricks on you, when you so certainly believed to have found the love of your life.

"I know", you say through hoarse voice. "I can't blame it on you. It's not your fault. I just- I thought we could work this out, y'know? Thought you wanted this with me". You give him a sad smile and couldn't help but let more tears roll down your face. You felt pathetic and you were sure you looked just like that.

Tom swallows the thick knot on his throat, chest aching at the sign of you. He wanted to say something, but couldn't think about anything good enough.

Ashamed of your position, you nod a couple of times for nothing in special and make your way to the front door.

"Wait! Y/n, what are you- where are you going?", Tom shouted, eyes wide as he tried to take your arm. You pulled it from his reach and raised your hand to prevent him from coming any closer.

"I'm leaving. What else do you expect me to do, Tom?" With bloodshot eyes, you stare at him, lips pressed tightly in a thin line, holding everything in you to not make even more a fool of yourself.

"I don't know", he almost whispers.

You can't seem to contain the growing anger inside of you for his words, sobbing a little more as you try to come up with the right thing to say. Why does he have to do this to you?

"Guess what? I don't know neither. All of a sudden, my long-term boyfriend told me he is falling for another girl. Do you know how much it costs me to look at you right now, Tom? I can't even- I fucking hate you right now and I know it's not even your fucking fault, but I can't help it!" You scream, hand covering your mouth as you try to regain some composure. "Just leave me fucking alone, Tom!"

Without another word, you run to the front door, yanking it open and slamming it shut, letting your whines finally scape through your gritted teeth.

---

Tom checked his phone one more time before slipping into the covers and lay down on his empty bed, facing the ceiling for a long enough time to get sick of it.

His mind was running wild, thinking about the things he said to you, and the thing you said to him. It was hard to face the fact that he made you cry and feel miserable. Tom never intended that. He knew both of you were slipping apart, gradually giving your relationship an end, but that was a whole different level.

He closed his eyes, thinking about the moment you stormed out the door, thinking about the feeling he had previously in the morning, while working with his co-star. It wasn't the strongest thing he felt in his life, it wasn't even near to the things he felt when meeting you, but he knew he should be honest with you from the moment he realized there was something going on.

But even know, he felt like he messed it up real bad.

Tom has been calling you since you stepped out of the house, but you never answered, or called back. He left a message in your voicemail, asking you to come back home so you could talk. Aware of the fact that this had no coming back, Tom just needed to look at you one more time and apologise for being a dick. He couldn't afford to have you out of his life.

And then his phone rang.

He was quick to pick it up and press to his ear, waiting to hear your voice, but what he heard was something much more unexpected.

"Hello, can I please speak with Thomas Stanley?", an unrecognizable voice came to the phone and Tom sat on his bed.

"Uh, yes, it's me. What's the matter?"

"I'm calling because you're at Miss y/n y/l/n's emergency contact. She was brought to the hospital after an accident, a car crash. Miss y/n is passing through an emergency surgery right now and I need to inform someone in the family..."

The woman kept talking, voice too steady for something so breath-taking. Tom was surely out of breath. For a few seconds, he felt like he had gone blind, not able to see anything besides a black spot in the darkness of his room.

He couldn't believe he was hearing that. It couldn't be real. He tried to come up with any excuse, with some explanation, but everything that ever crossed his mind at the moment was the sign of you laying flat on some ciment busy street, blood coming out of the corner of your mouth and eyes wide open with no brightness on them.

"Sir?", the woman spook again and Tom was snapped out of his thoughts.

"Can you give me the address?", he jumped out of bed and started to look for his keys frantically. The woman gave him instructions and he quickly made his way to the living room.

"Fuck... where 'my fucking keys!" He yelled desperately, throwing the pillows on the sofa go the ground to look better. "Fuck!"

Tom sat on the couch, heavy breathing making his whole body shake. His hands holds his head and his eyes go wide. He felt a heat rise in every part of his body, but mainly on his chest.

It was his fault, he knew it. You were supposed to be at home, you were supposed to stay with him. You were going to have dinner together, and you wouldn't be driving before having a car crash.

Why did he mess up? Why did he say those things to you? He shouldn't have let you go outside in that state. He shouldn't

Tom heard the front door crack open, and he raised his head with silly hopes of you stepping inside and all of this being a fucking cruel joke, but instead, it was Harrison passing by.

"Tom, I was just going to- Dude, what happened?" Harrison puts a worried face when he saw the bloodshot eyes, trembling lips and shaking hands, all parts of Tom's nervousness.

He almost couldn't put his voice to work, and if it wasn't for the fact that he needed to reach out the hospital in no time, to make sure you were fine, maybe he wouldn't be able to say a single word.

"You gotta drive me. I can't- I can't find my keys. And she needs me. I need her. I need to find her, Haz. She- fuck, she needs me and I can't find my fucking keys", he said in desperation, letting himself become a sobbing mess in front of his friend.

---

There was no small talk between the two of them whilst the drive to the hospital. It seemed like you have done a long way from home; the distance was killing the eye browned boy.

All that was on his mind now was the thought of you - moments you've spent together, days of happiness and things that he loved about you. He remembered the first time you met, the day he asked you out and the first time he heard you say you loved him. He questioned himself when was the last time you said that, when he heard his name coming out of your lips with an "I love you" next. He couldn't remember and he felt disgusting for that too.

Because Tom realized in the way to the hospital that he couldn't live without you. If you were gone, there would be nothing. He never thought about this day, never thought that one day he'd be losing you, but the bare possibility of this happening made him realize he wouldn't stand it. He needed you, in more ways than just one.

"She'll be fine, Tom", Harrison told him for the third time, when they were sitting in a corridor, waiting for a doctor to call for Tom when you were brought to the room.

"'S all my fault. Shouldn't have fought her. Shouldn't have let her think I didn't love her", Tom muttered more to himself, voice hoarse.

Tom was bouncing his leg rapidly, eyes closed tightly an heart aching for every second he spent without any medic information.

"Mr. Holland?" A voice came next to him, a doctor, a comphreensive smile on his face, which eased Tom a little bit. "Miss y/n is in her room now, you can check on her".

Tom got up immediately, rubbing his sweaty hands on his jeans while walking down the aisle with the doctor to your room. When he reached the place with white walls, white sheets and an audible beep from the machine that was monitoring your heartbeat.

"She's asleep right now, might wake up in about an hour or so. Then a nurse should come check on her", the doctor says, reading through some papers on his clipboard. He sighs lightly and look at Tom, whose eyes are glue on you. "I might say she was lucky, Mr. Holland. It was a serious accident, and others victims didn't have as much luck as Miss y/n", he friendly pats Tom's shoulder. "Don't know what you believe in, but I think you should be thankful. She's a strong girl, she'll be fine", he smiled and after a few seconds, left Tom and you alone in the room, closing the door behind him.

Tom was hesitant, taking small steps towards your bed as he looked cautiously every part of you body. You had some big injuries on your face. There was a bandage on your nose, which was broken when you entered the emergency. Your lips had cuts and there was a purple spot on your forehead and around one of your eyes.

Tom felt sick to his stomach thinking about how much pain you had gone through the last hours. He stood beside your bed, taking your fragile looking hands on his. It was bruised too, and Tom pressed a very light kiss to your palm, letting a silent tear roll down his face till reach his chin.

"I'm so sorry, my love", he whispered with a croaky voice. "You'll be fine, it's gonna be alright", he reassured, more to himself than to you, who was drifted on sleep now, too far from the chaos that was going on outside.

Tom sniffles, rubbing a hand on his wet nose, and blinks a couple of times to get rid of his tears. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I know it's my fault. And I was wrong".

He breathed out, looking at the ceiling as he remembered your conversation that evening. "There's no one I love more than you, y/n. It was dumb of me thinking that there's anyone I might be in love with besides you. It's only you, love, you're the person I can't live without".

Tom felt like a kid, crying over your hand, squeezing it ever so lightly and praying that you might hear his apologies and his pleas.

"And it was unfair of me not putting as much effort as you in this relationship. This is my fault too. But I love you, and I don't care about anything else, your love is the only thing I'm going to focus on when you wake up".

Tom realized that nothing was more important than your relationship to him now. Not even work, which has taken so much of his time that he was slowly slipping apart from you. Not even whatever feeling he fooled himself to believe in. It wasn't true. It was his fear of not being in love with you anymore, of being too far to bring you two together again. But by that moment, Tom knew he couldn't be afraid of nothing else than losing you. And now he just prayed that you could forgive him and the things he said, while he left himself fall in tears and regret.

********

Taglist:

@dreamy-clousds @pinkrockstar19 @onyourgoddamnleft

@spideyspeaches @miraclesoflove @heavenlyholland

@zspideyy @marlenetough @nsxvision

@xoxohollands @siriuslyslyslytherin @mathletemadison

[jooniyah]

Poison Apple : The Second

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Fem Reader ; Min Yoongi x Fem Reader

AU: Yandere!au, Moneylender!Taehyung

Genre: Angst, Mature, Smut rated R

Warnings: NON CON, Hard Yandere behavior, kidnapping, implied forced pregnancy, emotional abuse, violence, blackmail, character death, voluntary starvation, degradation and physical abuse, slapping, cum play, manipulation, profanity, smut, blood, knives, guns, assassins, and murder.

Word count: 22.91 K

Disclaimer:  This is a work of fiction and I do not condone any of the actions of the characters in this fiction. This is to be treated as pure fantasy, and should not be misconstrued to be demeaning the idols in any way. If any of the above warnings cause you discomfort, kindly refrain from reading.

This is a non-consensual setting, please proceed only if you are not triggered by the warnings. All warnings for Chapter 1 apply. I repeat, please be sure to read all the warnings carefully.

Author’s note:  This is the second chapter of the Poison Apple Trilogy. Please make sure to read Part 1 before proceeding. 

Chapter 1   |    Chapter 2 

The man clad in black adjusted the scope of his M107 rifle, making sure his reticle was in perfect position. As he waited for his target, he did a quick sweep of the terraces of the adjacent buildings. No one was about. A faint slippery sheen of dew covered the cracked floors of the terrace he was positioned on. Any time now. He looked at the neon digits glowing on his watch.

Overhead, his skilled ears could pick out the droning of an approaching airplane. His skin felt clammy, possibly due to the side effect of his beta-blockers. Well, he’d finish the job and go have a well-earned vacation. Cold hands weren’t a big side effect, not when his pills gave him razor-sharp precision at shooting. The gangway of the cruise liner was slowly opened to allow passengers on board. The time had come.

He carefully combed his eyes through the influx of passengers, seeking the one face he was looking for. He didn’t even need to take the photo out of his pocket. He had committed the face to memory. And no disguise could fool him, he was ready for everything the target might try to pull off.

Time ticked on. People were walking on the gangway, boarding the ship, waving to their loved ones. But the target was not to be found anywhere. The described person hadn’t arrived, and the sniper had assumed that he could catch the target on the gangway. But as his professional eyes raked through the humans on board, he knew he was wasting his time. He remained in position, watching on as the ship sounded the final horn before gliding smoothly out onto the sea. He dialed the only number on his burner phone.

“Yes?” The tone sounded shrill and eager.

“A no-show. I repeat, it was a no-show.”

“What? Are you sure you didn’t miss-“?

“I never miss a target.”

There was a deep frustrated sigh.

“Fine. Abort and return.”

The sniper proceeded to pack up his gear and prepared to leave.

On the other end of the line, the figure exhaled sharply, muttering curses and bemoaning the failure. Just then, a dark outline materialized in the doorway, causing the figure to jump up, body numb with defeat.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

“I won’t repeat my question again, Mrs.Min.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Then, answer me.”

You remained motionless, staring at the hard-grey table, fingers interweaved.

“Well?” The officer raised his voice, rapping on the table.

“I told you the truth.”

The man scoffed, leaning back in his chair.

“Listen, lady. You know your story sounds shit stupid, right?”

Your voice broke into a whisper.

“But it is true.”

He rolled his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was dripping with sarcasm.

“Mr. Kim killed your husband? For you? He’s obsessed with you?”

“Yes.”

“You are giving yourself way too much credit, lady.”

You gritted your teeth, refusing to look at him. He clicked his tongue.

“Well, if your absurd story is true, where is your husband’s body?”

“I don’t know.”

He tsked under his breath. “So what proof do you have to tie Mr.Kim to this alleged murder?”

“None.”

He got up abruptly, shaking his head in irritation. He pointed a finger at you.

“You’re wasting my time. And for the record, Mr.Kim has been nothing but helpful in this investigation.”

You slowly raised your head. “What? What did he say?”

“Do you good to hear it and weave another absurd story, wouldn’t it?”

You watched him hesitate at the door, his hand resting on the handle. “If you are so innocent, Mrs. Min, why didn’t you report your husband missing?”

An angry fuse went off in your brain.

“Why would I report him missing, if he was already dead?”

“Can you afford an attorney, Mrs.Min?”

“I-What?”

The officer stared at you, pursed his lips, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

The court-appointed attorney was a tall, curvy woman in her early thirties. She looked calm and had an air of high maintenance about her. You wondered how she could have accepted to defend you. Maybe the woman did pro-bono work. She probably had rich clients. Rich. You were once rich. When Yoongi was alive. Yoongi. A bitter feeling coursed through your heart.

Another detective accompanied the officer who had previously interrogated you. They settled across you and the attorney, scraping chairs on the floor as they took their seats.

“Well, Mrs. Min,” the officer began, “we understand you have mortgaged all your property.”

“Yes.”

“So, what happened to the money?” The officer flicked through papers on a clipboard. “50 million dollars, wasn’t it?”

The second detective pushed himself forward. “More importantly, where is your husband?”

A dull throb started in your temples and seared across your skull. You could shout yourself hoarse that Yoongi was dead, but none of these people would believe you.

When he received no reply, the detective persisted.

“You got rid of him because you wanted the money to yourself, didn’t you?”

The attorney interjected in a harsh tone.

“My client will not answer that.”

“You hid the money someplace, so you could go and retrieve it later.”

“Officer, you will not harass my client like this.”

“I won’t, if she agrees to speak the truth.”

The woman turned to you; harsh impatience evident on the curl of her lips.

“Not a word, Y/N.”

You nodded weakly. You had told everything to the cops already. No one believed in you, not one soul believed that Kim Taehyung murdered Min Yoongi to obtain you. It was nightmarish to go on a walk, people threw such malicious looks your way. What had you ever done to deserve this?

The officers poked and prodded for some more time, and finally packed their papers and left. While you walked out of the interrogation room, your attorney asked you to join her for lunch. You attempted to decline; you weren’t in the mood for lunch. Or anything for that matter.

But you had nowhere to return to, except straight into Taehyung’s world. It was better to prolong the journey back. Besides, the attorney told you that she wanted to discuss a few case details with you over lunch. Automatically, your feet started following her.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

The minute you sat down to lunch, you understood that it was a ruse. She neither ordered food for herself nor did she suggest you to. As soon as the waiter turned, she dipped her head low and spoke rapidly:

“I hear that they are bringing in a solid witness to testify against you.”

The surprise caught you off-guard.

“But I didn’t do anything. What is the person going to testify about?”

“That you knew Yoongi was mortgaging your property and you jumped on the opportunity to get the money.”

“But that’s insane! I never-“

There was a haughty roll of her eyes that sparked bitter anger in you. She looked at you as if you were kidding.

“Oh, come on, doll. You can tell me the truth. I’m the only person you can trust.”

Her judging gaze made you want to punch her in the face.

“You think I – I am guilty? You don’t trust me?” Your tone grew louder and a few people turned to glance at you. “Why the hell did you agree to defend me then?”

“Pipe down,” she hissed, looking around herself self-consciously. “They have a witness and a story that sounds better than yours.”

“And that means I’m guilty? Because my story sounds ridiculous?”

She shrugged as if she didn’t care. She took her phone out, swiping on it mindlessly. There was nothing except for the clink of glasses and cutlery around you before she spoke again.

“I want you to consider a plea deal.”

“And why would I, when I’m clearly not guilty?” You folded your hands defiantly, surveying her with a hard stare.

“This is not a simple Missing Person search. You are a person of interest in this case as a possible murderer.”

“They haven’t yet found the body.” Your tongue had a metallic taste when you uttered the word.

“Yet.” She let the words sink in. “But they have proof that you stole the money.”

“Stole? That’s my husband’s money! I was taking it to save him.”

“You know what, Y/N? This story is so silly. You are going overboard with the obsession angle.” She leaned back and lit a cigarette. “You know what really happened?”

She paused and exhaled smoke in your direction, tilting her head to look at you more closely.

“You knew your husband owed Kim Taehyung money. You urged him to mortgage your property. He was probably unwilling. So, you pledged all your property and got the money. The money was in your house. It was easy cash. Min Yoongi was anyway going to be penniless after that, so-“

“Stop it!” Your scream turned a lot of heads.

“Allow me to finish.”

“No, stop it! Stop it right now!”

She smirked lazily. “-So why lose the cash and end up with him? It’s easy, you killed him and took off with the money. You stashed the money and never intended to show up again. Not before someone reported Yoongi missing, that is.”

“It wasn’t like that! You are fucking wrong!”

She blew a smoke ring, not minding your distress in the least. “But that is what the prosecution is bringing to court. And they have a witness who saw you lugging all the money and fleeing the house in your nightclothes.” She paused to laugh. “Couldn’t wait to even get properly dressed?”

Her phone chimed, and she looked down. Just as quickly, she grabbed her coat and briefcase, making haste to get out. You stood up to follow, but she laid a hand on your shoulder and sat you down again.

“He’ll be coming now. Remember what I said, the prosecutor’s going to have a field day with your story.”

She was out of earshot even before you could frame the words: “He? Who?”

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

You knew who was walking towards you before you even saw his face. Him. The man who had killed your husband. The man who you were trying to prolong going back to. Kim Taehyung.

He weaved his way through the tables at the restaurant, reaching your side like a piece of metal drawn to a magnet. He took his Aviators off, mussing his dark bangs out of his eyes as he sat down opposite you.

You got up to leave, and his hand shot through the air to grip your forearm.

“Sit down, honey.” His face was open and pleasant, but his eyes were unreadable. “You haven’t had lunch yet.”

The grip tightened, and you settled back down, a scowl on your face as you did so. You never dulled your scorching glare while he called the waiter and ordered food. After the waiter left, he turned to you.

“It’s been two weeks since it happened, Y/N. How much longer do you want me to wait?”

Tears pricked your eyes. Two weeks before, you had kissed Yoongi in Taehyung’s basement for what you hadn’t known would be the last time ever. You had been taken to another cottage of Taehyung’s after it happened. You had refused to eat or talk; you had been consumed in grief. Suddenly, a day ago, Wo Bin had tossed you in a car, and he had dropped you off at a hotel room. That same afternoon, the cops had found you and taken you in for questioning.

“Y/N?” Taehyung’s deep voice broke into your thoughts. “I’m talking to you.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you.”

“I’d rather go to prison; I’ll at least be free from your clutches.”

He snickered, flashing a boxy smile at you. If you didn’t know better, you’d call that an innocent grin. He leaned towards you, the smile still turning up the corners of his mouth.

“You? In prison? Oh , baby, that’s not a place for a princess like you.” His gaze dropped down before he looked into your eyes again. “Especially a pregnant princess.”

He watched the way your face twisted. The waiter brought the food, laying down the plates swiftly before you. Taehyung smiled at him in amiable politeness, waited for him to leave and resumed without missing a beat:

“You will have to give birth in prison, you’ll lose your baby after 18 months anyway. You don’t have relatives, so your baby will most definitely go into the system for foster care. Do you want that?”

You had no answer. You hadn’t thought of it ever happening, to be honest.

“It’s also possible you’ll be sentenced to many long years in prison. By the time you get out, your baby would be an adult.”

He saw the way your lips trembled as you digested the facts he was presenting. He bent down and sipped a spoonful of his soup. You looked at his bent head, weighing your options.

“It’s better than-“

Before you could say any further, he cut you short, raising his hand.

“I must say I look forward to adopting your baby.”

He grinned smoothly as he saw you sputter in dismay. God, you were so cute.

“What? Why would you? You don’t care about Yoongi’s baby.”

“Well, true, but the baby is part bastard and part angel. I like to focus on the fact that half of you will be with me as I await your return.”

He slurped the noodles in his soup with a flourish. “I can pull some strings to get the baby assigned to me.” He wiped his mouth with a tissue delicately, watching you the entire time.

“Don’t make me hate you even more, Kim Taehyung.”

He reached over the table, trying to take your hand, but you flicked it away. He sighed and shook his head.

“Eat up, Y/N. That attorney of yours kept you waiting without even offering food.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. She was probably working for him. He seemed to have a lot of people wound around his little finger. Except you. You fell silent, eating without looking up once.

The table was silent until he cleared his throat.

“I want you to think all this through and decide if you want me to help you.”

You scoffed at him. “Help me? How? Do you own the Justice Department too?”

He looked unfazed. A tiny smile played on his lips. “Eat and we’ll talk at the hotel.”

You fell silent again, but the question wormed its way out of your mouth despite your control.

“Why am I staying in that hotel? You didn’t take me to your house.”

“Because you mortgaged your house, you ran away with the money, and I don’t know you apart from the occasional meetings in the elite parties. In the past, when poor Mr. Min was alive, of course.”

“You don’t know me? Are you fucking kidding me, Taehyung?”

His boxy smile returned. Though these were not exactly favorable circumstances, the fact that you were so prettily angry made his heart warm. You were mad at him because he said he didn’t know you? A small jealous part of his heart sang in joy. Even if those words were uttered with hate, he was certain you would love him if you got to know him better. Until then, the subtle undercurrent would have to suffice.

“Like I said, we’ll talk about this at the hotel, Y/N.”

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

When you reached the hotel room, Taehyung opened the door, motioning for you to go in.

“After you, my darling.”

Once you were inside, he took off your coat, brushing his fingers against your bare arms, his fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake. You could hear him sigh heavily behind you, and you spun around to face him.

“Get on with it.”

He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “You mean, get on with making love to you?”

You swatted the hand that was ghosting your shoulder, your tone drenched in spite.

“You know what I meant, Taehyung. What the hell were you talking about at the restaurant?”

He pouted his lips and his face fell. “Oh. That.” He sighed again, walking over to the bed.

He sat down, patting the bed to indicate that you were supposed to sit down too. When you didn’t comply, he yanked you by the arm, making you sit in his lap. A hand reached to your side to pinch you in case you squirmed. By then, you knew better than to resist. He rested the side of his head on your shoulder, whistling softly.

“Baby, you’re going to be sent away for a long time.”

“For what? Don’t play your games with me, Kim Taehyung.”

He turned you so you were facing him. There was animation in his eyes, so unlike the usual blank stare. It looked almost as if he were sad.

“You’re going to be tried for the murder of your husband.”

You tried to jump up, and a sharp pinch stilled you into position. “But I didn’t kill him.”

He used his free hand to brush away the tears, his touch feathery light and exceptionally gentle.

“Even if they don’t find the body, there’s a lot of evidence for reasonable doubt, and that’s enough for the jury.”

A sudden tic made your lips tremble. He held you patiently, waiting for it to subside.

“What evidence?”

His eyes softened.

“Some blood. DNA.” He watched your expression as he added: “The fact that you mortgaged the property, got the money, and fled.”

“But I didn’t-” Your brows furrowed for a second before it struck you. “Bong Ju.”

He nodded without answering. He watched you work things out in your mind. He always admired your smartness. But after Yoongi died, you had become kind of slow at thinking through stuff. He wished you would get better quickly so he could pounce on you.

“So, what happens next? You kill my husband, put me in prison, and then take my child?”

He didn’t say anything, quietly looking at the beaded tears on the corners of your eyes.

“I can help you. I can make it all go away.”

Something made you squirm on his lap. To your utter horror, you discovered what it was. You hit his jaw, making him gasp. Pushing yourself off of his lap, you screamed, boiling with rage.

“You’re hard? This is making you hard? What kind of sick bastard are you?”

The scream didn’t have any effect on him. He kept staring at you, eyes burning with primal hunger. Watching you stand before him, face red in anger and nose flaring, made him feel things.

His voice was soft, almost inaudible. “You do that to me.” He reached out to grasp your hand again, and pulled you down so you were almost straddling him.

“Listen Y/N. You have made me wait long enough. I will say this only once, so you better pay attention.”

You struggled in his arms, trying to get away from him. But a hand firmly cupped your jaw and pulled you close to his face.

“Fucking. Listen.”

You nodded wordlessly, and he relaxed his hold on your jaw.

“Two scenarios. One, plead guilty and go to prison. They’ll try you for the murder too. Two, plead innocent and still go to prison. I’ve planted enough evidence to support both scenarios. And you’ll lose the baby in both cases.”

He looked at you chastely, eyes wide and sincere.

“I have both the prosecutor and the defense attorney ready to handle it either way. Any proof of your innocence turns up, your attorney will quash it down. She is very thorough. Your friend Jung Hoseok is already being watched.”

“You bought both the prosecutor and the attorney?”

“Money, baby. It’s what drives them all.”

“And? You want me to dance to your tune, don’t you? What is it?”

He smiled again, and the smile reached his eyes.

“Three, you walk away from all this. Innocent. Your baby lives.”

“In exchange for what?”

His eyes sparkled, and his hands softly squeezed the side of your hips.

“Marry me.”

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

“What do you want, Se Jong?”

The man perched on the hood of the car didn’t flinch.

Wo Bin exhaled in irritation. He had other pressing matters to deal with. He had errands to run for his boss. The white folded paper was still in his pocket, making his mind itch to get on with it. The boss had given him the paper and asked him to find the man matching what was written on it. Strange order, but his boss probably had his reasons. He shook the thoughts away and focused on the man who was eating his time.

“Unlike you, I have work to do, Se Jong. Spit it out.”

The man addressed as Se Jong shrugged his shoulders, leaning back lazily on the car’s windshield.

“I don’t know man.”

Wo Bin ground his teeth.

“Why did you ask to meet me then?”

“I want more.”

“You already get more than enough.”

“Not as much as you do.”

Wo Bin’s nose flared. Having served in the military, it always hurt his pride to be compared to a civilian goon.

“I am not a bank robber like you, Se Jong. You’re not even a good shot. It’s a mystery why the boss still has you around.”

It was already a known fact that Kim Taehyung only employed the best of the best.  Wo Bin often wondered what a dimwit like Se Jong was doing in his Taehyung’s fleet.

“Banker. How do you think the boss stashes his money if he doesn’t have people in the bank pulling strings for him?”

“Get to the point, Jong.”

“I said it already I want more. I want you to talk to the boss for me.”

“Consider it never done.”

Wo Bin turned his back and stormed away, leaving the man on the car seething in anger. Little did he know that Se Jong wasn’t as harmless as he seemed.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

The courtroom was jam-packed. Your attorney had told you that the first sitting was just to warm the jury up to the facts of the case. But the sheer number of people in the gallery made you feel intimidated. Well, it was a case concerning the Min family. More importantly, Min Yoongi’s wife was on trial.

The prosecutor, Kang Minsook, made his opening statements, addressing the jury and accusing you of grand larceny. You watched on, neurons firing in your brain, as the prosecutor spun a splendidly woven tale of how you married Yoongi for money, felt cheated when he fell into debt, decided it was time to take the money for yourself, and fled.

Kim Taehyung was seated in the spectator area, dressed in his best of blacks, watching on as the prosecutor piled wrong information, wrapping up the lies smoothly with a few bits of truth so that it looked dirty, but believably so.

Your attorney made her opening statements, but they fell flat in front of the prosecutor’s powerful story of lies. One glance at the jury told you that none of them were buying the version of the case that the defense was presenting.

The judge turned to you.

“Mrs. Min, in this accusation of grand larceny, how do you plead?”

Your eyes swept over the jury. No soft glances were aimed towards you. You then looked at Taehyung, sitting with an air of regality as if he were presiding over the courtroom. Stretching yourself to your full height, you replied quietly:

“Not guilty, your Honor.”

A smile slowly spread across Taehyung’s lips.

The prosecutor was on his feet as soon as he got permission to start.

“I’d like to call the prosecution’s first witness, your Honor.”

You strained to see who was the witness. A tall man you knew only too well rose from the bench and took the witness stand. It was surely not the bald man you were expecting to see.

“Mr. Kim, please state your name and occupation for the sake of the court.”

The man looked straight ahead, flexing the muscles in his jaw. It made him look arrogant, giving off vibes of a man not to be messed with.

“I am Kim Namjoon. I’m the Executive Director of Park and Kim Motors Inc.”

“And how were you related to Mr. Min?”

“We were family friends.”

“Please elaborate on the nature of your relationship, Mr. Kim.”

The witness gazed at Minsook, and suddenly his eyes wore a brooding look.

“Min Yoongi and I were friends through our parents’ societal ties. I used to play Chess every evening with Yoongi before he got engaged.”

“So, your friendship with Mr. Min goes long back.” The prosecutor stopped to wipe his spectacles, leaving you wondering what he was up to.

“May I ask, Mr. Kim, as to why you stopped playing Chess with Mr. Min after his engagement?”

Your counsel shot to her feet.

“Objection, your Honor. The prosecutor is wasting the court’s time with irrelevant questions.”

Minsook looked at the judge with surprised eyes.

“But it is a relevant question, your Honor.”

“Overruled.”

Smiling broadly in a way that made your insides turn, the man turned again to his witness.

“Well, Mr. Kim?”

Kim Namjoon stared at you, so much malice concentrated in his eyes.

“His fiancée didn’t want me spending too much time with Yoongi.”

There was a pause. And then with a condescending tone, the next question was thrown:

“Maybe there was an innocent reason, Mr. Kim? Maybe the defendant wanted all the attention to herself?”

Once again, your counsel stood up with a loud “Objection, speculation, your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

With a wicked grin, the prosecutor threw a careless apology to the judge, looking at the witness expectantly.

“I don’t know. But now I know she wasn’t as innocent as she seemed.”

“Why exactly do you say that, Mr. Kim?”

Namjoon glared at you again.

“She didn’t even bother to search for Yoongi. She ran away.”

The prosecutor took a sealed evidence bag in his hand, turning so he was facing both the witness and the jury.

“And who filed the Missing Person report about Mr. Min?”

“I did. She didn’t. Because she was too busy counting the money.”

“Objection!”

“The prosecution will advise their witness not to make assumptive statements.”

But the damage had already been done.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

You sat and listened as your husband’s best friend told the court how Yoongi had been increasingly agitated in the months prior to his disappearance.

“He was in so much trouble, it was clear as day,” he said.

“And did he tell you what was bothering him, Mr. Kim?”

Namjoon clenched his jaw again. “He was missing his mother very badly.”

The wicked gleam in Minsook’s eyes returned.

“What happened to his mother, Mr. Kim?”

“His mother had been institutionalized. His wife and mother were not on good terms. It broke Yoongi’s heart to part with his mother like that.”

“So, Mr. Min’s wife sent her mother-in-law away?”

The jury watched Namjoon affirm that with a curt “Yes.” Your attorney made no attempt to object. Things were beginning to look dark for you.

“Why do you think the elder Mrs. Min was sent away, Mr. Kim?”

The judge waited for your counsel to object citing speculation. But she made no move. With a withering glance, the judge advised the defense to not indulge in speculation.

The question was rephrased with a sly grin.

“What did Mr. Min tell you about his mother being sent away?”

Namjoon looked at the jury with sincere eyes.

“He said that his wife was in danger because of his mother. Mrs. Min accused her mother-in-law of trying to stab her with a knife.”

“Did Mr. Min say that the accusation was correct?”

“He only arrived in time to separate them. So, there’s no proof of who instigated the fight.”

Your palms started sweating. A delicate web of lies was being spun around you, and the spider at the center of it all sat watching with quiet enthusiasm.

“Did you know that Mr. Min was in huge financial debt?”

Taehyung watched the witness shake his head, followed by a curt “No.” He slid his hand to his pocket where his phone buzzed. There was a single message on the notification shade.

“Done.”

He looked back at the man who was talking, turning his phone’s display off and allowing himself a smile.

The prosecutor was going on.

“Why didn’t Mr. Min confide in you, if you were such close friends? He could have even borrowed from you.”

Namjoon shifted in his seat, his thick brows crumpling slightly as he processed the question.

“I don’t remember exactly, but I heard in passing that his wife shopped extravagantly. I assume it was his wife who wrung him dry. So, he was probably unable to confide in me about his wife.”

The prosecutor beamed.

“Naturally.”

Your attorney interrupted with an objection citing speculation, which was sustained.

At that, the prosecutor produced another plastic bag of evidence.

“These are the receipts that prove Mrs. Min purchased exquisite jewels, your Honor.” He flourished the bag at the jury, eyes bright with emotion. “Each purchase cost more than the previous one, amounting to millions of dollars.”

Wearing a proud smile, the prosecutor thanked the witness and gave your attorney the nod to cross-examine the witness. The woman slowly got up, adjusting her robes as she approached the witness box.

“Let me start with the easiest question, Mr. Kim.” Her face took on an innocent expression. “Wasn’t Mr. Min already very rich? Why would he ever get into debt? He already owned the Min Group.”

Namjoon looked at her in confusion. “He didn’t own the Min Group. His father did.”

“The late Mr. Min?”

“Yes. Yoongi was only the executive director of the Min Group until his father died.”

You watched your attorney look suddenly uncomfortable. You didn’t understand the need for this line of questioning. The jury looked confused too. Until the next question tore through the silence.

“How did the late Mr. Min die, Mr. Kim?”

“He was involved in a car accident. He died of multiple organ failure.”

“So, both of Mr. Min’s parents were out of the picture shortly after he married the defendant?”

You couldn’t believe your ears. Was your own attorney suggesting that-?

“Yes.” Namjoon’s voice interrupted the thoughts racing through your mind.

The judge looked sharply at your counsel. Was she out of her mind, to hand such an insinuating lead to the prosecution?

“Are you going anywhere with this, counsel?”

Your attorney nervously bit her lip.

“No, your honor.”

She turned to Namjoon.

“Couldn’t the defendant have purchased the jewels even when the elder Mr. Min was alive?”

Namjoon wondered if this woman had even researched her case properly. What kind of attorney gave away their client like this in court? He looked at you, weighing his words.

“Mr. Min handled all the finance of the Min family. Yoongi could have bought her the jewels, yes, but his father had to okay any big expenses he made.”

“I see. Thank you, Mr. Kim.”

Namjoon was excused from the witness stand. You were in utter disbelief. You were being framed. By your own attorney. Taehyung was right. You were going to prison.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

 You couldn’t bring yourself to munch the sandwich that was before you. It was court recess, and your attorney was by your side, eating busily. She was completely oblivious of your apparent resentment towards her.

“How could you give me away like that?”

She looked up; eyebrows raised.

“Like what?”

You had to control yourself from shouting at the top of your lungs. Clutching the table hard, you rocked yourself, trying to be calm.

“You almost accused me of killing my father-in-law.”

She rolled her eyes with a blank “Eh.” On seeing you intensify the burning stare; she grumblingly munched the last bit of her steak.

“You’re already on your way to prison, dearie. Nothing I say or don’t is gonna help you.”

“You are my fucking lawyer!”

A few lawyers seated on the adjacent table murmured in disapproval in your general direction.

“Mind your fucking business!” You shouted at them, eyes blazing in anger. The woman clucked her tongue in disapproval.

“That temper won’t help. Don’t incriminate yourself even more. I did tell you to accept a plea deal, Y/N.”

Three tables away from yours, Kang Minsook was seated with his associates, deep in discussion.

“Something about this case makes me feel weird,” an associate was saying. “Why would the defense point out the senior Mr. Min’s accident? It only makes sense if we do. What is that attorney up to?”

Far back in the cafeteria, Taehyung sipped a cold strawberry milkshake as he watched you. Ugh. He had to endure the disgusting milkshake just for you. For you. Yes, he would do anything for you. But the obvious artificial strawberry flavoring was almost too much. You would pay later for making him drink such cheap stuff.

As his juniors droned on about the case, Minsook glanced over at your gloomy figure staring down at the table. It made him wonder how you were going to handle what was coming next.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

You were sure you were going to be called up for cross-examination as soon as the court was in session. Bunching the hem of your skirt tight, you bent your head in apprehension. They were going to call out your name. They were going to prove that you killed Yoongi. They were going to send you to prison. Your knuckles tightened around the fabric, the dampness of your palm transferring onto it.

“The prosecution summons Mr. Kim Taehyung, your Honor.”

All the fear in the world rolled into one tight ball that got caught in your throat. Taehyung was going to testify?

The black-haired man took confident strides as he made his way to the witness stand. Everything about him suggested a successful, genuine, and well-respected man. The ladies in the gallery murmured about how rare it was to see not one but two families in the elite circle pitted against each other. The thumping of your heart was so loud and deafening. Taehyung composed himself with a sincere look in his dark eyes.

“Please state your name and occupation for the sake of the court.”

He raked his eyes through the jury. “I am Kim Taehyung. I am the CEO of Kim Automotive LLC.”

Minsook considered the witness carefully.

“What kind of relationship do you have with the Min family?”

“We were both rich families.” Taehyung masked the bitterness in his voice. “We met at social gatherings.”

“Do you know the defendant?”

“Yes.” The answer was abrupt, leaving unsaid words hanging in the air. The prosecutor pressed on.

“How do you know her?”

Taehyung batted his thick eyelashes innocently, looking square into the eyes of Minsook.

“She came to me trying to pledge the Min estate.”

There was a sharp gasp from the spectators and the low murmuring started to grow louder before the judge pounded his gavel.

The prosecutor waited for all the hushed voices to completely dribble down into sharp silence before asking the burning question:

“The defendant sought you out by herself?”

You closed your eyes lest someone see the beaded drops that were threatening to fall. All the memories of what happened half an hour ago flashed in your mind in full throttle.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

You had been walking back to the benches outside the courtroom, when a man bumped into you, causing you to gasp out loud. As you clutched your shoulder and glared crossly at the retreating figure, you noticed chewing gum on your suit. Wincing in disgust, you tried to peel it off when you noticed a small neatly folded bit of paper sticking to it. You opened it, only to find four words written on the slip.

‘Barristers’ chambers No. 3. -KTH’

Turning just in time, your eyes caught Taehyung as he slowly watched you and walked ahead, leading the way.

── ⋆✩⋆ ──

“Well, sugar? Ready to change your mind yet?” were the words that greeted you upon entering the chambers.

The blinds were drawn, lending a dark ambiance to the room. Taehyung was half-leaning on the table, supporting the weight of his body on both his arms. He watched you, fascinated by the pencil skirt and the tailored suit jacket that fit you so well. It was a shame that you had to go through all the court drama. The worry on your forehead made him want to reach over and kiss all the tension away. Only if you let him. He sighed.

He pushed himself off the table, reaching you in determined strides, his face alight with emotion. With an arrogant flick of his wrist, he crooned in his deep voice:

“20 more minutes before the court is in session, darling.”

His long fingers gripped your jacket, pulling you into his chest. The fingers roamed on your person, finding purchase at the nape of your neck. The heat of his body accompanied by the firm grip of his fingers left you frozen in place.

Taehyung rang his tongue over his upper lip, curling his mouth in a suggestive smirk.

“So, yes or no?”

“I- How can you make it all go away?” your voice came in a bare whisper.

“Baby, I always get my way. Do you still doubt what I’m capable of?”

He nuzzled his forehead against yours, sighing deeply in content. His eyes fluttered closed, the steady rise and fall of his chest falling in rhythm with yours.

“So? What is it? Endure me, or spend a lifetime in prison wondering what I did with your child?”

“Plea-“

His finger shushed your lips, stopping you from saying anything he didn’t want to hear. His eyes were still closed, but there was a soft smile kindling in the corners of his lips.

“18 minutes left, Y/N. Say it. Yes or No?”

Your mind was a maze of emotions. Say yes and live with Taehyung? The man who killed your husband? You’d have to be insane to do that. Say no and go to prison? What would you do without your baby? Why did all of this happen? Where exactly did you go wrong? Why were you trapped in a room with your husband’s killer draped all over your bosom?

“15 minutes.”

A giant sob rocked your body, tears streaming down your face as you spat it out:

“Yes.”

His eyes opened slowly, a euphoric smile making his face glow in radiance. You could have sworn there was a glossy film on his eyes that suspiciously resembled tears.

“Oh Y/N. I love you.”

He peppered soft kisses on your cheeks and nose, leaning back reflexively at the wetness of your cheeks.

“Why the tears, my sweet?” He brushed the trickling tears with the tip of his thumb. “Anyone would think you hate the idea of marrying me.”

When he didn’t get a reply, his eyes went from soft to dangerous in one quick flash. He leaned over you so that you were arching yourself backward, his hand supporting the small of your back securely. He made as if to kiss your jaw, but flicked his tongue out instead. His hot tongue swept over the trail left by the tears, licking your face from jaw to cheekbone in one long stroke.

His other hand gripped your squirming hips hard, the dangerous glint was fixated on your pupils as he continued his stroke above your eyes, stopping only momentarily when your eyes fluttered at the wet feeling of your lashes. He finished the trail at your eyebrow, landing a soft kiss on the arch of your eyebrow.

“No makeup,” he observed, looking deep into your eyes. “And just as beautiful as always. Delicious too. Pity you didn’t wear lipstick; I’d have loved to have your lip prints on my cock.”

His grip of your waist loosened, and you pushed yourself upright, shuddering all over. You tried to wipe off his saliva with the sleeve of your jacket, but his hand stopped you with a harsh jolt.

“Never, remember, never wipe off anything I give you.”

You glared at him, the sticky wetness still bothering you.

“You disgust me, Kim Taehyung.”

His eyes crinkled in delight. “Aw, I love you too, darling.”

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

Taehyung considered the question, ruminating on his thoughts.

“Yes.”

Minsook chose his words carefully.

“Can you tell the court what Mrs. Min said, Mr. Kim?”

“She said ‘My husband is in debt and I want to mortgage our property. He doesn’t want anyone to know, so I came to you instead of going to his friends.’ She looked very upset. “

“And you didn’t talk to Mr. Min about this before agreeing to the request?”

Taehyung looked annoyed.

“I trusted Mrs. Min’s words.” It looked like referring to you by that title made him sick. “I didn’t want her husband to feel uncomfortable, especially because she said that he wanted it to be discreet.”

You felt bile rising to your chest as you watched the bastard stack lie upon lie as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

Minsook considered the witness closely before asking his next question.

“Do you have witnesses to corroborate your story, Mr. Kim?”

Taehyung simply smiled, his eyes briefly flitting over to you. He ran his tongue over his lips as if your taste was still on them.

“At least twenty of my staff were present when she arrived at my mansion.”

Wrong. There were more than 50 guys that day when you went to him, dragging a suitcase in your pajamas. Of course, they would testify against you. The case was going to be a nightmare to get out of.

Taehyung was excused in haste. Turning to the judge, Minsook spoke so fast that you almost couldn’t keep up with his flow.

“Your Honor, the state pleads more time to prove that the accused mortgaged the Min property, took the money- “he glanced at the jury with emotion “-and killed her husband to get rid of liabilities. We have enough evidence for reasonable doubt.”

He appealed to the jury with strong words, trying to rock them in his favor.

“An innocent man loses all his money, his wife flees, she never reports him missing, his house is a bloody mess, with blood matching his DNA all over the place. The police found one airplane ticket in the defendant’s personal effects. Just one. Not two, if she is to be believed.”

He let the magnitude of his allusion sink in before throwing the next bombshell.

“As the defense uncovered, the elder Mr. and Mrs. Min were conveniently removed from the defendant’s life. The defense also confirmed that the defendant alleged that her mother-in-law was a threat to her life and sent her away. This raises doubt into the elder Mr. Min’s tragic accident.”

You were shocked into silence; the pain was overwhelming. You felt like you were floating above your body, detached and dead from all the pain and hurt.

Minsook was going on.

“While we can’t definitively prove that the defendant was involved in it, we do have the responsibility of looking keenly into the case at hand to make sure that justice is served.”

There was a brief interruption as the side doors opened, and a man walked in, making straight to your attorney. He handed her a package, whispering into her ear. She immediately stood up and asked for permission to speak. All eyes were on her, and no one noticed the brief looks exchanged between Taehyung and the mysterious messenger. Except you, of course.

“Your Honor, the defense wishes to continue this hearing in camera.”

The judge peered over his glasses at the counsel.

“What is the necessity for it, please?”

You saw the defense attorney wave the package at the jury, addressing the judge and jury at the same time.

“We have proof that Min Yoongi is alive.”

What? You gasped in shock, the news bringing you back to reality and grounding you. The brief respite was replaced with deep hurt when you looked at Taehyung. His single raised eyebrow uttered the unsaid. He had gotten his way. Just like he had said he would.

A loud babble of voices broke out in the spectators’ area, the droning of voices so loud that the judge pounded the gavel furiously.

“And what proof is there to confirm this news?”

Your attorney passed a few pieces of paper over to the clerk.

“These are Min Yoongi’s shell company records that prove that he is in possession of the 50 million dollars, your Honor.” She passed on more papers. “This flight manifest shows that a passenger named Soo Yeongguk was on board, carrying a passport with the same name.”

“And?”

“These surveillance camera pictures show that it was Mr. Min who used a fake passport in the name of Soo Yeongguk to flee the country.”

Minsook sputtered, “But Your Honor, the blood and DNA,” he was wringing his hands, “He couldn’t have flown with those injuries.”

It was explained away by the defense as non-conclusive.

“Mr. Min could have easily planted his blood just like he did everything else to frame his wife, your Honor. There is no hard evidence that he bled to death. Or even died, for that matter.”

“Why has the defense wasted the court’s valuable time when all these facts were already known?”

“We only got confirmation of the false identity a few minutes ago, your Honor.”

The judge rose up to stand, and immediately the whole courtroom followed suit.

“This will be further discussed in camera.”

The judge turned and left, and both the prosecution and defense scurried to fetch their documents and hastened to the judge’s chambers. The bailiff escorted the jury and left.

There was pandemonium and confusion after they left. People were restless, talking in hushed tones about all the drama that had just happened. As for you, it was pure shock that kept you standing on your feet. Shock at how easily justice has been swayed.

It felt like you were treading clouds when you were taken into the judge’s chambers. How could they have cooked up all the proof? You saw your husband’s death with your own eyes. Was there not an inkling of sunshine at the end of the tunnel? Not a drop of justice in the universe?

You felt numb and empty as you stood watching the judge reprimand your counsel for wasting the court’s time and resources. He also fined the defense. You weren’t listening. You didn’t care. Because you were declared innocent. And condemned to marry Taehyung.

You didn’t stay back to see Taehyung and the judge shake hands in solidarity. Nor did you hear Taehyung whisper:

“Good show. Expect the money in one hour.”

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

The cold water pricking your skin did nothing to assuage the hurt eating away at your heart. The incessant flashes of the cameras as you exited the courtrooms, the reporters calling your name out, the overpowering smell of sweat and stale coffee, everything came back with such force that you squatted in the shower, hugging yourself.

You had come back to the hotel alone. No Taehyung. Because he apparently ‘didn’t know you that much.’ Snake. And you couldn’t find a way to escape him. He had kept his side of the bargain. You had to keep yours. The cold water was a far better company than the man outside your door.

“Y/N!” The knocks on the bathroom door were growing impatient. “Come on out already.”

You looked at the flimsy contraption that was dividing you and him. You had to go out. He couldn’t be avoided forever.

“Want me to break the damn door?” The deep voice hollered in irritation.

Taehyung couldn’t wait to see you. You were now his. No force on Earth could take you away from him. Not on his watch. He had already received a text from Wo Bin. So that matter had been taken care of. He was in a jubilant mood.

The lock clicked, and you emerged, wrapped in the hotel’s complimentary white bathrobe. Taehyung thought that he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. Wet hair clumped in loose coils around your shoulders, slowly dripping water on the robe. His heart sang, believing that you had been cleansed of Min Yoongi and his touches. You looked angelic; damp body covered in nothing but a robe. A strange feeling raged up from his gut, catching in his throat and smothering him in emotion.

His hand reached you as if it had a mind of its own. The fabric was rough. Wouldn’t it chafe your delicate skin? He balled his fist to contain his annoyance. His slender fingers bunched around the sash, pulling you into his arms. He gasped at how cold you were.

“You’re so cold, Y/N.”

Your face was blank. He got no response. Tracing his steps backward, he landed on the bed, pulling you into his lap.

“So cold,” he repeated again, gently nudging the robe away from your shoulder blades to press soft kisses. You squirmed, and he didn’t like it.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he snapped, cupping your jaw.

The hurt was too much and you broke.

“It’s- I – Yoongi.”

He held you in his arms, waiting for the violent sobs to subside, gently shushing you. He didn’t like that you were still thinking of Yoongi. But he had foreseen this. And he had already made arrangements.

“What about Yoongi, baby?”

You sniffed, unsure if you were supposed to tell him. Hell, what else did you have to lose?

“He- I- “More sobs and hiccups before you continued: “-I want to see him.”

He blew out his cheeks softly.

“And what good will that do?”

He attempted to wipe your tears, but you slapped his hand away.

“I’m his wife.”

“Not anymore. He’s dead.”

The words twisted into your heart like a cold iron dagger. The fighter in you returned with a vengeance.

“But Yoongi is alive. At least legally. You just proved that in court.”

He chuckled, the vibrations of his chest transferring onto your own body, sweeping you into the reverberation too.

“Yes. And unfortunately, he died an hour ago.”

You tried to push yourself off him in vain. The hold grew tight, and his eyes became harder. Your voice broke again.

“What do you mean?”

He cradled your head into the crook of his neck, and you revolted angrily by hitting his jaw and pulling back.

“Tell me, you fucking prick!”

He grinned, his irises dark, the danger swimming in them climbing out and coloring his features with malice.

“You’ll find out yourself.”

He sat motionless, looking into your eyes, as you hurled cuss words at him, shaking his shoulders, demanding an answer. You grew tired eventually, and stopped your tirade, choosing to go silent instead.

It was all quiet in the room, with Taehyung holding you in his lap, sniffing your wet hair, when the ringing of a cell phone screeched and cut the silence. The sound was coming from his pocket.

“Take it,” he urged, his voice dark and mysterious. “It’s for you.”

Grimacing, you dug your fingers into his pockets, scowling when he moaned at your touch. Upon finding the phone, you accepted the call and breathed out a shaky “Hello?”

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

“I don’t have the faintest idea why Yoongi did this,” Mrs. Park said, dabbing her eyes as she patted your hand. “He was such a good boy.” She shook her head sadly. “Maybe I didn’t know him that well after all.”

To say that her words amplified your hurt would be an understatement. You were surrounded by people who were willing to believe that Yoongi had deserted you, ending up dead by a twist of fate. Your Yoongi would never do that. Never.  Yet, the groups of people clustered in the hall seemed to think otherwise.

You looked around at the familiar yet strange faces. Did any of them even care? You thought not. And yet again, the man who destroyed your husband made his appearance, weaving his way through the flood of faces.

“My heartfelt condolences, Mrs. Min.”

You shook your hand free from his clasp. The venomous anger bubbling inside you made you choke on your words as you bit out a forced “Thank you, Mr. Kim.”

“Talk about Karma,” he went on, unmindful of your hostile countenance. “He left you desolate and Karma caught up with him.”

Before you could snap, Mrs. Park nodded her head, acknowledging his words.

“Mr. Kim is right, child. Yoongi got into trouble because he left you. No decent man fakes his death and pins the blame on his wife.”

She became agitated, the sorrow of losing her best friend’s son hitting her hard.

“I wish he hadn’t gotten involved with the mafia, though. He might have come back to you. Alas.”

More tears welled up in your eyes as you listened to Mrs. Park. How you wished you could scream that Yoongi was dead only because of Taehyung!

“I’ll call on Sung-Hee at the Klammer when I leave.” She patted your shoulder delicately.

You nodded with a soft whisper: “Please give her my love.”

Kim Namjoon had come to bid his friend farewell. He was silent as he surveyed the closed coffin, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he controlled his choked emotions. He paused to hiss in your ear when he was leaving:

“You killed him, bitch.”

The funeral was very difficult to get through. People kept walking up to you, expressing their disappointment at the way your husband had met his death. And all the while the killer stood at a corner of the hall, not caring in the least about the gross injustice Min Yoongi was being subjected to, even in his death.

When everyone left, you were standing alone in the hall, working up the heart to bid goodbye to the love of your life. Taehyung had left long ago, playing his part of an innocent visitor.

Your fingers traced the wood, feeling the ridges and following the embossed floral patterns. It was going to be very hard. Biting your lip to contain the trembling, you slid a finger under the coffin lid.

“I would advise against that.”

You looked up with a start. It was him again. You glared at him as your fingers pried under the lid again. He stepped forward with an urgent whisper.

“Y/N, don’t.”

You had already seen the worst happen right before your eyes. What more would frighten you?

Taehyung wasn’t fast enough, and you had already screamed and leaped back when he arrived at your side.

“I told you not to.” His arms embraced you, holding you tight while you continued screaming your heart out. You turned on him with vengeful fury, hitting his chest, throwing a volley of punches with your balled fists. He let you punch him, not even trying to shield himself.

When you were spent from all the screaming and punching, he hugged you as softly as he could.

“I hired the best mortician. But-” he sighed heavily “-yeah; Min still looks bad.”

He was met with no response. He continued hugging you, rubbing soft circles on your back.

“But-”

He bent down to look at your red eyes. “Hm?”

“Where’s his…” You swallowed the lump in your throat. “… his wedding ring?”

Taehyung shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know.”

It didn’t matter. You knew that the man inside the coffin was Yoongi. You would recognize those fingers from anywhere. Those long beautiful fingers that had traced lines of love on your skin ever so often. He was indeed gone.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

Taehyung was silent as he watched the numbers on the elevator as it climbed up to his penthouse office. It had been three days since he had last seen you. You were at his mansion, alright, but you had locked yourself in a room and had refused to come out. He hadn’t seen you ever since the funeral. He idly wondered if you were still wearing the black dress from that evening. A small conscious cough interrupted his thought train.

So Na Yeon, his personal secretary, nervously fished in her pocket for a kerchief. “Please excuse me.”

He didn’t react. The top two buttons of her blouse were undone. Her lipstick was a shade too bright for his taste. She was interesting to look at. But no one could ever match to you. And thus, he found himself thinking of you yet again.

When the elevator dinged and opened, she followed Taehyung briskly, sailing into his office right behind him. She waited for him to be seated, and then got on with briefing him about his appointments for the day. But when Taehyung waved her away, she remained in place, biting her lip anxiously.  

“Well?”

She creased her forehead, deciding if she should tell him.

“Mr. Wo Bin reported that one of the men is rebelling, sir.”

“In what way?”

“It appears that he asked for a raise and Mr. Bin turned him down.”

“What did Bin say about it?”

She shook her head.

“He said that the man isn’t good enough and that he’s already a waste of your money.”

Taehyung lost interest. He wanted to get his work done with so he could think of you more.

“If Bin said so, I don’t doubt his opinion. Tell him to handle the guy in whichever way he sees fit.”

“Yes, sir.”

She turned and left. And Taehyung noticed her short business skirt for the first time. She seemed really proud of her figure. And then she faded out and his mind wandered to you once again.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

You could hear him fiddling with the doorknob. You knew he had a master key. You had expected to see him break into the room angrily as soon as you had slammed yourself in. But Taehyung did nothing of that sort.

Every morning, before he left, he would try the doorknob. Every evening, as soon as he arrived, he would do it again. There would be heavy sighs outside the door and he’d leave. It was like a ritual, and it went on for six days since the funeral.

On the seventh day, however, he lost his patience. He had waited and given you time to come back to him. He wanted you to walk into his arms willingly. But his patience was wearing thin.

“Open the door.”

He was pressing his forehead against the wood, gritting his teeth in suppressed anger. When there was no sound of movement, his voice rose to a high growl.

“I said open! Now!”

His large palms made contact with the wood as he pounded on the door. Suddenly, the door gave way and opened, the darkness inside the room making it hard for him to see you. It didn’t help that you were wearing black too. At last, he made out your outline.

He reached over to flick the light on, and gasped as soon as the light hit you. There were deep dark circles under your eyes. The straps of the dress were loose and ready to fall from your shoulders.

“God, Y/N, you look like Death.”

He cautiously approached forward, running his eyes over the clavicles that were jutting out sharply.

“It’s been six days. Seven, almost.” He took your hand, pressing it gently. “Come out.”

“No.”

Your voice was so low that he tilted his head to catch the words.

“You need to eat.”

“No.”

He tugged on your hand hard, anger rising in his chest.

“It’s not good for- ” he eyed your belly, “-that thing inside you.”

Hatred lit a spark in your blank eyes.

“It’s a baby,” you hissed, pushing against his chest with all your might. “It’s Min Yoongi’s baby.”

“Yeah, whatever. Do you want it to die? Come out and fucking eat.”

The glaring eyes were better than the blank ones, he noted. He liked you better when you were all animated and furious.

“I wasn’t starving myself. The mini-fridge…“

“I don’t think fruit would nourish your bastard enough. Stop arguing and come out.”

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

Taehyung knew the answer before he even asked the question out loud.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You were dressed in a soft cashmere sweater and jeans. Yoongi used to love that sweater. He would always comment on how it made you look like a fairy cloud.

Taehyung knew the clothes only too well. He had seen you wear the sweater on multiple dates with Yoongi while he was following you around. It made him mad to see you still dressing up for him.

You didn’t even turn his way, throwing the answer at him sullenly:

“My husband’s grave.”

Taehyung leaned back on the sofa, propping his legs up on the coffee table.

“And who exactly is buried there?”

You turned and stared at him, confused.

“Min Yoongi?”

Taehyung chuckled heartily, crossing his arms and gazing fondly at you.

“Oh honey, how naïve you are!”

“What do you mean?” Anxiety pooled in your chest as he continued chuckling without answering.

He took his sweet time to answer, leaving you standing puzzled.

“Do you honestly think I’d let you visit that bastard in his grave, Y/N? Just so you can make him a martyr? Do you think I’m a fool?”

“What- what do you mean?” you repeated again, feeling your chest tighten.

“He isn’t buried there. There’s another dead guy matching his description buried in his stead.”

“But- the coffin-“

“Oh, yeah it was him in the coffin, all right.” He yawned lazily. “Switched bodies on the way to the cemetery.”

He watched all the emotions flashing on your face, the quiver of your lips, the unblinking eyes as you grasped all the information he had just stated. Finally, a cold blank stare replaced the myriad of emotions that had lit up your face. Slowly, you walked back into the bedroom, locking yourself shut. Taehyung sighed deeply. You were finally his.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

It was obvious to Taehyung that you were suffering him just for the sake of your baby. It was bittersweet to him that the only reason you would stay alive was Yoongi’s child growing inside you. He wished fervently to get rid of that tiny Min seed, but he knew the aftermath would be disastrous.

You talked to him in barbed tones only if it was absolutely necessary. The rest of the time, it was as if he was invisible to you. He had forced you to sleep in the master bedroom with him. But it hurt him to see the wide gap in the sheets between him and you every night.

Sometimes, he would turn in his sleep and a finger would brush against you. And he’d stay wide awake watching you huddle on the corner of the bed, sobbing quietly. It became increasingly apparent that you weren’t sleeping at all. If he so much as shifted in his side of the bed, you would immediately flinch.

Part of him wanted to understand, to hold you, and say that he loved you and wouldn’t hurt you. Another part of him was fueled by jealousy, that even in death, Min Yoongi was winning your attention. It was frustrating to him that his enemy wasn’t alive. Who could fight a dead man’s memory?

It was that part of him that broke loose, when he saw you crawl on your side of the bed, wearing an oversized hoodie that reeked of another man. Not letting him touch you was already a sore point. And the hoodie just made him go ballistic.

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

“Huh?” You looked down at Yoongi’s hoodie. “I am cold.”

“Wear something else or strip naked for all I care.” His nose was flaring with the exertion it took to control himself.

You glared at him for a hot second.

“Fuck yourself.”

Without another word, you turned your back to him.

There was a sudden jolt as he pranced to your side, pulling you so you were lying on your back. His whole countenance was flashing with murderous rage. His knees were on either side of you, his arms pinning your shoulders to the bed. Hot breath fanned your face as he dipped his head down.

“Throw everything away. Everything that belonged to Min.”

You stared at him in defiance.

“What about me? I belong to him.”

His lips twitched ominously.

“He is dead.”

You didn’t back down in the slightest.

“Yes. You killed him.”

You could see the internal struggle he was going through to stop himself from hitting you.

He took a deep ragged breath and dipped his head even closer to your face.

“Listen, Y/N. Everything I did, I did because I love you.” He gripped your jaw hard when you rolled your eyes. “I went through a lot to get you. And I will not let you screw this up for me.” He paused with a haunted look in his eyes.

“Why is it so hard to love me?”

He looked at your lips as if they were curling around the words that would be his lifeline.

“Because you are not Yoongi. You killed him.”

His hot sigh fell on your lips, the heat sucking all the moisture from the soft flesh. You were scared that he was going to kiss you.

He leaned back a bit, catching hold of the hem of the hoodie.

“Are you going to remove this, or should I?”

He got off you, turning his back to you as he rummaged in his closet. Without looking back, he tossed his grey oversized sweater at you. He didn’t wait before adding:

“Wear that or sleep naked. Your choice.”

It gave him wicked joy to see you dressed in his clothes. His scent would be all over you, washing away that bastard’s. He made a note to throw away everything you owned and buy you new ones. Nothing should remind you of Min. Even the most inconsequential thing would have to go. He looked at your back wistfully. Everything but that thing inside your belly.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

Two weeks passed uneventfully. Taehyung had given you a restricted phone. You could only call Taehyung with it. Calls to Hoseok and others never went through. You felt like your world had suddenly shrunk to one individual.

There was nothing to do in that big house. You weren’t allowed to work, because, apparently you were ‘not ready yet.’ Sometimes, it crossed your mind that you hadn’t received any letters or calls from your clients and friends. But it was probably because Taehyung screened everything. You were sure he’d filter the air you breathed if he had a way to.

You wondered how your mother-in-law was. Why was it that she went crazy but you didn’t? Had your love for Yoongi not been strong enough? Were you not anchored deeply with Yoongi as Sung-Hee had been with her husband?

Would you end up in a room next to your Yoongi’s mother? But you were sure they would take away your child if you went to the Klammer Institute. No, you shivered in disgust. You would never let Taehyung destroy the little piece of Yoongi left in the world.

The next morning, you emerged from the bathroom, body drained in exhaustion. Nothing you ate seemed to stay in your tummy. Wearily, you padded over to the full-length mirror in the dressing table.

You were pulling the shirt up and gazing at your belly when there was a click behind you. Taehyung stood immobile at the doorway, mouth agape.

His eyes were fixed on the mirror, looking at the tiny flab on your erstwhile flat belly. You had been only a couple months pregnant when Yoongi died, so the bump hadn’t shown. But nature was going her way, and soon you would be heavily pregnant, belly rich and round with child.

Taehyung gazed silently, not uttering a word. It was as if he were on mute. When he opened his mouth, at last, the words that shot out were:

“Time to marry.”

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

Your plea to wait longer fell on deaf ears. Taehyung didn’t want to delay marrying you. He wanted to protect his ego. He would marry you before your pregnancy showed.

You pointed out that people would call you an unscrupulous woman who remarried even before flowers took root on her husband’s grave.

“Do you want everyone to hate me?”

He didn’t even flinch.

“Everyone already hates me. At least you’ll be on my side.”

No matter how you pleaded, he refused to listen. He reminded you of the jail time he had saved you and your baby from.

“It wouldn’t take me a minute to get you arrested again, you know.”

He looked at your midsection. “Want me to sign up for foster care?”

There was no way out. You slumped your shoulders in resignation. It was part of the deal, after all.

“Nothing lavish.” You licked your lips nervously. “Just take me to the fucking courthouse and get it over with.

Taehyung smiled, eyes dancing. The sunny smile lit his face aglow, a strange softness shading his sharp features.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

“Y/N, you really are a mystery. So soon?”

Mrs. Kim didn’t care to lower her voice.

“Leave her alone, Mrs. Kim.”

Hoseok’s tone was clipped, annoyance evident on his face.

Bo Na was holding your hand, patting it slowly, her eyes assuring you that she understood why you had to do what you did.

Taehyung smiled, finger grazing the rim of the champagne glass. He was wearing the tux he had bought months before you married Yoongi. He had spent countless nights running his fingers over the dreamy satin, his mind dreaming up heady concoctions of how sparkling you would look as you walked down the aisle, on his arm. He had woven all his dreams into the very fabric of that tuxedo, and the fact that he had, at last, attained what he wanted, made his heart warm.

“To tell you the truth, Mrs. Kim,” he sipped some champagne, waiting until all the attention was on him, “Y/N is pregnant with Min Yoongi’s child.”

Bo Na gasped, her hand flying to her mouth to contain the shock.

Mrs. Kim looked just as shocked. She couldn’t stop lowering her eyes to your belly.

Taehyung continued:

“She needs a person by her side, especially after losing Yoongi so tragically. I was Yoongi’s friend, and I can’t let Y/N suffer by herself.”

You wished the champagne were laced with poison. When had you become so weak? How was it that you let him puppeteer you into silence? Should you have tried and killed him before things got so complicated?

“Lost in thought, lamb?”

Taehyung grinned. No water on Earth would have doused the fiery glare you threw his way. Mrs. Kim called out to her son who was passing by.

“Namjoon!”

Yoongi’s best friend clenched his jaw and exhaled loudly before making his way to his mother.

“Yes, mom.”

“You were wrong about Y/N, boy. The poor girl is pregnant.”

His thick eyebrows arched at you in surprise.

His mother went on.

“And Taehyung only wanted to help, poor darling. Such a good man, he is.”

Namjoon’s eyes locked onto Taehyung’s. The air felt electric as they stared each other down. Namjoon deflated eventually.

“Yeah, I’m sure he is. Excuse me, please.”

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

There were no words to describe how embarrassed you were by the whole wedding affair. Everything was the opposite of nothing lavish. The decorations were all extravagant, sophisticated, and gaudy in the face of the fact that you had been widowed only months ago.

Taehyung had invited every person who had attended your first wedding with Yoongi. It was almost as if he wanted to flaunt you and brag about how he had fooled them all right under their noses. He was everywhere, flitting from one guest to the other, flashing his boxy smile, playing his part of the perfect host.

The guests were confused if they had to offer their condolences or wishes. It was very awkward for you, the little rip in your heart deepening with each guest’s flustered greeting.

Wow. Everyone pretended as if Yoongi never existed. As if he had never been killed. Killed by the man who danced through the halls as if he were the epitome of innocence.

Hoseok took your hand, leaning in to whisper.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I wish I could kill Taehyung.”

You blinked away the tears.

“Yeah, so do I.”

The sound of a spoon tapping a wine glass cut through the chatter.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please!”

Everyone stopped chatting and looked expectantly at Taehyung’s uncle, who was all smiles.

“I’d like to say what a fine boy Taehyung is, deciding to take Y/N under his wing, after the terrible misfortune that befell her.” He raised his voice to a higher note. “Especially because he didn’t want her child to be fatherless.”

If you ever had the power to vanish, you would have loved to use it at that moment. There were several gasps and turned heads that looked your way.

“Congratulations, to the new couple!”

Taehyung’s uncle raised his glass, and scattered applause sounded, and grew louder as people digested the news.

Taehyung stood with his head bent, a shy smile painting his cheeks pink.

That devil.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

Going through the whole ordeal of the wedding was emotionally taxing. Every little thing about the ceremony reminded you of the gummy-smiled beautiful man you had married with so much love. When Taehyung slid the ring on your finger, you felt a wave of nausea that certainly wasn’t related to your pregnancy. He lowered his head to kiss your knuckles, loving the way the beautiful cushion-cut diamond adorned your pretty hand.

As you were walking out, trying not to cringe at Taehyung’s grasp on the small of your hip, a woman stumbled and dropped her glass, splashing wine all over the front of your dress.

“Oh! I am so sorry!”

Your brain couldn’t get irritated enough to lose your temper. Not when a man had already forcibly married you and assassinated your darling Yoongi’s character just before your eyes.

“It’s alright, Na Yeon.”

Taehyung waved her away, not angry in the least. He then leaned in to whisper in your ear:

“I’m going to rip that dress off your body anyway.”

The ride to his mansion was the longest. You had been living there, yes, but as Mrs. Min. You had hidden behind that name as if it were a consecrated circle. But this time, you were going as Taehyung’s bride. Nothing was going to stop him from claiming you.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Kim,” Taehyung sang to you as the car pulled into the driveway.

“Taehyung-“

He laid his slim finger on your lip, shushing you.

“Call me Tae.”

You scoffed in disbelief.

“You really think I’d call you that? What, do you think I love you?”

He grinned happily.

“You do. You just don’t accept it yet.”

There was a battle of stares and you turned on your heel, stomping away to change out of the stupid wine-soaked wedding dress.

It was confusing when you stopped outside the bedroom door. Because the knob wouldn’t turn. You were fiddling with it for a good five minutes when Taehyung’s chuckle fell in your ears.

He was leaning against the banister, a set of shiny keys in his hand.

“It’s customary to give the lady of the house all the keys,” he drawled, twirling the silvery loop that jangled in his hand. “Our bedroom is upstairs, Mrs. Kim. Newly decorated just for us.”

Irritated, you plucked the keys out of his fingers, huffing your way up to the damned bedroom. When you threw the door open, you understood that he was telling the truth.

The whole room was painted in pastel cream colors, books and music stacked neatly on the glass shelves. There was a huge closet, with mirrors for doors. The closet directly overlooked the giant white bed. Rose petals were strewn across the bed to make a big flower heart.

You knew he was behind you when you heard the brisk step of his shoe.

“Like it?”

You could almost hear his smile in those words.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

The petals stuck onto your thighs as you rolled out of bed. Taehyung was sleeping, his chest pressing against the bed, his arm strewn over a pillow. His rhythmic breathing confirmed that he was asleep.

You shuddered at the shrunken petals, crushed under the weight of your bodies. Taehyung’s dark hair fanned over his arm, and you could see his veins bulging underneath his skin. So strong. Yet, he hadn’t thrown himself at you as you had feared.

In fact, he had gone straight to shower upon entering the new bedroom. You had changed into shorts. Strangely, all your long night pants were missing from the new closet.

Taehyung hadn’t made any sudden moves. He had emerged from the bathroom, stood before the closet-mirrors, tightened the cords of his pajamas, and turned to you.

You had been absolutely sure that you were going to be claimed harshly. But he had simply knelt down, both hands on either side of you, and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. Accompanied by the distinct sniff of his habitual smelling of your hair. And then he had risen up and gone to his side of the bed.

Sneaking a look at the man sleeping across the bed, you couldn’t understand why he hadn’t thrown himself at you forcibly. Had he not done it in the glass room?

The bedside clock ticked on, and you decided to pay your parents a visit. You hadn’t been to see them in a long time, ever since Yoongi had started having money troubles. The last time you had visited them, you were Mrs. Min. Something inside you just wanted to get away from the sudden overload of being married to your husband’s killer. Your mind craved something to keep you from going insane. Something that was a constant in the troubled times of uncertainty.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

Months ago

Yoongi was at home, all alone. An empty whiskey bottle was lying on the table, rolling to the sides a teeny bit every now and then. He couldn’t believe he had gotten into so much trouble. All those years of hard work his parents and grandparents had put into the Min Group, all the effort, it was all falling apart. Because of him. The heir who wrecked the family. He could almost see the headlines in the newspaper.

His breath was probably smelling like whiskey. You would find out. He sighed.

You. Beautiful, gorgeous, wonderful you. Why had things gone so bad? Why did he ever trust Wo Bin, that bastard?  A thousand questions raced in his mind, the drunken haze making them even louder. How could he ever tell you that he had let you down? That he had let his entire family down?

He glanced at the digital clock on the counter. 3 pm. You would be home soon. Good gosh, was it Wednesday already? Kim Taehyung had threatened to show up at the Min house if he didn’t pay up by Friday. What was he going to do in such little time?

A clang of the doorbell startled him. You carried your own key. Who else was at the door?

Yoongi stood up and the headrush made him stumble around a bit. When he finally opened the door, a delivery girl was standing outside. She was carrying a bouquet of lilies. Lilies. They were your favorite. He was confused. Who sent you lilies at your home?

“Delivery for Mrs. Kim?”

Yoongi stood stunned. What the hell?

“You’ve got the wrong address.”

He tried to shut the door, but the girl persisted in a shrill voice.

“A person called Y/N? Does she live here?”

“Yeah- why…?”

The girl thrust the bouquet in his hands, grinning cheerfully.

“Then these are for her.”

She hopped away, leaving him standing at the porch, wondering what in the world just happened.

When Yoongi went back in, his gaze fell on the little card attached to the bow on the stems. It read:

‘To the future Mrs. Kim.

All the love, KTH.’

The words made Yoongi so angry that his fingers started shaking alarmingly. There was a band of sweat under his collar, even though the AC was on full blast. Anger coursing through his veins, Yoongi clawed at the card and tore it to pieces. He had never been so insulted in his life.

Outside, the delivery girl dialed a number and waited for the man to pick up.

“I delivered the flowers to him, Mr. Bin.”

She paused to listen.

“Yeah, he was alone.”

Yoongi was on his way to dump the flowers in the trash can when his phone rang. Swearing under his breath, he threw the bouquet on the counter and picked up.

“Min Yooooongiii…”

The deep booming voice drawled in his ear. Yoongi felt his cheeks heat up. Sweat was beginning to trickle down his forehead.

“Quit playing your games with me, Taehyung.”

There was a throaty chuckle on the other end of the line.

“Do you think your wife will like the lilies?”

“I swear I’ll-“

“I am sure she received another delivery at her studio.”

Yoongi went mute. What did the card on that one say? He started panicking.

“I’ll fucking kill you, Kim Taehyung.”

The caller laughed in a way designed to specifically irritate Yoongi.

“We’ll see. Remember you only have till Friday to pay up.”

The line disconnected and Yoongi was left fuming, unable to collect his thoughts. He needed alcohol. Something. Anything. Just to douse the white-hot fire burning in his chest.

── ⋆✩⋆ ──

“Mrs. Min?”

You had moved into the new studio only a couple months back. You primarily operated from home, but the studio was needed when you met other clients. Yoongi had set you up with a beautiful studio complete with hand-picked designers who assisted you.

“Yes?”

“Miss Yung is requesting to meet you tomorrow, for lunch.”

You looked at the calendar. Thursday was when you always went to see your parents. But Yung Min-Ji was a wonderful client, and you did have a lot to discuss with her about the styling of her new condo.

“Tell her I’m available.”

“But your usual schedule-“

You smiled lightly.

“I’ll go today instead. No worries.”

It wasn’t a sentiment to go only on Thursdays. It just happened to be that your schedules were light on that day of the week. You glanced at the time. 2 pm. You could use some fresh air.

There was a cool breeze when you stopped by the florist to get your mom’s flowers- carnations. You were walking absent-mindedly, coming to a stop in front of the headstone. You looked at the grave, confusion creasing your eyebrows.

There was a beautiful bouquet of white carnations laid neatly on each of your parents’ graves. The flowers were fresh as if someone had just laid them out. But no one was around. You were the only living person in the cemetery. You knelt down, finding a pool of molten wax. It was hard to the touch. Someone had come by earlier. Further inspection showed that both graves had indeed had carnations and one small lit candle on them. But, they were left by whom?

── ⋆✩⋆ ──

The sound of gravel crunching under the tires of your car woke Yoongi up. His head was throbbing. He held his head, steadying himself before getting up.

“Baby, I’m home!” your melodic voice chirped at the door.

Before he even got to hug you, he was met with your screeches, as you were hollering in excitement. You were jumping up and down in his arms, eyes shining in delight.

“Yoongi, Yoongi, Yoongiii-yaahhhh,” you crooned, grinning eagerly, “The flowers- was that you?”

There was a catch in his throat while Yoongi racked his brain.

“Uh- yes. Liked them?”

You swung yourself on his arms, giggling.

“Like? I loved them!”

Oh shit. He remembered the forgotten lilies on the counter. He had meant to throw them away. Damn. How would he explain them?

“Y/N,” he whispered, catching hold of you. “Go on and shower, I’ll be right back.”

You nodded, suddenly transported back to reality.

“Yoongi- you smell of whiskey.”

He turned his back to you, advancing in swift steps to grab the cursed lilies.

“I’ll be back.”

You made your way to the bedroom, mind still buzzing in happiness. You hadn’t even looked at the lilies.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

Present day

The soil was wet under your shoes, from all the dew. The guards had shut up and let you leave on foot, without insisting on approval from their boss. Fucking privilege of being Mrs. Kim, ugh.

The faint smell of cut grass kissed your nostrils as you walked absently. It was still early in the morning, and the cool air helped ease your feverish tension. A man was raking leaves near your parents’ graves.

You walked faster, reaching his side just in time to see a bouquet of shrunken white carnations, withered and sad. There was molten wax on the cold marble, just like there had been before. The man sank to his knees, scraping off the wax gently. He didn’t even look your way.

But the flowers and candles? Who was it?

“Excuse me, um, sir?”

He raised his head, one good eye looking expectantly at you, while the other was clouded with cataract.

“Yes, miss?”

You gestured towards the graves.

“Those flowers… do you know who-“

“Aye, them flowers,” he shook his head, “I don’t know nothin’ about who leaves them.”

You crinkled your forehead.

“But you were cleaning the wax, so I-“

“Aye, miss. I been paid to keep these two graves clean. Good money for an odd job.”

Your heart started fluttering wildly.

“Paid? By whom?”

He made a stern face as if he were concentrating.

“Dunno. I been paid to take care of the graves as long as I live.”

He resumed scraping the wax, talking slowly.

“Man paid five grand, one time. Said ‘em graves should be kept spick and span.” He paused to turn around self-consciously. “He said he be checking on me, makin’ sure I ain’t skipped town with them money.”

You didn’t know what to think. It was a weird piece of information to process.

“How long since he paid you, sir?”

He closed his eyes, maybe he was thinking.

“Four years? Maybe five-ish,” he said when he finally opened them.

“Miss, tell him I be doing the work all right!”

The man hollered at your retreating back, nervous that you were spying on him.

You nodded, walking rapidly away. It was incomprehensible. It was a dream. Yes. You had probably dreamt it up. You would wake soon and find your husband’s killer draped all over you.

When you returned gloomily to the mansion, Taehyung was lounging on the sofa, flicking through the pages of a business magazine. You ignored him and made straight for the bedroom. It was only when you hit the shower that you remembered what day it was. Thursday.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

“I’m going back to work.”

Taehyung lowered his glass, eyelashes almost dusting the rim of the glass.

“Doing what?”

You folded your hands, staring him down.

“Designing homes and offices.”

He grinned, sipping juice innocently as you tapped your foot in impatience.

“And who do you think wants Mrs. Kim to design for them?”

You hadn’t forgotten that the title alienated you from the rest of the elite. But hadn’t you a uniqueness of your own? You were sure they wouldn’t discriminate you. They were all your friends and Yoongi’s, weren’t they?

“I have friends.”

He took another long sip, smacking his lips just to annoy you.

“No, baby, you don’t. To them, you’re nothing but a traitor.”

“I’m not.” You were sure that he was just manipulating you into his twisted theories.

He tilted his head like a confused puppy.

“Don’t believe me?” He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone, extending it to you. “Go on, try calling someone.”

Your instinct was to dial Hoseok’s number. But you knew he would stay by your side forever. Calling him would be like mistrusting his friendship. You thought hard. Maybe you could call Mrs. Park.

You dialed her number feverishly, hoping she would pick up. You didn’t know you were holding your breath until the line clicked and a voice spoke out:

“Yes? Mrs. Park here.”

“Oh hello, Mrs. Park, I’m Y/N, how ar-“

She cut you off swiftly.

“Y/N? What is it, child?”

You nervously looked at Taehyung out of the corner of your eyes. He was leaning back, a bored look on his face as he blew raspberries. Twisting the hem of your tee, you chuckled consciously.

“I was wondering if you knew anyone who’s looking to-,” you licked your dry lips, “You know, to redo their apartments and stuff.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Ah Y/N, I wish I could help you. But you know, Jaewon found a new designer who specializes in Earth tones and my daughter says it’s the craze right now, so-“

“I see.”

Mrs. Park heaved a deep sigh.

“So, yeah, everyone is more interested in following that trend, naturally,” She was rambling to neutralize the awkwardness, “Besides, you’re pregnant and… I hope you don’t mind, dearie.”

“No, Mrs. Park, it’s fine.”

“Call me if you want anything, Y/N.” More like ‘Don’t disturb me again, Y/N.’

“Yeah. Thanks.”

You couldn’t bear to look at the gloating face that smirked at you. He was right. Everyone loved you only when you had been a Min. But as soon as Yoongi died, their allegiance had crumbled to dust.

You couldn’t find it in yourself to hate them, though. You had married Taehyung just months after Yoongi died. Married Kim Taehyung, of all people. It was a wonder that Mrs. Park had even picked the call.  

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

Every morning, you stood before the mirror, gazing at your belly. There was no significant bump, but you could just feel the little piece of Yoongi stir inside you. It made your heart sing. How happy Yoongi would have been! How wonderful life would have been with him! Raising your child together, loving each other, looking into each other’s eyes, watching your skin sag and wrinkle; growing old, but your love never lessening.

It was ironic that every day felt like an eon with Taehyung. You were in constant tension around him, like an elastic band stretched to its maximum limit. Even his slightest moves made you nervous. If he reached over for salt, you were left trembling. If he walked out of the shower in his boxers, your heart raced. Everything about him kept you on edge, scared that he would pounce on you without a moment’s notice.

Things came to a head the next Tuesday. You were getting ready to go out for your doctor’s appointment. Taehyung emerged from the shower, rubbing the towel against his wet hair as he walked to the closet mirrors, standing next to you.

His studied your yellow floral dress, only the slightest hint of belly was proof that another human was growing inside you. A tight thread of jealousy snapped inside Taehyung. Yoongi had made love to you, cummed in you, leaving you pregnant. He fumed in jealousy, getting into his pants and picking out his shirt.

He was adjusting his tie when he saw you swirl the tube of lip balm. The same brand you had used for years, lending that delicious glossy sheen on your lips that kept haunting him in his dreams. His tie was left forgotten, and he reached his hand out to gently pull you closer. The sudden rigidity of your body reminded him of a startled kitten.

“What, babe?” He crooned, drawing you nearer. “Go on, wear it.”

When you didn’t comply, he plucked the tube out of your fingers, smearing a glossy coat of lip balm on your lips. He could see the visible heaving of your chest as you struggled to maintain your composure.

Pinning you with your back against the closet mirror, he dipped his head to ghost his breath over your lips. The fruity smell made him go crazy.

Without warning, his tongue licked a hot trail over your upper lip, following the natural curve of your cupid’s bow. He smacked his lips, groaning in lust, and went in to savor your lower lip too.

“Your lips look better with my saliva, baby,” he murmured, gently nibbling on your lips and sucking on the plump soft flesh.

He was heady with need, nibbling harder and pushing himself closer against you. When you tried pushing against his chest, he got mad.

“How long do you think I’ll wait? Huh?” His voice was thick in a mix of anger and want. “Think I’d just fuck my hand forever?”

Your throat felt hollow and itchy when you voiced out:

“I don’t want to-“

His face crumpled in anger.

“Well, too bad, because I want to.”

Still in his pants, he thrust his clothed crotch into your pelvis, the floral skirt allowing him to feel the mound between your legs. He used his knee to keep your legs spread, while he went on thrusting against you. The friction made him curse out loud. One of his hands sneaked to catch hold of your throat, and he nestled his forehead against your shoulder blade, never stopping his thrusts.

His moans grew louder, quicker, and more intense. He bit the soft skin on your shoulder as he reached his climax. He panted in your ear, deep breaths reverberating through his body. With a heavy moan, he licked the bite mark and straightened his back, watching you warily.

Your eyes were closed, face frozen and impassive.

He hadn’t been able to control himself. When he thought about it, he hadn’t even touched his dick once, and yet his seed was all over his underwear. That was how much you affected him.

When he pushed off of you, you still hadn’t opened your eyes.

“Thought I’d change,” he drawled lazily, biting his lip. “But on second thought, I’ll go to work in my creamed pants. It’ll remind me of you all day.”

A drop of salty water rolled down your closed lid.

There were only sounds of him moving around, grabbing his phone, keys and stuff, and then silence.

He hadn’t even touched a button on your dress. But you had never felt so open and vulnerable in your entire life.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

Taehyung was in a serious discussion with his board when the intercom rang. He threw an angry glance at Na Yeon, who bowed so deep he could see her cleavage clear as day.

She hurried to answer, looking at him beseechingly.

Taehyung did not like his meetings interrupted. Calls were always screened while he was in discussion. Only an important person or an important matter could bypass the screening.

“What?”

“I am to put it on speakerphone,” Na Yeon replied meekly.

“Do it then.” He was losing his patience.

“Kim Taehyung, you fucking son of a bitch!”

Everyone in the boardroom was startled, looking at each other in panic.

“How dare you take advantage of me like that? You insufferable, disgusting prick!”

Taehyung leaned back in his chair, playing with his pen.

“You miserable bag of shit, I swear I’ll cut your balls off!”

Taehyung drummed his knuckles on the desk, waiting for the tirade to stop.

“You are the vilest asshole on earth!”

The line went dead, and a stunned silence prevailed in the room. Taehyung rose again, going back to the whiteboard. He huffed at the mute people staring at him. He didn’t lose an ounce of his cool.

“So, let’s pick up where we left off…”

After everyone left, Na Yeon stayed back to apologize. Taehyung noticed that there was a beauty mark on her chest, right near the button of her blouse. Well, it wouldn’t have been visible if she had buttoned up her blouse. Maybe she felt sexy. Whatever. He didn’t really care.

“I’m sorry about the phone call, Mr. Kim.”

“It was nothing.” He shrugged it off, he wasn’t very bothered.

She continued unmindful of his disinterest.

“I should have tried to cut the call, I shall screen her next-“

His features suddenly flashed with annoyance.

“She is my wife. She should never be screened. Besides, she has every right to yell at me.” He sneered at Na Yeon as he bit out his words. “You don’t have any right to cut my wife’s call.”

With that, he stormed out of the boardroom, leaving his secretary shocked into silence.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

That evening, when Taehyung returned home, you were in the sitting room, legs crossed. Your mouth was set in a straight line. You were giving off a stubborn aura, and Taehyung fought the smile that threatened to curl his lips up.

“Aren’t you gonna kiss your husband, Mrs. Kim?”

The hot glare didn’t alarm him in the least.

He loosened his tie, sighing in that deep voice of his. It made the hair on your arms stand up. He settled down on the couch, just next to you.

“I enjoyed the telephonic love note today,” he said, fiddling with his cufflinks. He proceeded to unbuckle his belt.

“Especially because my pants were crusted with cum.” He threw his belt on the floor. “Thanks to you.”

You jumped to your feet, wagging a finger at him, screeching in mutiny.

“Don’t ever do that again, you scumbag.”

“Why not?” Mock surprise danced on his face. “Didn’t you agree to marry me?”

“I didn’t agree to be violated, Kim Taehyung.”

He puffed out his cheeks, disinterested.

“You didn’t leave me any other choice.”

You couldn’t believe your ears. Did he expect you to jump on his lap and love him? After he snatched everything you loved away from you? Was he insane?

You threw your arms up, scoffing incredulously.

“How on Earth do you think I’ll ever love you?” The very idea made you gag. “After you killed my husband? Do you have no regret?”

He scanned his fingernails, pouting his lips in mock hurt. His voice was soft.

“I didn’t kill him on my own.”

“What?” The tic on your mouth made your face twitch. “What the fuck are you saying?”

He lifted his eyes to meet yours.

“Everything I did was because I loved you. For you.”

You stared at him, no words coming to mind. You had been sure that you were only the spoils of the war between his family and Yoongi’s. You didn’t believe for one second that Taehyung loved you.

“When you think about it, the reason I killed him was you.”

Your jaw dropped. The sputtering of your mouth made it impossible to frame comprehensible words.

“Me?”

“Mmhmm. In a sense, you killed Yoongi.”

No, no. this wasn’t happening. You had never done anything to hurt Yoongi. He was your love, your precious baby. No, Taehyung was babbling nonsense.

“Shut up,” you whispered, voice shaking.

He smirked at you.

“Think, baby. He wouldn’t have died if you had said ‘Yes’ when I asked you nicely.”

Memories of that fateful day at his office, clad in pajamas and feeling his bulge pressing against you came tumbling back.

It was a struggle to find your voice. “No.”

“Accept that you killed him, Y/N.”

Your vision blurred with tears and you repeated again, “No.”

A shit-eating grin spread on his face. He unzipped himself, sliding into a more comfortable position.

“Would you rather say you killed him or suck my cock?”

The first drop rolled down your cheek, and he repeated his question, voice darker and laced with lust.

You grasped for words. “Don’t do this to me.”

Your plea made him impatient. He wanted the cold war to end already. How long were you going to mourn Yoongi? He didn’t really want to fuck you when you were heavy with that man’s child.

“Either suck my cock or admit that Min died because of you.”

He waited with bated breath, observing the whirlpool of emotions flashing on your face. And then, to his utter delight, you wordlessly sank to your knees.

He unzipped his pants, giddy with excitement. Your face was devoid of emotion. The tears had stopped, leaving stains on both your cheeks. He waited for you to reach and touch him. When it didn’t happen, he lifted his hips off the couch, annoyed.

“My cock isn’t gonna pop into your mouth on its own, babygirl.”

Nothing.

He reached out and grabbed your head, pulling you in so your nose was against his clothed dick. He felt like he would burst at the feeling. He moaned out as he rubbed your face against him, the groans coming out harsh and strained.

He couldn’t wait for you to take him out, so he fished himself out of his boxers, grazing the tip against your lips. The blunt disgust on your face only made him even hornier, and he coated all his pre-cum onto your lips.

“Fuck, Y/N, my cum looks better on you than my saliva does.”

He pressed the sides of your jaw to pucker your mouth open, placing himself inside your warm mouth.

“Go on, baby. Suck.”

He caught your eyes and added in a dangerous tone, “Don’t you dare bite, I’ll fucking kick that bastard to death.” He looked ominously at your belly. He knew your sore point.

Swallowing your pride, you let his muscle glide in and out of your mouth.

“That’s not sucking, babygirl.”

Your spat at him in fury. “Fucking suck yourself.”

He made as if to kick your midsection, and you screamed in alarm. The tips of his toes made slight contact with your ribs and you yelled for him to stop.

“Stop it, stop it, don’t,” you never wanted to sob in front of him, but it just happened out of your control.

“Well, suck it then. And don’t close your eyes.”

You worked on him robotically, trying to trample down the sick guilt that rose up in your chest with each bob.

He groaned and growled, cursing at the sensation of your velvety tongue. He wouldn’t mind if he died and went to heaven. Before he even knew it, he was close to his release. He panted out, cumming hard into your mouth.

You remained in position, not attempting to swallow. He knew you were going to spit it out as soon as you humanly could. His fingers closed around your neck.

“Swallow. Now.”

The pressure slowly increased, threatening to choke you. Your delirious brain conjured a coroner’s report. Cause of death: Choking on cum.

Reflexively, your body fought by opening and closing your pharynx, effectively making you swallow his slimy essence.

Taehyung felt the bob of your throat, his chest puffing up with pride. He lifted you up gently, holding onto the nape of your neck. He gazed at your glistening cupid’s bow, and slowly pressed his lips on yours.

He had never seen your naked breasts, but that could wait. He was already swimming in rabid delight.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

“Thank you for agreeing to do this interview, Mr. Kim,” the man said, setting up his notepad and pen.

Taehyung grunted in answer. His mind was somewhere else. He had been in a fight with you over names. He had wanted you to officially change your family name. But you had refused. He hated the Min that rang along with your name. It made him want to puke when someone ever addressed you that way.

“I will not change my name,” you had said, stubbornly set in defiance.

He adored your stubborn trait, but when it came to matters involving that damned Min Yoongi, he hated your obstinacy.

“You fucking will.”

“Make me.” You had folded your hands, indicating that you would not be swayed.

Taehyung was at his office, thinking of ways to coerce you into taking his name. That was when the reporter arrived for a quick interview.

The man started off with questions about Taehyung’s business, his financial turn over and assorted boring stuff, which he answered robotically.

Out of nowhere, the question popped up, making him raise his eyebrows mildly.

“Is it true that Mr. Min and you were friends?”

Taehyung shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

“Of course, we were.”

“But, Mr. Kim, a lot of people expressed surprise at your claim of being friends with him.”

“People like who?”

“People who thought you married Mrs. Min a bit too soon.”

Taehyung snapped in annoyance: “She’s Mrs. Kim now.”

“Exactly my point, Mr. Kim.”

Maybe you would consider changing your name if he compromised. But how?

“Well, Mr. Kim?”

“Huh?” Taehyung had a hard time not thinking of you. “I wanted to help her out, especially after he deserted her, while she was pregnant.”

“How did you know she was pregnant? You testified in court that you didn’t know her too well.” The man leaned forward eagerly. “How did she consent to marry you so soon?”

Taehyung could smell a bait from a mile away. The man wasn’t interested in him after all. He was scoping out facts about you.

“What is it that you want?”

His tone made it clear that he knew what was going on. The man cut to the chase abruptly.

“Did you kill Mr. Min?”

Taehyung swiveled on his chair, taking his sweet time.

“Yes. I killed him.”

The abrupt admittance started his opponent, making him open and close his mouth like a goldfish. When he saw how flustered the man was, Taehyung continued:

“You got your answer, what more do you want to know?”

“But- but why did you –” the man was bewildered. “Mrs. Min, she was on trial, you testified against her.”

���Yes, I did.”

“She could have gone to prison.”

“Right again. Don’t beat around the bush.”

“Was it-” the man swallowed, “-an affair? Did you both plot to kill Mr. Min?”

Taehyung laughed. How he wished that had been the case. He would have been spared a lot of trouble if that were true.

The man wiped his forehead nervously.

“What are you laughing about?”

“Nothing, I’m just imagining how your head would look like on a stake.” Taehyung smiled fondly. “You know, my children would happily play with it.”

Children. Name. Maybe he could compromise on that bastard child’s name? Would that make you think again?

Taehyung’s attention snapped back to watch the man gulp several times, obviously shaken.

“So, did you get the answers you wanted?” He exhaled lightly, adding, “My secretary has your name and contact details, my men would pay you a friendly visit if you blabbered anything anywhere.”

“I- yes, I understand.” The man got up in a hurry. “Please excuse me.”

── ⋆✩⋆ ──

When the reporter left the building, his phone vibrated with a message.

‘Any news?’

He called the sender.

“There’s nothing to report. I’m pretty sure neither Mr. Kim nor Y/N had anything to do with Mr. Min’s disappearance.”

The call ended, and Namjoon sighed. He knew something had happened. Something had gone wrong.

But the reporter couldn’t glean anything from Taehyung. The seeds of doubt took root in his mind. Was it possible that he had imagined the conspiracy? What if there had been no conspiracy and Yoongi really had fled?

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

“I have a proposal.”

You looked up from your curled kitten position on the deckchair, overlooking the pool. You were cross that Taehyung had interrupted your attempt at sketching Yoongi.

“Not interested.”

He pranced forward, plucking the sketchbook and tossing it away. The splash of it hitting the water sent droplets flying up and raining on your feet.

“What the hell d’you do that for?”

The reflection of the sun in the ripples of the pool made his face light up and sparkle. He placed both his hands on the armrests, trapping you.

“You will take my name.”

“Forget it.”

“In return,” he whispered softly, “You get to name your baby whatever the fuck you want.”

“I am the mother and I don’t need you to offer me what’s already my right.”

He butted your forehead with his own, clucking his tongue in impatience.

“You really don’t want your baby to see the light of day, do you?”

The scowl on your face was reflexive. It was a bother that he always used your baby as an excuse to get his way.

“Fuck off, Taehyung.”

He threw himself bodily on you, willing a strangled gasp to escape your lips. He spread your arms and upper body to align them with the chair, opening your torso up to him. He was already panting, cursing out as he spread your legs with his knee.

“C’mon now, babygirl, stop being so stubborn.”

He sunk his whole weight onto you, crushing your body underneath him.

The graphite pencil you had been using to sketch was still in your fingers. Mustering up all your strength, you dove it into the back of his neck.

He hissed in pain, jerking involuntarily and pulling the pencil off your grasp. When you struggled to let it go, he placed a well-aimed slap on your cheek, making you freeze in shock.

“You little brat,” he spat out, still pissed about his neck. His palms made contact with your cheeks twice more, sending your face jerking left and right.

“I’ll teach you to stab me, you little-“

He bunched both your hands by the wrist, holding them up above your head. His other hand sneaked between your legs, pushing your thighs apart.  When you tried to wriggle and throw him off, his knee dug into your midsection.

“Want to destroy what we have?” He sunk his knee a little deeper. “Huh, sugar?”

His finger was rubbing circles on your core, making you bite your lips from moaning out.

“Fuck, I’m permanently hard around you.”

His hard length was obvious in the tent of his pants. But as before, he humped against you, not unzipping himself. The friction was making him go wild. He thrust his hips into yours, the knee remaining ominously on your navel.

“Ah ssibal,” he cursed, throwing his head back, consequently making his long dark hair flip and reveal his glistening forehead.

“Oh… Oh.. I’m cumming,” he breathed out, spasming violently all over you, digging himself out of you and spilling his cum all over your clothed belly.

“Ew, Taehyung, you bitch, you’re fucking disgusting,” you screamed, pushing against his chest even as he shuddered in the aftermath of his orgasm. He smiled dumbly, panting out in ragged breaths. He placed his mouth near your ear, tickling your earlobe with his hot breath.

“I want to cum inside you.”

He sighed deeply as if he was thinking quietly about it, before adding:

“Soon.”

He pushed off you, grinning as he ruffled his hair back into place. Whistling softly, he walked away, leaving you trembling in a mix of shock and anger, looking down at your ruined dress.

He had cummed exactly on your belly, like he had carefully meant to.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

The annual costume ball invitations reached your house, one addressed to Mr. Kim and one addressed to Mrs. Min. Taehyung had torn the envelope into pieces before handing you the card. It was probably a snide attempt to snub Taehyung and you knew that it had worked, judging from the annoyance on his face. You wondered if the hosts had intended to send you late invitations, because the ball was slated to happen that night.

You threw it on the coffee table, not caring in the least about some stupid party. But Taehyung had other ideas.

“We’re going tonight. Get ready.”

If the stuck-up Min empaths thought they had made a statement by sending two fucking invitations, they would have to think again. He would show them what fools they were. You were his Mrs. Kim.

The burgundy dress had a cowl neckline, which he absolutely loved. He had picked it out carefully, mind giddy with excitement on how perfect it would look on you. Finally, a day had come for the glamorous dress to do you justice, flattering your body, much to the envy of those losers.

“Wear the burgundy dress I bought you. And the studded heels.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He opened his closet, apparently searching for something. When he turned, a classic Tiffany box was nestled in his palm. He opened it, and a sparkling silvery bracelet was reflected in your eyes, lending them a beautiful twinkle that made his heart sing.

Delicately, he placed it on the dresser.

“This will compliment you.”

He stood silent for a second, thinking if you would wear it on your own. Something told him you would just leave it sitting on the dresser forever.

“Here,” he took your hand in his, gently placing the bracelet on your wrist. He clasped it and admired the way it looked even more beautiful on you. To him, each fiber of your being was infinitely more precious than the rarest diamonds in the world.

He had never seen anyone more beautiful, and he wished not to. When you descended the porch steps, he felt like a footman taking out a princess on her ride. He was mesmerized by the simple yet graceful features that taunted him, inviting him in.

Taehyung had Wo Bin drive you both to the ball. Taehyung handed you a sparkling rhinestone mask, the wings around the eyes rising gracefully in showers of gemstones. The costume ball was essentially a masquerade, and he had gotten the best masks he could lay his hands on.

“Take my hand, remember, no silly behavior.” He briefly glanced at your belly, driving home his point.

“Stop fucking threatening me all the time, bitch,” you hissed, scowling when he responded with a lazy grin.

The entire ballroom was abuzz with people clad in their best clothes, complete with masks of every color, style, and material. Taehyung’s chest was stretched to the max with pride as he waltzed through the floors with the most beautiful woman that night on his arm.

A couple hours later, you were weary to the bone. “I’m tired, I wanna throw up.”

He rolled his masked eyes. “Right. Stay here, I’ll get you water.”

He turned around as an afterthought. “Want me to walk you to a bathroom?”

You shook your head, indicating you were fine enough to just sit.

“ ’Kay.”

He went off, leaving you seated in a comfortable chair.

He was, however, interrupted mid-way by a woman dressed in a jade green dress with a deep neckline that left almost nothing to the imagination. The Venetian mask lent an air of mystery to her ombre eyes.

“Mr. Kim,” her voice was hauntingly thick with desire.

She placed her index finger delicately against his tux, poking him. “I’ve been fantasizing about you for years.”

He couldn’t form a coherent comeback. He was a man who prided on never being tongue-tied while facing a woman. But the simple statement had such force that it knocked his thoughts out like bowling pins.

“Uh, excuse me, I have to-“

She traced her fingers on his arm, patting him slowly, whispering:

“Please stay.”

He couldn’t believe how tongue-tied he was. He flashed his left hand at her, declaring in a harsh tone:

“I’m sorry but I’m married. Very happily so.”

“Is that true, though?” Her voice dropped even lower. “You are married, yes, but have you been loved back? Why pine after a hopeless fruit while another aches for you?”

He shook his hand free, annoyed. Very much annoyed that she was stating the bitter truth that his heart refused to believe.

“Excuse me, I have to go back to my wife.”

“Maybe you could at least dance with me once?”

His jaw tightened.

“No, thank you.”

She pouted her crimson lips, sadness clouding her eyes.

“I thought so.” She touched his elbow with a smooth “At least a peck on the cheek for your admirer?”

He bent his neck, intrigued by the strange woman, but she took him by surprise, going instead for his lips.

Her tongue snuck out and outlined the curve of his upper lip before her mouth pressed against his. Startled, he took a step back and his gaze dropped to the cleavage she was generously offering. She giggled naughtily, winking at him. Damn the woman.

The hot feeling in his cheeks didn’t go away for a good five minutes, and he was still pink when he returned with the glass of water he had set out to get.

He frowned when he saw a tall man talking to you, bending in half to address you.

“You, you are just a gold-digging bitch, you whore,” the masked man was saying, just as Taehyung materialized behind him.

“Excuse the fuck, did you just fucking insult my wife?”

The man straightened up, turning to glare at Taehyung. His mask did nothing to hide who he was. The hooded eyes, the tall lithe frame, the rich timbre of voice, all screamed Kim Namjoon.

He dug his hands into his pockets, staring at Taehyung with menace.

“Yes, I called her out for jumping on another dick as soon as she could.” He focused his most hostile leer at Taehyung before adding “The dick being attached to you of all people.” He didn’t stop, spewing more hate as he addressed you:

“Are you sure the baby is Yoongi’s, Y/N? Did he ever know what a cunt you are?”

The anger was so hot that Taehyung felt like his brain would short circuit. He balled his fists, ready to shatter the mouth that had spoken so ill of you.

Before he could do any damage though, you grabbed hold of his hand, tugging at him harshly.

“Take me home, I feel sick.”

He sent Namjoon one withering glance and exhaled angrily. Namjoon would pay later. He would make sure of it. He guided you out, practically shaking in fury. He texted Wo Bin to meet both of you on the porch. He was zoned out, and you asked something that just flew out his ear. When you slapped his elbow, he caught your words just in time.

“Is that lipstick on your mouth?”

Taehyung creased his eyebrows, turning back to consider something. The masked woman, she had licked his mouth before kissing. It was a kink of his to lick your lips. How did she know that he loved doing that to you?

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

The way Namjoon had spoken to you felt like a cold slap to the face. If that was what he thought, was that what everyone else thought of you too? The whole social circle of which you and Taehyung were a small intersecting arc, did it think you were a gold-digger too?

The shame enveloped and consumed you, the flames of hatred licking at your heart. Your entire life was ruined by Taehyung. Only he was responsible for all the mess. Everyone seemed to focus only on you. He was in the background like an innocent bystander; but all the while, he was the puppeteer who pulled all the strings, bending everything to his will.

A bitter cold war was brewing between you and him, growing in intensity by the second. You had avoided him for days, slipping like an eel whenever his footsteps sounded. Every night, you slept on the couch, only to wake up on your side of the bed in the morning.

It was hard to sleep. Because you were constantly worried that he would violate you while you were sleeping.

You didn’t know that Taehyung spent three-quarters of the night perched on the steps of the staircase, waiting for you to drift to sleep. He silently swooped in and carried you to bed each night, making sure to tuck you in comfortably.

A few weeks later, you dressed up in a loose black hoodie and attempted to sneak out for a walk. But just as always, he caught you. He had casually blocked you with an outstretched hand, looking at you oddly.

“What the heck are you wearing?”

You tried to force your way out, but man was he strong.

“Get out of my way, Taehyung.”

He blew out his cheeks, shaking his head in disapproval.

“That hoodie is the opposite of flattering on you, honey.”

Curling your fists, you hit him on his arm, trying to make him move.

“I don’t care, so let me go,” you hissed at him.

“I care about my wife’s fashion choices,” he replied, reaching out to grab the hoodie. But just as quickly, he drew his hand back in shock.

“What the…” he whispered, horrified, reaching his hand out again.

His fingers gingerly pressed against your belly, feeling the small bump that was evident to the touch. He started back in horror. It really was growing. The reality hit him like a harsh slap. Min’s child was really growing inside you.

In one swift motion, he gathered you up in his arms, deciding that he couldn’t waste any more time. He couldn’t wait forever.

Dragging you upstairs to the bedroom, he led you to stand by the bed. His face was ablaze with hot emotion, his dark eyes gleaming with fiery hunger. He shrugged his suit off in haste. Long slender fingers gripped your hoodie, lifting it up to reveal the soft protrusion he had touched earlier. He looked panicked, like a guy who had missed the last airplane bound home.

“I can’t wait any longer,” he breathed, gently trying to undress you. “Forgive me, I am out of time.”

He pressed kisses on the side of your neck, lifting the hoodie up inch by inch until the cups of your bra were visible.

“Oh, Y/N, I-“ his voice was strangled, “- I can’t,” his hands found purchase at the small of your back. “I can’t take you when you are ripe with his child, I can’t wait that long.”

He eased you out of the hoodie, holding your hands to prevent you from covering your bra-clad breasts. He had only entered you once, he hadn’t forced himself into you since the day Yoongi died.

It had been his desire to wait for you to want him. But nature always liked complicating things. He couldn’t bear to think that you would be heavy with child in a few months, and would be busily occupied with the baby for months after that. No, he had no choice.

He was sliding your pants off when you half-choked out: “You could just… let me go.”

The wetness of your cheeks broke his heart. But your words had hurt him more.

“No. No, I can’t. You are all I have.”

“You know that’s not true,” you whispered.

The pained look returned to his face.

“No. It should have been me.” He gestured to your belly. “That should have been mine.” A tear rolled down his cheek, and he sniffed. “It should have always been me.”

“Taehyung- “

His lashes were moist and he shook his head, not wanting to listen.

“You were meant to be mine. Don’t you see?” His haunted eyes were tender, his raw feelings on display just for you.

“Do you- do you even like me?”

You remained silent, nothing but underwear bridging the gap between you and nakedness. His face contorted in pain.

He shuddered and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, pulling both your hands above your head and pinning them in position. His other hand gingerly traced the outline of your bra. He licked his lips, looking into your eyes as he dipped a finger between your breasts, running it along the elastic strap and leaving your skin riddled with goosebumps.

His finger continued running down your midriff, stopping at your belly button. He closed his eyes and pretended that the bump didn’t exist, hurrying to slip his hand into your undies. It fanned his ego to feel your wet folds.

“See, your body likes it, hm? Why do you rebel so much?”

He leaned down to sniff your hair, greedily inhaling the scent like a man dying of thirst. He removed the hand pinning yours with a warning squeeze. Just as quickly, his hands flew to your breasts. His touch was ever so tender. He gently kneaded the soft flesh, moaning out as a little bit of areola peeked out of your bra. The self-control snapped, and he pulled the cups down, exposing your squished breasts.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he sounded so raspy, “Fuck, you’re so goddamn beautiful.”

Like a man in a trance, he dipped his head in the valley of your chest, nestling there, letting out the weakest of whimpers. His fingers worked feverishly to get the damn bra off you. He threw it across the room, burying his head in your bosom with a contented sigh.

There was a stark contrast between you and him. He was fully clothed, and you were in only your undies, entire chest open to his view. It led you to feel even more weak and vulnerable. When your hand tried to shield your breast though, he caught it, his voice came out from between your soft mounds in a muffled whisper:

“Don’t.”

He gathered both your breasts in his hands, moaning thickly as he rubbed his face against them. His tongue found your nipple, giving tentative licks before full-on sucking on the nub. He was a passionate man, and your breasts were glistening with saliva by the time he was done worshipping them. His mouth let go of the nipple with a soft plop, the dark eyes focused on your own the whole time.

His tongue drew a line from the middle of your ribs down to your navel. He paused at the elastic band of your undies, working on tugging it down. But impatience got the better of him, and he cursed, ripping the fabric easily as if it were the weakest of paper. He touched the wet patch on the crotch and looked at you, dangling the ruined fabric above your forehead.

“See. Y/N? See how wet you are for me?”

You didn’t reply. He gripped your chin, yanking it so his breath fell directly on your mouth.

“Kiss me, Y/N.”

When you didn’t attempt to kiss him, he straddled your hips, crashing his mouth down on yours. But the kiss wasn’t passionate, nor was it anywhere near romantic. You just wouldn’t open your mouth and let his tongue in. He could have kissed a pole and gotten a better reaction than yours.

It kindled the embers of rage in his heart, and he undid his tie, tying it around your neck like a noose. His shirt and pants were still on, and he rolled the long end of the tie until the fabric started tightening around your neck.

“Up,” he said, tugging the tie and making your head rise from the bed a bit. Holding onto it like a leash, he pulled your upper body was hovering precariously above the bed, both your hands holding onto his shoulders lest you fall and snap your neck.

“Now,” he hissed, “Lick my tongue”

The tie-noose tightened around your neck, threatening to cut off your airflow. You hoisted yourself up, shaking as your sight started to blur.

“Can’t” you heaved, “breathe.”

The fabric didn’t relax one bit.

“Hurry up and lick my tongue then.”

You blindly slashed at the air to find his mouth. Right on the verge of blacking out, you thrust yourself at him, begging entry into his mouth with desperate licks. Once you felt the hot muscle, you lapped at it, and just as quickly, the tightness eased, making you gulp mouthfuls of him, your body struggling to get your respiration back to normal.

“You bast-“

He thrust himself at you again, muttering:

“Shh. Lick me again,” and dipping his tongue into your mouth.

He moaned, chest vibrating against yours with the intensity of his strangled groans. When he broke the kiss, a string of saliva connected your mouth to his, a big bead hanging in the middle, the weight making it drop and splotch on your thigh.

He leaned back working on his shirt buttons. They didn’t open fast enough, and he started ripping the buttons off, eyes locked on your nipples. When he tore the fabric away from his body, his whole wide chest was naked, save for a thin chain around his neck. It had what looked like a silver key for a pendant, you weren’t sure as it kept dangling with his every move.

He remained in his pants, gathering your body and pressing you against his chest. A strained moan escaped his lips, and he trailed kisses down your neck, past your shoulder blade. His tongue flicked out to reach places his lips couldn’t.

One hand cupped the slight hint of your bump, prodding gently but also warning you against doing anything stupid. He pulled your hand towards his crotch, placing it on his clothed bulge.

“See,” he moaned, “See what you do to me?”

He stroked his bulge with your hand, fighting the urge to close his eyelids and lose himself in bliss. He had been hard for so long. Too fucking long.

“Take me out.”

His whisper sent a shiver up your spine. But you didn’t move. You didn’t have a choice to stop it. But you had the choice to not comply.

He cursed, too impatient to reprimand you. He unzipped his pants, leading your hand to his hard dick. He closed his hand over yours, effectively jerking himself off with your hand.

“Fuck, baby, that’s it,” he threw his head back, snapping his eyes open just as quickly when you gripped his dick too tight. Intentionally, of course.

“What the fuck?” He pushed you onto your back, dragging you by the legs into position. All the tenderness had evaporated from his countenance.

“You really want to screw this?” He hovered his body over yours, menace evident in the curl of his lips. The squirming pissed him, and a swift slap landed on your cheek, accompanied by an angry “Fucking behave, Y/N.”

“Get off me,” you bit out, aware of the drool sliding down your chin.

“No,” he said, humping his dick against your pelvis. “You are mine. Don’t fight this. He’s not coming back. He’s dead.”

He saw the tears kindling, and added cruelly:

“Because of you.”

“Stop saying that,” you screamed, trying to knee him in the groin. But he only laughed.

“You always complicate things, Y/N. I only want to make love to you.” He sighed innocently. “But you just make it so difficult.”

His forearm dug into your neck, preventing your head from moving. His other hand snaked down to your soaked clit, rubbing circles on your sensitive pearl.

“Who was always a bitch in heat for Min’s dick, huh?”

The question left you speechless. He smirked.

“Who loved to ride his thigh and get her ass spanked?”

“Shut up, shut up.” you couldn’t think of any other reply. How did he know all of that?

He simply shrugged.

“Okay, sure. I’d rather fuck you than talk about your dead man.”

He really wanted to eat you out. But he knew you would kick him in the face if he tried to. Maybe he should get restraints before trying that. Besides, his dick was already aching with being hard for so long. He slid his pants off completely, getting in position, aligning himself with your entrance.

He placed his forearm against your belly, deciding it gave him better leverage that way. Looking down, he inched himself forward, watching in fascination as he disappeared into you, your bodies becoming one. Just like they had always been meant to be.

The silky walls were tight around him, and he held on for dear life. You were going to be the death of him.

“Fuck, ah, fuck,” his breath constricted, the finality of actually being inside your velvety folds driving him crazy in exhilaration. He set a fast pace, snapping his hips into yours as if his life depended on it.

“Tell me how it feels, baby,” he cooed, “to know you killed Yoongi for this cock.”

Your whole face burned in rage.

“No, you tell me, how it feels to know you killed a good man for a piece of pussy.”

He chortled, not slowing down in the least.

“Awesome, really,” he panted out, licking his lips as he kept thrusting. “I can kill a whole army for this pussy.” He was not ready yet to say ‘It’s not just your body, it’s you I want. The whole you.’

He pulled the tie around your neck, telling you to get on all fours.

“I can’t dumbfuck, I’m pregnant,” you spat out.

He simply flipped you over, crossing both your hands over your chest so you were kneeling on the bed, with his hands pressing your wrists against your breasts.

“Shit, baby, how are you so tight? Guess he never filled you like I do, huh?”

His tongue licked the back of your ears as he kept thrusting. You were doing your best to not make any sound. You didn’t want to give him that satisfaction.

“Tell me,” he panted, driving himself deeper, “Tell me I’m bigger than him.”

His finger slipped into the tie-noose, twisting the knot.

“Say it.”

You were sure he wouldn’t stop. Panic flooded your body, jumping into escape mode.

“Fine, you’re bigger.”

A dark chuckle rang throughout his chest, making your breasts bounce as aftermath.

“Be more specific, baby. Describe it.”

There was another tight twist, and you gave up.

“Your dick, it’ bigger, it’s- Fuck, I can’t breathe- It’s thicker, it’s longer, okay?”

He smiled into your skin. Gently loosening the tie, he kissed the light welts around your neck.

“Let me hear it again.”

“You’re bigger than him,” you repeated in defeat.

“Fuck yeah, that’s my girl. Cum around me, baby.”

His groans were loud and animalistic, like those of a man possessed. His pounding got frantic, rattling the headboard and eliciting curses from your parched throat.

God, how he wanted to fuck Min’s spawn out of you and fuck his seed into you instead! The thought sent him spinning into his climax, releasing hot ropes of cum into your tight walls. The growls from his chest chilled your blood. He held you incredibly tight against him, riding his wave out, clutching onto your ribs in passion.

The shivering sigh blew against your ears, and he gently pulled out, kissing down your shoulders and back as he did so. Your knees gave out, sending you collapsing down, but his hands caught you just in time.

When he had finished prodding and poking his fingers in your clit to feel his cum, he uttered in a ghost of a whisper:

“You cummed for me, baby.”

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

Were you ready to kill Taehyung? To be frank, you didn’t really know. It was an idea that had crossed your mind millions of times. But taking another life was too horrible to even comprehend. On the other hand, it was a fact that he would continue to make your life hell.

It was a difficult decision, but one you had to face. Were you doomed to live forever with him? Take all his obsessed declarations of love for you? Live in constant fear that he would hurt your child?

Was it worth killing a human for peace? You looked down at your baby bump. He was going to be a terrible father to your baby. The orange canister by the lawn was just alluring. Was all the solution you ever needed in a can of garden pesticide?

The throbbing of your heart was so loud you were sure the guard could hear it. But now you were not just any woman. You were his boss’s wife. Hell, every guard in the fucking house addressed you respectfully.

“Mrs. Kim?” The man stepped towards you with a question on his eyebrows.

“I want the lawn to myself for some time.”

Usually, there were no guards by the pool. Taehyung would pluck their eyes out if any of them snuck up on you while swimming. But the lawn was a different story. There were a lot of guys walking around with guns. It surprised you to see them file out of the lawn like a bunch of disciplined kids.

But you knew their focus would be on you anyway. They didn’t serve you, they served Taehyung.

Making an elaborate show of tending to flowers and picking weeds, you loudly muttered at the gardener’s apparent failure to keep the flower beds weeded out. Kneeling down near the orange can, you unscrewed the lid with an air of ignorance.

“Foul smelling shit, what the hell is it?”

The can toppled over your dress, soaking the cotton. Just like you had expected, a man shot out of nowhere, hurrying to your side.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Kim?”

You batted your eyelashes inoocently at him.

“I- yes, I need to change. I think gardening and I don’t mix.”

He accompanied you inside, turning back to leave. Once upstairs, you nervously wrung out the poison from your soaked skirt.

✧ ═════ ✥.❖.✥ ═════ ✧

“What’s that?”

Taehyung had asked sooner than you had expected. You feigned surprise at the question, looking over to where his eyes pointed.

“Oh, nothing.”

Much to your chagrin, he nodded and went back to tapping on his phone. What if he didn’t ask again? Well, you could try again later. Patience. You couldn’t get caught.

Getting up slowly, you danced your way to the fridge. You peeked at the contents, closing it with a sigh. Turning to look at the counter, you absently reached for the cup. You were cradling it in your hands, and just as you let your lips touch the rim, he raised his head.

“Coffee?”

You shook your head. “Protein shake.”

He placed his phone on the coffee table, gazing intently at you.

“Well, aren’t you going to drink it?”

“Oh, yes.”

You sipped from the cup, not minding his stare boring into your face. He leaned back, spreading his arms on the sofa. His face was unreadable. When your throat bobbed after the last bit of drink, he raised his eyebrows mildly.

“Done?”

You shrugged your shoulders, without answering. He considered your face for quite some time, before his curiosity got the better of him.

“So, should I call the ambulance?”

You bit back a grin.

“What for? I’m not in labor yet.”

He watched you suspiciously before giving up.

“I know about the pesticide.”

You stifled a yawn. “Of course you do. And?”

He knew you were smart. You were a fighter. There was no way you would drink a cup of poison to get away from him. The poison surely had been intended for him. But he had just watched you down the cup without flinching.

“And,” he said, face serious, “Why don’t you get on with it?”

“What exactly do you mean?”

His passive demeanor broke, leaving his face twisted in vulnerability.

“You want to kill me.” You flinched at the word ‘kill’.

“So, go on and kill me, Y/N.”

Your eyes met, and you reached for a cup wordlessly.

“Not a fresh cup. I want to drink from yours.” He pressed his fingertips together, watching you as you poured out milk. He hated coffee. And you knew. He saw you drop one sugar cube in, just like he liked. The warm flutter in his heart died just as quickly when he saw you reach into the spice cupboard, extracting a pill bottle.

You tipped the bottle and liquid fell out of it, rippling and disappearing in the small white whirlpool of milk. Without a word, your fingers reached for a spoon and stirred the cup. His stare was burning into your skin. Your own heart felt like lead, so heavy and drenched with guilt.

His fingers had a subtle tremor when he reached to accept the cup. Placing it on the coffee table, he smiled at you.

“I love you, Y/N.”

It was a lie, you were sure. He only wanted to ruin Yoongi. He never loved you.

There was nothing to say. You didn’t believe him.

He drew a sharp breath, meditating if he wanted to speak his mind.

“If I die in your hands, your baby and you will be left alone, Y/N. Penniless. But you will get your independence, yes.” He paused, a suspicious watery film glinting under his lashes. “You can be happy and raise your child on your own. But you will return to me in the end.”

The arch of your eyebrows creased your forehead, asking the question your lips failed to.

The smile reached his eyes, a manic shadow casting a fearsome look on his face.

“Whenever, wherever you die, you will be interred in the Kim crypt, just next to me. We will be together even in death.”

The entire breathing mechanism of your body stopped working.

“What? But that’s –“

He flowed on, seemingly uninterrupted.

“And Y/N, the place where Min Yoongi is buried, the secret, it will die with me.”

Without hesitating, he grabbed the handle and drew the cup to his lips. The warm milk touched his lips, the fumes from the poison overwhelming his nose.

[charincharge]

Cruel Summer, Part 1

cruel summer masterlist

AN: It’s here. Idk what the posting schedule will be like, I have no idea what my writing schedule will be like, but... I think it’s gonna be 25ish chapters? Maybe? Who knows. It’s gonna be fun, I think. I hope. Looking forward to hearing everyone’s thoughts. Alright... without further ado...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Rowan Whitethorn is having a really horrible day. Not just the kind of bad that he can shrug off, but the kind that seeps through his skin and sinks into his bones, that permeates even the smallest thing, turning everything into a giant annoyance.

First, he missed his alarm, so his grumpy manager, Lorcan, has been even grumpier with him since he pulled through the gates of Ashryver Playland this morning. The amusement park job is less than ideal. Rowan hadn’t planned for his summer to be taking tickets and cleaning up melted ice cream cones from sweaty-faced teens – but it was the only place that called him back, and he doesn’t come from the type of family that can afford to pay his rent. So unless Rowan had wanted to spend the summer in his mom’s unairconditioned apartment, dodging set ups with her mahjong circle’s daughters, this was his only option.

It's nearly 3PM, and Rowan still hasn’t been able to take his lunch break. He knows that’s adding to his bad attitude. Rowan has a tendency to get hangry, or so his coworker Fenrys tells him. And because he was in a rush this morning, he forgot to pack his lunch. Which means he’ll have to spend money buying overpriced crap at the park.

Rowan’s also on trash duty today. Which means he gets to spend the whole day circling the park grounds with a giant broom and pan and pick up the fallen bits of funnel cake and popcorn and soda cups and dump them into the closest trash. Then, once those are full, he gets to haul the heavy bags of stinking trash all the way to the back of the park where the dumpsters are. It’s pretty much his worst nightmare. Though Rowan isn’t opposed to physical activity, he’s not super fond of smelling like rancid garbage. He tugs at the collar of the too tight uniform polo shirt stretching uncomfortably across his chest and frowns. After a bag split all over him earlier, Rowan was forced to go diving in the employee lost and found for another uniform. Apparently, the only person who’s missing a shirt is two times smaller than him. He sniffs himself and nearly gags. He can’t wait to get home and shower. He look at his watch … in … five more hours.

“Whitethorn,” Lorcan calls, crossing across the yard at him. “Take your thirty now. Then you’re taking over for Connall at the ferris wheel ‘til closing, yeah?”

Rowan barely contains a shudder upon hearing his new assignment. He hates trash, but working the ferris wheel is somehow worse. He didn’t realize until last week that’s where every middle schooler goes on their first make out date. He’s had to pull too many kids off the ride, feeling like their disapproving father as he pulled their clashing braces apart to make room for the next patrons in line. Frankly, he finds PDA disgusting. And the sight of thirteen-year-olds going at it is enough to scar him for life.

At least Rowan finally gets to eat something, though. The oppressive mid-day heat combined with hours of physical labor and no fuel has him feeling like he could keel over any second. He grunts his acknowledgement at Lorcan and makes his way to the closest concessions stand, which luckily has barely a line – I guess since it’s 3 fucking PM and not actually lunch time. Rowan is about to step forward when he feels tiny fingers poke against the back of his knees. He’s about to snap at whatever parent to keep their kid on a tighter leash when he realizes there is no parent, just a kid – and the kid is, in fact, trying to get his attention.

“Um, excuse me? Sir?” the little boy says. Rowan’s never been a sir before. He hates it.

“Yeah?”

“I think I lost my family,” he says resolutely, not sounding even a little bit scared. “Can you help me find them?”

Rowan’s stomach grumbles and his head pounds. He knows he has to return this child to his family, but he also knows he needs to eat immediately or he’s going to lose it.

“We can absolutely do that,” Rowan begins, “but I haven’t eaten all day. Do you think you can wait like… ten minutes?”

The little boy nods and sticks out his hand. “I’m Gavin and I’m five.”

“Hey, Gavin. I’m Rowan and I’m hungry.” Gavin giggles at that, and Rowan finally cracks a smile and shakes the boy’s hand.

Rowan steps up to order, thinking about what’s going to be the fastest, since his thirty minute break is going to include an unforeseen detour to security at the entryway of the park. “Can I get a hot dog, a pretzel, a cherry coke and…” He looks at the little boy next to him. “Anything for you?”

Gavin’s eyes widen with glee. “Cotton candy?!”

“…and a cotton candy.”

Rowan reluctantly hands over a $20, saying goodbye to three hours of hard work. But he has no choice. They get their food and make their way to the eating tent. Rowan keeps his eyes open for anyone looking panicked or in search of a child, but he doesn’t see anyone who fits the bill.

Rowan inhales his hot dog in record speed and takes a giant gulp of his cherry coke and immediately feels better. Sitting under the shade of the tent helps, too. The pair sit quietly and eat their food. Gavin swings his legs happily as he peels off pieces of his cotton candy, licking the sticky sugar from his fingers.

“So…” Rowan has no idea how to talk to a kid, but he figures he should ask him a few questions to figure out who to return him to, at least. “Who are you here with today? You said your family?”

Gavin nods excitedly, the sugar clearly starting to make its way through his tiny body. “Yup! My whole family is here today. My mom, my dad, Auntie Ae, Nana and Grandpa.”

“Wow.” Rowan’s heart tugs slightly. “That’s fun. Any special occasion?”

“Nope. We come every week,” Gavin says.

“Every week?” Rowan asks, his voice rising in pitch. He’s trying to do the math of the ticket prices. $30 for six family members. That’s $180. For every week of the summer…? Rowan’s mental math skills stop there, but he knows that’s a LOT more than he’s ever been able to casually throw down.

“Yup. Since I was a baby,” Gavin says. “It’s my family’s special place.”

“Think your family would adopt me?” Rowan jokes. He loves his mom a lot, and she did the absolute best job raising him, but they’ve never had a special place. His mom thinks adding guacamole to her Chipotle bowl is special. Not that Rowan disagrees. Guacamole is a perfect condiment.

Gavin finishes his last lick of cotton candy and holds his red hands up at Rowan. “I’m sticky.”

Rowan shoves the final bite of his pretzel into his mouth and stands up. “Me too. Let’s go wash our hands and then find your family. Sound good?”

Gavin nods, skipping next to Rowan, his little shoes lighting up as he matches the striding pace. They make their way to the row of porta-potties and outdoor sinks, which line the side of the park. As Rowan washes his hands, he notices Gavin struggling to reach the stream of water. Of course. He’s only five.

“Need a hand?” Rowan asks, and Gavin nods, holding his arms up to be lifted. Rowan’s arms burn, since he’s been picking up giant bags of trash all day, but he manages to keep Gavin mid-air until he’s finished cleaning the sugary crystals from his hands. He’s putting Gavin back on the ground when he hears a loud voice shrieking behind him –

“YOU! SIR, STEP AWAY FROM THE CHILD!”

Damn it.

Rowan sighs and turns, letting his hold on Gavin drop completely. This is so not what he needs right now.

“Gavin, honey, come here,” the voice calls again.

Rowan searches to see who the voice belongs to and is momentarily stunned. Gavin’s mom is… young. And hot. Her golden blonde hair is swept away from her face in a high ponytail, resting softly down her bare back, on display in a strappy yellow tank top. And her jean shorts show off her long, tanned legs. Rowan stares a beat too long because the next thing he hears is, “Gavin, earmuffs,” and suddenly the blonde woman is inches away from him, in his face and pushing at his chest with her pointed finger. She is mad.

“Stay away from this little boy, you pervert!” The woman’s eyes flare angrily as she pushes Rowan’s chest again forcefully with her finger, and he is not having any of that. He grabs her finger in his large fist and moves it away from him, making the woman stumble back slightly. Her mouth widens into a small circle as she looks up at the man grabbing her finger.

“I’m sorry, pervert?” He chuckles humorlessly. “This little boy asked for my help finding his irresponsible family. Who lost him. I work here.” Rowan uses his other hand to point to the stupid logo on the corner of his polo. “He happened to find me on my lunch break. Maybe if you’d been a more responsible mother you wouldn’t feel the need to get this worked up the guy who was clearly about to take your kid to security.”

“Mom?” the woman says, horrified and snatches back her finger. “Oh my god.” Her demeanor shifts entirely as she looks to Gavin and motions for him to uncover his ears. “Gavin, please tell this very rude man that I am way too young and cool to be your mom.”

Gavin frowns. “I don’t think he’s rude, Auntie Ae. He gave me cotton candy.”

The woman’s eyebrows shoot up in accusation. ‘You gave him cotton candy? You’re only proving my point.”

Rowan puffs out his chest defensively. “I’m sorry, is cotton candy a sex offender favorite? I wouldn’t know.”

“You clearly offered sweets to a child to lure him away from his family!” she says way too loudly, looking around and making a show of her statement.

“Quiet down!” Rowan snipes through gritted teeth. “I need to keep this job, for fuck’s sake.”

The woman smirks and steps closer. “I think your employer deserves to know you were luring children away from their families!” she exclaims dramatically, attracting the attention of a nearby security guard.

“No,” Rowan says, his voice increasing in volume as well. He’s had it up to here with this day, and this woman has grated his last nerve. “That’s not… Listen…” Rowan takes a deep breath. He really cannot lose this job. “I was starving and about to go on my lunch break when some poor lost kid asked for help finding his family. I told him he could order something with me, since I felt bad. Sorry. I’ll be sure never to be polite ever again.”

Rowan has gotten in “Auntie Ae’s” face, and he’s breathing hard. He’s worked up, and he knows it’s not her fault, but fuck this day.

“Is everything alright here, Ms. Ashryver?” the approaching security guard asks, and Rowan pales.

The woman steps back and takes a breath, her fury melting into a warm smile for the guard. “No, Frank, everything is fine. Just thanking one of our newest employees, who made friends with Gavin today.”

The guard chuckles. “He run off again?”

The woman’s eyes flash in warning and the guard shakes his head. “Ah, don’t be mad, Aelin. You did the same exact thing when you were his age. Running from ride to ride and driving your old man crazy.”

Rowan crosses his arms as the guard saunters off, and the woman turns back to him with a shy smile.

“Ashryver, hm?” Rowan asks, feeling a little ill as he pictures the large Ashryver sign that hangs over the entryway to the park.  “So, what is this, like… hazing?”

“No! I was really only going to make the one joke and then let it go,” the woman says, biting her lip guiltily and shoving her hands into her jean shorts pockets. “But then you called me his mom and I just… got carried away. I do that sometimes. I’m Aelin. Ashryver.”

“So I heard.” Rowan rolls his eyes. “You know there’s absolutely nothing funny about calling someone a predator, right? I could be arrested if the wrong person overheard that.”

“You’re making me feel very bad,” Aelin says with a grimace.

“Good,” Rowan says resolutely. “Because now I’m also late to get back to work.” He’s more than a little annoyed at how this entire exchange has played out. And even more annoyed that he can’t stop staring at Aelin’s bright blue eyes. This is the last thing he needs. He’s about to head off when –

“You’re really not going to tell me your name?” Aelin asks, tilting her head up, trying to figure Rowan out. Rowan’s about to reply when she cuts him off, not even giving him a chance. “That’s fine. I’ll find it out. I have connections, you know.”

“I’m sure you do, princess,” Rowan says. Her lips purse at the nickname, and Rowan can’t tell if she loves it or hates it.  

“See you, stranger,” she replies, dismissing him and grabbing Gavin’s hand as she walks off. Just before turning the corner, she tosses her ponytail over her shoulder and looks back. It’s only when she winks at him that Rowan realizes he’s still standing motionless, watching her go.

[maandags]

counting stars (Finn Shelby x reader)

heh . ye

-- -- --

Summary: In which Finn can’t help but be attracted to you--like a moth to flame.

Word count: 9.4K 

Genre: angst

Notes: CW: graphic depiction of injury/violence; unhealthy coping mechanisms; destructive behaviour - masterlist - makin myself sad here we go!

-- -- --

"Tommy's asked me to come to the races."

You barely look up from your work, pen still scritching incessantly at the paper. "That's great." You know you probably sound distracted, maybe even uninterested, but you can't bring yourself to care all that much. You have work to do, and it's already late, and you don't really want to get home any later than absolutely necessary.

Finn puts his hands in his pockets, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another, loitering next to your desk. Then his fingers are tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh, then he's running them through his hair, then they're running along the edge of your chair and it's getting so distracting that you can't concentrate on your work anymore.

You firmly set your pen down, straightening your back and cracking your jaw. "What is it?"

He looks down at you, eyes a little wider than usual; his hands drop to his sides and still. "Nothing."

Rolling your eyes, you pick up your pen again. "You're a shit liar. It's almost eight, what are you still doing here?"

It sounds a little pathetic, you think. The very reason why you're still busting your ass at eight in the evening is the very same as the one which dictates that Finn Shelby–your boss Tommy Shelby's little brother–can get up and leave whenever he wants.

You decided yourself that you wanted to stay later today. So that maybe, just maybe, you would get a day off soon. Sure, working for Shelby Company Ltd. certainly isn't the worst, and the pay is decent; but you're slaving over your desk from seven A.M. to six P.M. and even then you often work overtime. Because you're practically the youngest. Because you aren't intimidating. Because you keep quiet and do what you're told, your teeth gritted and jaw clenched.

And here is Finn Shelby, staring at the sole lamp illuminating your work and informing you that his brother has finally invited him to a race. Good for him. You didn't know what he expected you to say–so you just didn't say anything.

Then, suddenly, "Why are you still here?"

You snort out a laugh. "Some of us need to actually work to get by, Finn-boy." The nickname sounds weird when you say it, but that might just be your bitter tone.

"I work."

"You sit on your ass in your office on your nice and comfortable leather chair and get whores delivered to you at lunch. You don't work." Around the body of your pen, your knuckles turn white. The tip feels fragile all of a sudden, like it could snap any moment. Carefully, you set it down on its holder. Breathe. "I'm going home."

Finn blinks, lets you pass him, then seems to realise that he wanted to say something. "Wait. Wait, Y/N, hang on.” He takes your wrist, and before your brain can properly process it and gauge an appropriate reaction you’ve ripped it from his grip. Finn’s breath hitches and he purses his lips and you feel a little bad–but only a little.

“I wanted to ask you if you wanted to come too.”

You snort. “To the races?” He nods. “With you?” He nods again. You shake your head. “Finn, I don’t think I can afford a day off work.” It’s not a lie–not really–but it’s not the whole truth, either. It wouldn’t work, you remind yourself. It would never work.

You’ve noticed the way Finn looks at you when he thinks you can’t see him. You’re not blind; and he isn’t subtle about it. But you know it would be a bad idea. It would do nothing good–it would end in tears and sorrow. Inevitably.

And here he is practically asking you out on a date, and you’re trying to let him down as gently as you can.

“Fuck work,” he says, and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from growling in frustration. “I can make sure you’ll get paid anyway. It is a certain branch of work, after all.”

You scoff. “A branch of work in which you and your brothers strut around like proud fucking peacocks, intimidating anyone who even thinks about approaching you, wearing your gun holsters like jewellery. In which my job is to look dainty and pretty by your side and make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Finn’s cheeks have coloured and you shake your head again. A pang of pity bursts in your chest, and you force yourself to lay a hand on his arm–though your fingers tremble with the effort. “I’m sorry, Finn,” you say, tone gentler now. “But it just isn’t for me.”

You aren’t for me.

With that, you tug your scarf around your neck and step out the door, casting your gaze down to protect your eyes from the shrieking wind.

And it’s not that you don’t want to. Because you know that Finn is a good man, beneath all the cockiness and arrogance he seems to build his personality off of. You know that under it all, Finn is just a kid trying to live up to the legends his older brothers have written out.

It’s not that you don’t want to–because you know you do, oh god you do–but it’s that Finn doesn’t deserve what you would do to him.

He’s still just a kid, and despite being almost the same age, you’re not.

He’s been protected all his life, and you lost all protection you once had from anyone years ago.

He’s always had it all, you have had to fight tooth and nail to get where you are now, and it’s made you into something else. Something rough and calloused and bitter and angry, oh so angry.

And Finn doesn’t deserve that.

You share your flat with two men. They’ve never tried anything with you, and you appreciate it, as long as you don’t have to see their faces for any longer than you strictly have to. The little living room is always too crowded, even when it’s empty save for you; the walls are so thin you can hear everything that goes on in either of their bedrooms. The flat feels stuffy and too small and it’s not unusual for you to spend a night out–whether it be on the streets, on a roof, on the docks. Somewhere outside where you have air to breathe, as polluted and grey as it might be.

Tonight, though, you decide to stop by your flat to grab a change of clothes and quickly wash your face. A freshly made sandwich lies on your pillow and you snatch it up and rip out a bite. When you zip out into the hallway again, you stop by your flatmate’s door and give it a sharp knock–your way of saying thanks without having to say anything.

The only time you ever really feel something resembling peace is when you look up at the vast night sky and can make out stars.

It’s hard in the city, and it gets harder every night, but this time it seems the universe has granted you one night where the sky is so clear that pinpricks of stars are visible against its blackness; and you lie down, munching on the last of your sandwich, feeling grateful for the fact that even if shit’s hard right now–even if you have to bust your ass for 12 hours a day only to get barely enough money for you to live off of–the sky and its stars will always be there for you on particularly hard nights.

You would like to live somewhere in the countryside when all of this is over, you muse. Somewhere you can see the stars every night. You’ve heard that the sky is even more beautiful in the countryside because of the lack of light pollution. It sounds peaceful, and fuck knows that peace is something you desperately need.

The roof you chose this night isn’t that far from your flat, and it’s not particularly high up. There’s nothing special about it, nothing that would justify your choice to camp out in this particular spot. It just felt right. You try to empty your head, focus on nothing but the twinkling above.

You don’t know when exactly you fall asleep, but you wake up early enough to see the sun rise over the rooftops and as you watch, squinting against the brightness of the sunlight after a dark night, your arms curled around your knees and your cheek pressed against the still-warm bricks of a chimney, you repeat the promise you’ve been making to yourself every day for as long as you can remember; Today will be better.

There has yet to be a day where you can say with confidence that you kept it.

– – –

Nobody looks up strange when you walk into work early–again. The office has only just opened, and here you come barreling through the door, plopping down at your desk and immediately bending over the new pile of papers left there overnight. After a while, you frown. The stack is smaller than it usually is–and while that would be a source of good news to anyone else, all it makes you do is worry about not having enough work to pass the time. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you tap your pen on the side of your desk, internally debating. Then you give a little growl and scrape your chair back, ignoring the glares you’re getting from your co-workers, and stomp towards your boss’ office.

“You could’ve at least knocked,” says Tommy as you march through the doorway. He’s wearing his glasses, and he patiently plucks them off his nose and places the palms of his hands perfectly against one another. “What’s on your mind?”

You don’t know why Tommy has taken such a liking to you. You don’t know why Tommy lets you get away with as much as he does; you don’t know why he only frowns at you over something that would get literally anyone else fired on the spot (along with a nicely formulated threat to stay away from his company or else); you don’t know why he keeps you around at all. You’ve had your fair share of outbursts, both in his office and outside of it. You’ve broken your fair share of fancy teacups, had your fair share of breakdowns in front of him, even told him to his face you quit only to come back into work the next morning like nothing happened.

He’s just always been so patient with you. Like a parent would be patient with their child, or a brother with his younger sibling.

And you don’t know how to feel about it.

“I just want to know why you cut my workload in half?” It comes out snappier than you intended (as most of your words do), and you clamp your mouth shut, forcing yourself to take a deep breath. “I mean–if you don’t think I can handle it or something, that’s not something you should be worried about, because I know I can–”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that,” he says, waving a hand about and in front of his face. “I just want to make sure you’re done early so you can get ready for tonight.”

You scowl. “What’s tonight?”

Tommy’s eyes twinkle. “Well, Finn might have mentioned I invited him to the races–”

“And he asked me to go with him and I told him no,” you growl. “I told him no. So can I get my normal workload back?”

“No,” says Tommy, voice level as ever, eyes kind and patient as ever. “Because you won’t be going as Finn’s date. You’ll be going as my assistant.”

Ah. Now that’s a little more interesting. You cross your arms, dip your chin onto your chest, but your interest is grudgingly piqued and you know Tommy knows. “And what will that entail?”

He shrugs, sitting back in his chair, able to relax now that he’s got your attention. “Mostly observing, taking notes. I want you to know everything that’s going on at all times, because I might be busy doing… other stuff, and I still want to be able to tell which bastards are where at what moment.”

You nod, slowly. “And will I be involved in this other stuff?”

“If I can help it, you will absolutely not be involved in the other stuff.”

Biting your lip, you consider his words. It doesn’t sound like that much trouble. It certainly sounds less boring than a normal day at work.

Then Tommy says, “You’ll get extra pay, of course,” and you know you’ve practically already accepted.

But there is still a question nagging at the back of your mind. “Why’d you ask me?”

“Sorry?”

“I mean–why me? There are so many other people who would do a fine job, who you know a lot better than you know me, who aren’t as–” –you wave your hands about, trying to find the right word– “–explosive as I can be. I’m a liability, especially in situations as delicate as this.”

You’re not trying to convince him to take back his proposal; you only want to make sure he knows what he’s getting himself into.

But he smiles calmly, in that calculated way of his, and you almost roll your eyes because of course he’s calm and collected and calculated–he’s Tommy fucking Shelby. “Y/N, I’m more than familiar with explosive.”

It’s true, but you’re still hesitant, and you can’t really figure out why. Because there doesn’t really seem to be any reason for you to deny this offer; granted, it’s a little different from your usual work, but you are observant and relaying information to your boss is what you do on a daily basis anyway.

And besides, it’s the races. Everybody likes the races.

“So which tables are ours?”

Tommy already led you around the track, pointing out which horse was his, whispering under his breath what you needed to write down, taking you for what looked like a jolly stroll around the track but what in reality felt more like an intelligence gathering mission. You liked it, though, you had to admit; there was a certain thrill to it all. Knowing that the race is fixed; that the result is inevitable, that you know exactly which horse is set up to win and which to lose.

Tommy discreetly points to a couple of booths. “That one, that one… and also there.” You jot their numbers down, eyeing the surroundings, scanning the crowd at their perimeter for anyone suspicious. A few men immediately stand out to you: the ones that seem stiff, constantly looking around them like predators hunting for prey, stalking around in loose circles around a certain betting table and watching the progress.

"Coppers," Tommy says when you inquire about the men. He frowns. "At least, I think they're coppers. Plain clothed men, by the looks of it; they're just making sure everything runs smoothly. Don't think we don't need to worry much about them." But something about the men rubs you the wrong way, and every time your gaze passes across one the uneasy feeling grows stronger.

But you have a job to do, and so you shake the weird policemen from your thoughts and focus completely on the job–the delicate, sensitive job.

"All right, Y/N," says Tommy when your introductory round draws to a close. "You stay close to the tables, peek over their shoulders, take notes, make them uncomfortable. Make sure you know everything that's going on at all times, yeah? If anything looks suspicious to you, come to me immediately. Hear me? To me. Not John, not Arthur, not fucking Finn. Me."

You cock your head, shifting your weight from one hip to the other. "How do you know I won't tamper with the bets and make off with a nice bit of money for myself?"

"I don't, but I also don't think you're stupid enough to do that."

"You're going to have to trust me, then. That's a bad idea."

"Don't get comfortable. I absolutely do not trust you."

"But you picked me for this job," you press again, because it's still so intriguing to you.

"Indeed I did. Don't make me regret it." He lights a cigarette and marches off, calling his boys to him as he does. You cross your arms again and watch as his brothers sidle up to him. John and Arthur are there, and so is Finn. You knew he was going to be here, of course; he was the one who invited you in the first place, but seeing him walk next to his brothers, able to pinpoint exactly the guns and knives strapped to their chests and hips, you can’t help but compare the four men. It’s easy to tell that Finn doesn’t do this often: there’s a weirdly excited spring in his step.

You have to fight the urge to scoff, and you turn away, shaking your head. Oh, yay, let’s go to the races and shoot everyone who stands in the way of our illegal betting tables. We’ll have a blast!

For the first few hours, you do exactly as Tommy told you. You take notes, hover around the Blinders’ betting tables, keeping an eye on any skimming of money that might be going on; but the Peaky Blinders look like they’ve made their impression on the table boys because they’re doing their jobs perfectly, arranging the money and taking names in a way that’s more organised that you’ve ever seen anything run by the Peaky Blinders being executed.

You get a few questioning (if not outright hostile) looks from bystanders, pick up a few whispers from betters irritated at how you’re cutting in line and no one seems to care, but you ignore them, brandishing your clipboard like a shield and critically examining every single transaction that’s being made. The other tables progress the exact same way, and when the first races start, the crowds only thicken.

But after a moment, you grow bored. You get to watch the races for a while, from a distance, making sure Tommy won’t be able to see you if he were to look around the track, and listening to the commentary that blasts from high-up speakers and makes the air sizzle with tension. The crowds are mostly watching the races now, women speaking closely behind their hats and gloves and pretty dresses; the men more interested in the various betting pools that are scattered around the tracks. Every once in a while, you look back to your own tables, determine everything is going all right, and turn back to the far more interesting horse races unfolding in front of you.

When Tommy’s horse is brought out–its name is Elizabeth, and you roll your eyes–you perk up. Now is the time to keep an eye on the tables. Dragging a chair next to the boy at the first one, you rip the lid off your pen and mumble, “Talk to me.” He gives you the information you need to know: clear, concise, not beating around the bush. You wonder if Tommy warned them about your complete lack of patience and inability to take bullshit.

You’re almost starting to run out of paper, but as you’re making your way to the last table, you notice the coppers again.

Before, you’d thought they were circling Tommy’s betting tables. Now, you realise that they’re not interested in his tables–they’re interested in the man himself.

You can see Tommy standing in his booth, cigarette smoke curling up and around the rim of his cap as he keeps a keen eye on his Elizabeth down on the tracks; around him are stationed a few plain-clothed Peaky boys. You can see the barrels of their pistols glinting in the sunlight. Your gaze shifts upward, to the watchtowers set up around the perimeter, to the roofs; and sure enough, a couple of boys with long-range rifles are scanning the crowd like hawks. Their tell-tale caps hide their faces, but it’s clear enough that they’re some of Tommy’s men. You imagine Finn is probably up there, too: Tommy always gives him a sniper position if he thinks the situation’s about to get messy, to make sure he stays mostly out of the carnage.

And all around them–almost everywhere, you realise with a start, mingling with the audience–there are men watching them. They don’t look any different from the members of the audience they’re trying so hard to imitate, but whereas the real public looks excited and cheers the horses on and look like they’re having the time of their lives, these men are stoic, and again they remind you of predators stalking round their unsuspecting prey in the most discrete way.

It should set you on edge. It should make you uncomfortable, knowing that because you’re here as Tommy’s associate, it’s safe to assume you’ll be in the line of fire if things get messy. But it doesn’t.

It gives you an adrenaline rush. You suddenly feel like you’re on the run again; except this time your life isn’t the only one on the line.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a flash of movement.

It’s barely a flicker, but as you whip your head around and strain your neck you can just make out a tussle: one boy–if it’s one of Tommy’s men, he’s lost his cap, and after a quick search of the ground below him you can make out a small, crumpled grey heap on the stone, and your suspicions are confirmed–wrestling against three men, all bigger, all beefier, all stronger. He doesn’t stand a chance, of course, and after one particularly vicious punch in the gut he crumbles. The two other men hold him up by his arms. The one who punched him spits in his face, then shakes his head and gestures for the others to follow him.

When the battered Peaky boy looks up, chest heaving, your eyebrows shoot up. It’s that familiar mop of brown hair (usually well-kept, like everything else about him–now it’s messy and tousled, as if he’d been dragged head first across a grass field). It’s the freckled face, the thin lips twisted into a pained snarl; the eyes so full of life you’d grown partial to–enough to recognise him from a hundred yards away. Finn.

With a frown, your gaze snaps back up to the sniper posts you spotted just before; and sure enough, a watchtower is empty. Back to Finn, and you give a short, irritated sigh. Of course the men relieved him of his rifle. You don’t know if Finn carries a knife on him, but if he does, it’s safe to assume the men got hold of that too. Which leaves him with nothing to defend himself.

And you know you shouldn’t leave your post. It’s a stupid thing to do, and Tommy told you not to stray from the tables–but maybe that’s part of why you do it anyway. There’s something about being told what to do that just doesn’t sit right with you, even if it is your own boss giving the orders. Call it reckless, call it insane; but you have a space of two seconds to decide what to do before the small group of men is completely out of sight.

So you follow them.

Of course you do.

It’s not easy to admit, especially when you’ve been trying to tell yourself the exact opposite for months, but you like him. More than you want; more than you should. But you’ve learned long ago that feelings don’t like to be told what to be either.

So the most you can do–all you know to do–is ignore them. Try to bury them. Lock them up in a treasure chest that you lob into the depths of the ocean and of which you melt the key.

Because sometimes you have to choose, and sometimes you can’t afford to let those choices be affected by feelings.

It’s a mistake you’ve made before, and a mistake you told yourself you would never make again.

But when the person you experience those feelings towards is kidnapped right in front of you, you can’t just not do anything.

You follow them from as far as physically possible without losing sight of them, but to your surprise they aren’t moving away from the main building–they're moving towards it. Your confusion only grows when one of them pulls a key ring from his pocket and opens a back door. The corridor is too dark to be able to tell where it leads, and you exhale sharply, growing more impatient by the second.

As soon as the door is open, the two men flanking Finn pull him roughly over the threshold. He stumbles, and in response, the man on the left punches him in the gut again; he doubles over, coughing. Your jaw twitches.

You force yourself to wait a full minute before following them. A full minute. You count the seconds–one pink elephant, two pink elephant–and as soon as you get to sixty, you tear across the square. Please be unlocked, please be unlocked, you pray as you try the handle: it doesn’t budge, and you give a frustrated growl.

All right. All right. Think. Lowering your head into your hands, you close your eyes. Your vision turns black, and soon you can hear nothing but your own breathing.

You could try to pick the lock. It looked rusty–it shouldn’t be that hard to get open.

But that would take time, and Finn is in danger now. What if you just blasted the lock through the door? Your gun sits against your hip, grows hot. But that’s loud, and the risk of someone hearing you is too great.

Someone else must have the key, though, right? You perk up immediately, eyes scanning across the tribunes. People are now scrambling for a seat, their legs having grown tired of holding them up in the summer sun that’s still beating down on them. But there are dozens of men here, you remind yourself immediately after. The chance you manage to run into one who just happens to have the key on him is too slim.

Nothing. Nothing else comes to mind. Empty. You slap your forehead, willing for another idea to spark. Of course, it doesn’t work, and in a rage you ball a fist and slam it into the wall behind you. Pain jolts through your entire arm, down your shoulder to your chest. You barely feel it, unable to concentrate in anything past the burning of white-hot fury.

You take a deep, ragged breath. Right. Right. Yanking your gun from its holster, you weigh it in your hand, gaze fixed on the lock–the stupid fucking lock, the only barrier between you and Finn. Slowly, you point the gun to the lock. The distance between the two objects only counts about three inches. Your hands are perfectly still. Again, you take a breath. Steady. One, two–

And then you hear it, and your head snaps up. Your vision clears, immediately focused again.

Footsteps.

Not the slightly disoriented footsteps that would belong to some random person who took a wrong turn; no, these footsteps are deliberate and stealthy–and directed right towards you.

So you press yourself flat against the wall, scooting up to the corner, waiting for him to round it. Closer, closer… and then a foot crosses the line, and your elbow immediately shoots out and connects. The stranger grunts, his hands immediately coming up to cover his nose. Blood trickles out from between his fingers and he stumbles, but you don't give him the chance to recover.

He's on the ground in a matter of seconds, with your knees firmly caging in his arms, despite being almost a full head taller than you–you found out that in a fair fight, size doesn't matter much as long as you have balls and a strong, strong motivation to beat your opponent to a pulp.

And that, you do.

You throw punch after punch–his jaw cracks beneath your knuckles but you can't bring yourself to care–and it's with effort that you finally sit back and take a breath. When you wipe a hand across the back of your mouth, you can taste the blood staining your fingers. The man beneath you whimpers. What is still visible of his purple and swollen eyes is rolled into the back of his head. He takes short, ragged breaths through bloody lips, his nose too swollen and broken to be of any use–cuts and bruises litter his cheeks and forehead. You're pretty sure you gave him a concussion.

"KEYS." You make sure there is no debate possible as to what it is you want. A single word, hissed from between cracked lips; a voice hoarse, rougher and harder than the roughest and hardest raw diamond.

The man gives a weak cough and your fingers, slick with blood–both yours and his–grasp his collar, pulling his face up and close to yours. You snarl, animal-like; baring your teeth and growling, "Give me your fucking keys."

A hand, close to your knee, tries to move, and you immediately let his head drop onto the hard pavement–his pained groan sounds like music to your ears–he's responsible for Finn's kidnapping he was in on it he knew about it he is just as responsible as the kidnappers themselves they will pay they will pay they will pay I will make them pay–and, with (to your surprise) trembling fingers, you almost immediately find the ring of keys that you're looking for.

All your churning rage leaves you in one fell swoop when your hand closes around the keys, the cold hard metal somehow snapping you out of your blind fury. It's still there, of course, but it doesn't have the upper hand any more. You're collected, calm even as you haul yourself up and cast the writhing man below you a disgusted look.

You could kill him. It would make no difference.

It would be so easy–you figure one well-placed kick would do the trick.

You state at him for what feels like eons, what are in reality not much more than a couple of seconds, but then you step back and make your way to the door, already thinking about which key to try first. Maybe you're lucky and, if you change your mind, he'll still be there when you get back. Maybe he'll die alone there, bloodied and beat up; you don't know exactly how badly you fucked him up. It would be a death worthy of a dog, and it wouldn't keep you up at night.

A bloody corpse, after all, is a bitch to clean up.

Behind the metal door is a short, dark corridor that leads to a stairway. On the dirty floor, you can just make out the sheen of fresh drops of blood where the outside light reflects in them. Your knuckles turn white around the door handle before you uncurl your fingers from it and let the door fall closed behind you.

It's surprisingly easy to navigate the stairway when your eyes adjust to the darkness. Quickly, quietly, you slip down, one hand resting against the wall for guidance, the other one hovering near your hip, ready to pull out your gun at any sign of trouble.

After a few minutes, the stairs stop and transform into another corridor, this one illuminated by a single naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Stains litter the plastered walls, and everywhere you look are cracks. At the end of the corridor is a door, and it looks eerily similar to the first one, at the top of the staircase, though you have a feeling that this one isn't locked.

As you tiptoe closer to the door, you start to make out voices. You press your ear against the door, try to form the echoing sounds into words, phrases, but the noise is jumbled and impossible to make sense of.

All right. So you need a game plan. You need to know what you're going to say. There are three armed men in there. Guns, perhaps knives–and you're good, sure, but even you can't win a three-against-one if you don't have a significant advantage.

Something starts to form in your mind, and you set your jaw, rolling your shoulders and preparing for a fight–should it come to that. You hoped not, or at least not until you'd made sure of Finn's safety. Because really, that's all you want from this entire ordeal: you just want Finn to be safe.

You try the handle, slowly, carefully and sure enough it clicks.

With a last deep breath, you push open the door with a flourish and stroll into the room like you own it.

"Fellas, how're you doing? Oh, hi Finn," you add nonchalantly, casting him a cold look. It's harder than you thought, and the sight of him very nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

He's bound–strung up by his wrists like an animal–and looks worse than what you'd imagined the men would inflict upon him in the minutes you lost looking for a way in. His torn shirt hangs off his frame in ragged strips of fabric. Cuts and bruises litter his chest and face, and his trousers hang halfway off his hips, showing the sharp line of his hip bones. He's resting on his knees, but the ropes binding his wrists to the walls seem to do a better job of holding him up than his legs; Finn looks like he's only seconds away from collapsing.

All of this, you take note of in the split second you allow yourself to look at him. You can't see his expression in the dimly lit room; can't see his eyes; but that may be for the best. It's crucial for you to stay in character right now.

One of the men around him looks you up and down, mouth twisted in a snarl. He doesn't look very intimidated–as is your point, it's very important that none of them feel threatened by your presence. Instead, all three men's faces bear an expression that's a mix of confusion and apprehension.

"And who the fuck might you be?" The man who asked the question stands on Finn's right side, and you shift your bored gaze onto him, refusing to even look at Finn, who you're starting to suspect is actually unconscious–calm. Keep calm. Stay focused, keep your head clear.

You open your mouth, but it's that moment that Finn decides to open his eyes–he must have heard the man's incredulous inquiry, and got curious; maybe even hopeful. When his gaze locks onto you, his swollen eyes widen and he gasps, which throws him into a coughing fit. His hands ball to fists, and his arms tremble, and he's not getting any air–

Every heave of his lungs feels like a punch in the gut, and it takes every ounce of strength in your body to keep from running to him. Helping him. Saving him. But you stay planted in your spot, one eyebrow raised disdainfully, and you let him die.

"Y/N," he chokes out between coughs. "Y/N–"

The man who spoke before growls. His fist shoots out, connects with the side of Finn's head with a sickening crack.

And this time, you can't stop yourself from flinching.

"I'm asking you again."

Half a beat passes, and the next split second happens so quickly you barely register your own movements.

As he spoke, the man's hand slipped towards his hip. On reflex, your own did too, and both of you pull your weapons at the same time, pointing them at each other, which prompts surprised yelps from the other two men who yank their own guns out of their holsters and take aim for your head–and you find yourself the target of three separate pistols.

But your gaze is firmly fixated on the first man, as is the muzzle of your gun. He seems to be calling the shots, and you don't think his henchmen will do anything without his explicit permission. He opens his mouth again, and articulates the next words slowly and perfectly.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"The informant," you say innocently, steadily, cocking your head. Your gun hand, you're pleased to see, is steady as ever. "Big Boss didn't tell you about me?"

And your guess was right. You fight a triumphant smirk as the man hesitates, eyes flicking from your face to his cronies.

Of course they aren't operating alone. You knew that immediately–the kidnapping was messy, sloppily done, in the public's plain sight. You don't know how they got Finn to leave his post, but knowing him it couldn't have been all that difficult. They probably sent a boy with a note from "Tommy" up and got him to meet them at the place where the abduction took place.

Your guess was that they weren't professionals. Weren't trained. Acted on the orders of someone else–someone higher up.

And judging from this guy's reaction, you were right.

Now it was just a question of keeping the game up for as long as possible.

"What?" you laughed, "you thought it possible to take down Tommy fucking Shelby without a man on the inside? Do you even know who he is?"

The art of bluffing is not to say too much. Don't give away what you don't know. Watch your mouth, say enough to keep them on edge, not a fucking word more.

"We ain't know about no informant," said one of the other men.

"Shut up," you said sharply. "I'm not fucking talking to you." Talk like you own them.

The man scrutinises your face, still looking suspicious. He didn't lower his gun. "Roman sent you?"

And that was his second big mistake; because now you had a name.

"Of course Roman sent me."

He nods, slowly. Gestures for the other two men to put away their guns, but still doesn't lower his own. "How'd you get in?"

You grin, slowly pulling the key ring from your pocket and jiggling it.

The man keeps his gun trained on you for a few more moments–agonising, agonisingly long moments–then finally lowers it, and gestures you forward. "Well, then, informant. Enlighten us."

You pull from your inside pocket a small bundle of paper–your notes. All of them. As you hand them over, you find that you don't feel any guilt.

You had warned Tommy not to trust you, after all.

The man takes them from you, and quickly flips through the sheets of paper, one hand still holding his gun. He casts a quick look at the man farthest away from you, gives a stiff nod. As he studies your notes, you slowly walk to where Finn hangs, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and unbelieving and rimmed with tears.

And the longer you keep your bored expression on, the easier it becomes to maintain. So much so that when you reach him, and he looks up at you from where he sits on his knees–it takes almost no effort for you to mockingly wipe away a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth and flick the droplet back in his face with a cruel grin. Finn screws his eyes shut, presses his lips into a tight line, grits his teeth.

"You really did not hold back, eh?" You turn back to the man, who looks up from your notes and grins a crooked, gnarled grin. "He looks like shit."

"Fucker wouldn't talk," he shrugged. "Tougher little shit than he looks."

You chuckle. It feels like you're coughing up acid. "Roman figured he wouldn't talk. That's why he hired me."

"Yeah?" He calmly folds the paper back up and stretches his arms, sighing in contentment when his shoulder gives a satisfying crack. "Well, you did a fine job."

"Thanks. I'll leave my business card."

"I don't think that will be necessary." And he grins again–the grin of a coyote, the grin of a shark–and that small gesture immediately makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. A sense of dread washes over you, tickles your spine, makes your entire body crackle with nervous tension from the tip of your toes to the very top of your cranium.

"You know, Roman has a… procedure. To make sure informants don't go blabbing to the other side."

"You threaten them by pointing your guns at them and yelling 'Keep your fucking mouth shut or I'll kill everyone you love'?" you guess hesitantly.

The shark's grin widens. "Nah. Too much work." His hand crawls to the back of his belt.

But this isn't the first sticky situation you've found yourself in, and you have lightning-fast reflexes to show for it.

Before he can fully cock his gun and take aim, you've pulled your own weapon, ducked beneath the ropes holding Finn up, planted a foot between his knees, grabbed a handful of his hair with one hand–he whimpers, and it almost breaks you–and pressed the barrel of your gun to his throat.

There is a puddle of water on the floor in front of you, and in it you can see your reflection. Your face is contorted into a terrifying imitation of a snarl, jaw clenched, teeth grinding, eyes spitting fire.

Nobody moves.

The man tuts, finger curling around his trigger. "So messy. So fucking messy, and we haven't even properly introduced ourselves. I believe our dear Shelby welp here called you Y/N?"

"That would make you Roman," you grit out.

He bows. "It would indeed." He laughs. "I have to say, kid, I admire the balls on you. Strolling in here, acting like you own the fucking place! These lads could learn from you." He jiggles his gun towards his two men. Then he taps his breast pocket with his free hand. “Thanks for this, though. A nice little bonus.”

Despite everything, your grip on Finn's hair tightens, and you pull his head back a little, showing off his exposed throat that much more. His breathing turns ragged, air whistling between clenched teeth.

The man's eyes glint, and his gaze flicks down, casting Finn a semi-sympathetic look. "Poor pup. Stings to be betrayed, don't it?"

Then he sighs, and is all business again. "Listen. There are three guns pointed at your head. Just step away from the welp, and your death will be quick and painless."

You bark a laugh. "Yeah, fuck that. Make me a better offer."

"No bargaining here, I'm afraid. Fuck off and away from the welp, Y/N."

In your head, your thoughts are racing at a thousand miles an hour. "You said he didn't talk. My notes apparently aren't what you were looking for. What do you want to know?"

Interest sparks in Roman's eyes. "How much do you know about Tommy Shelby?"

You shrug, albeit a little awkwardly. "I've worked for him for about eight months. I know enough."

"Even where he stashes his goddamn opium load?"

So that's what he wanted all along.

"Oh, easy. You know of Little Tempton? There's a huge storage facility right next to the scrapyard."

From Finn's throat rises a strangled gurgle–you give his head a little shake. "Shut the fuck up," you hiss.

Roman's eyebrows shoot up. "Little Tempton."

"That's right."

"Well, thank you so much for your fucking cooperation!" he says, in a high-pitched, mocking voice. Then his face grows serious again and he pouts semi-apologetically. "Still gonna kill you, though."

You press the barrel of your gun harder into Finn's throat, fingers tightening around the trigger. He inhales sharply. "Shoot me. I don't care. But I'm taking him with me."

Roman scoffs. "You think I give a fuck? You gave me the information I wanted. The fuckin' welp's not of use anymore."

"Maybe not." You shift, preparing yourself. If it comes down to it, you will do it. You will do it. "But Tommy won't know I did it. All he will find is two bodies, and I fucking swear to you that neither Tommy Shelby, nor Arthur Shelby, nor John Shelby, nor Polly Gray will rest until you and everything you stand for is absolutely burned to the ground."

Your words reverberate in the air and beneath your grip holding him up, Finn's eyes slip closed. He would want this, you tell yourself. If he could talk right now he would tell me to do it.

There is a beat of silence in which nobody moves–then all hell breaks loose.

The door is blasted off its hinges and hits one of the two henchmen, who gets the corner planted right in his throat. He goes down. The other screams bloody murder and launches himself right at the intruders–and John Shelby shoots him straight in the head.

Tommy and Arthur follow, along with Isaiah, and behind them, Johnny Dogs. You’re still standing behind Finn, your gun at his throat, and you process the flurry of incidents just that little fraction of a second too slowly.

You let him go, Finn slumps forward; you drop your gun, you stumble back–but the damage has been done, and Arthur turns to you, spittle flying from his twisted mouth as he screams. You can’t make out every word–the fight between John, Tommy, and Roman is noisy, and gunshots echo through the air, but you can make out a flurry of words–WE FUCKING TRUSTED YOU YOU FUCKING BASTARD WHAT WERE YOU THINKING I TOLD TOMMY YOU WERE NOTHING BUT A WORTHLESS  FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT–and you, for the first time, don’t know what to do.

So you take the punches. You deserve them, after all; Arthur and Tommy caught you with a gun at Finn’s bloodied and bruised throat, even though what you did was all for Finn. To buy him time. To save him. I hope he realises that–I never wanted him to get hurt.

Between punches and kicks, you can just make out Johnny Dogs cutting Finn loose, Isaiah tapping his cheeks, trying to bring him back to consciousness. You close your eyes after a particularly vicious kick to the stomach, and you think you feel a rib crack.

But then, for just a second, the beating stops. You crack open one eye; blink away the blood; have to concentrate for a couple of seconds before your brain, foggy with pain, processes that Finn is tugging at Arthur’s sleeve. “Stop, Arthur–stop–” You can barely make out the words. Your ears are buzzing; your head is pounding. “It’s not their fault. It’s not their fault. They saved my life–”

“They had a FUCKING GUN at your THROAT–”

“They were never going to–they would never–Arthur–ARTHUR–”

One more foot to your stomach. A breath, kicked from your lungs–and your vision goes black.

– – –

When you wake up, the first thing that surprises you is that you wake up at all.

The second thing that surprises you is that you’re lying in a bed–on a mattress, with a pillow and a blanket and everything–and that you’re hooked up on an infuse, a needle sticking from your left inner elbow. When you try to move your head, a scratchy feeling indicates the presence of a bandage, and when you shift on the mattress you realise your chest is bandaged as well.

Your cuts have been cleaned, you have probably been given medicine–judging from the look of some superficial scrapes and bruises, you would guess you’ve been out for two, maybe three days. Huh.

The third thing that surprises you–and this is when your stomach drops–is Finn’s presence, in the corner of your small bland room, sitting in a comfortable chair. He’s dozing, head lolling forward, chin resting against his chest. He looks, apart from the bruises and cleaned cuts still littering his face and arms, peaceful.

For a moment, you allow yourself to look at him. Really look at him. The man you almost died for. The man you almost killed.

And the coward in you wants nothing more than to run away.

It’s what you would have done a week ago. It’s what you would have done now, were it not for the crushing feeling in your chest the second you laid eyes on him. You owe him an explanation. An apology. Something, anything–

You will wait until he wakes up, you compromise, closing your eyes and focusing on getting your breathing back to normal. You will wait until he wakes up, and you will tell him… you will tell him what he needs to hear.

Even though you don’t quite know what that is yet.

So you wait. You wait for him, counting the seconds as they pass, synchronising your breathing–the strain against your bandages and the flash of pain you feel with every exhale only fuels your suspicions of broken ribs–with his own. And after what feels like hours, days, months, he finally wakes up.

“Y/N.” You hate that the first word out of his mouth is your name, said so softly, so gently, so lovingly–you have to turn away.

“You’re awake.”

And you look at him. His expression is hopeful, relieved even, and you cannot fathom that after everything–after everything–he still thinks of you well enough to be happy about your waking up.

“Yes, I am.” You try to sit up, wince at the white-hot pain flashing through your chest and abdomen, stifling a sob. Finn rushes over–limps over–to help, and you’re too weak to refuse.

“I’m–”

“No. Finn, just–don’t.” There’s a silence as you catch your breath, and Finn’s eyes–you’ve never been so close to him before. You’ve never been able to see his face from so close before. You can see every speck of colour in his eyes (they're brought out by the dark bruising around them), can follow every microscopic movement they make. You could almost count every freckle placed on his cheeks; arranged there so carefully they could be stars.

You open your mouth again, but he cuts you off. “I don’t want to hear it.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

At your incredulous tone, he laughs, and the sound is so startling and beautiful that you replay it over and over in your mind for weeks afterwards. “I mean, I don’t want to hear you tell me whatever it is you’re going to tell me. I don’t–I don’t want anything from you. You don’t need to apologise, you don’t need to explain. You saved my life.”

“No, Finn. I almost ended it. I would have ended it if it had gotten to that point. Finn, I would have killed you. I would have shot you. I would not have hesitated.” You look him in the eye, grab his hand and squeeze it. You want him to understand. You need him to understand. “I am not the hero you think I am.”

But he rolls his eyes, and it’s so frustrating you almost scream. “Don’t give me that shit. I know you would have killed me. You would have killed me so Tommy would go after Roman and kill him. It’s just a game, Y/N. I’ve been playing it all my life.”

“I gave him the location of Tommy’s opium. You literally would have died before telling him, and I did it without hesitation.”

“That was your choice. Tommy knows, he’s preparing an ambush as we speak. Roman was bound to find out anyway; he's been on Tommy’s ass for ages.”

You grit your teeth, look away. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Trying to convince me I’m a better person than I am.”

“You are a better fucking person than you think you are.”

You laugh; a bitter sound, melancholy, opposite in every way to the sound of Finn’s laugh only a minute ago. “Finn–forgive me for being brash–but you don’t know the first thing about me.”

His face falls, and your heart–you blame it on the medicine they hooked you up on–skips a beat. “Hey. Listen. I don’t blame you.” You blow a strand of hair out of your face, reach over (ignoring the painful strain of your ribs), take both of his hands in yours, ever so gently. “But you’ve only known me for less than a year, and even then… you don’t really know me. As in, I don’t let anyone really know me. And I’ve had to live with me my whole fucking life.”

You take a breath, slowly working up the courage to say what you really want to say, knowing that if you do, there’s no turning back. “You talked to them.”

“Who?”

“Tommy. John. Arthur,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze. “Arthur would have killed me if it weren’t for you.”

Finn nods, face reddening. “They took a bit of–uh–convincing.”

“Arthur offered to slice my throat.”

“Shut up.”

“John’s always liked me. He would just shoot me, I think. Quick and painless and all that.”

“Stop.”

“Tommy…” You pause to think, purse your lips. “Would probably beat me to death with his bare fucking hands.”

“Y/N. Can we please not talk about you dying? When I’ve literally just done everything in my power to stop that from happening?” He sighs, shakes his head. “Tommy was actually the easiest to convince out of all of them. Polly wanted to throw you out into the woods and let you rot.”

You smile wryly. “You should have listened to her.”

“Y/N–”

“No, no. You listen.” You pull him close to you, force him to look into your eyes. “Finn. Oi, are you fucking listening to me?”

“Yeah–”

“I am no fucking good for you.” There it is. Out in the open. Immediately, his cheeks flush, but he doesn’t deny it.

His eyes flick down, then back up, still defiant. “I’ll decide that for myself.”

“No. Not on this. Finn–” before you can stop yourself, your hand comes up and cups his jaw, and he stiffens– “I am a fire. And I would burn you from the inside out.”

“I don’t fucking care,” he whispers.

“I fucking do,” you hiss back.

You’re impossibly close now. So close. His breath fans your cheek, and you look into each other’s eyes; two polar opposites, in everything bar your stubbornness. Like a moth to flame; or like a fly to honey.

And when he leans in, your eyes slip closed and you know there is nothing you can do.

Your lips touch. Brush, only slightly, and his fingers come up to stroke your cheek, gentler than you could have dreamed. His touch leaves fire in its wake, and you’re tingling, and you break apart after only a second.

Your eyes lock, and you purse your lips, scowling. “Fine. Fine. Fuck you.” And you wrap your arms around his neck and crash your mouth back on his. The fly is attracted to the honey; but once contact is made, the honey drowns the fly.

“I have to leave,” you mumble against his lips.

Finn hums. “Not yet.”

“No, I mean–” You pull away fully. “This is a warning.”

He frowns.

“Tommy’s doing this for you. He spared me for you. I can’t–I have to go. I can’t stay in Small Heath, I would get killed, you realise that, right?”

“You have to get better first–”

“He won’t give me that long. This is an ultimatum.” You start to grow a little agitated now, shaking your head, running a hand through your hair and fiddling with the IV. “Hey, give me a hand.” Your fingers tremble.

“Wait–calm down, calm down.” He stops your hand, swats it away before gently undoing the straps. You rub the sore spot absent-mindedly. “Do you know where you’ll go?”

Your gaze snaps up. “Sorry?”

Finn smiles, a little wryly, a little fondly. “One of the reasons I love you is that you won’t let anyone tell you what to do. If you really want to go, I’ll help you.”

And slowly, you feel a smile forming too, pulling at the corners of your mouth as you look at this man. This man, who despite everything–despite every fucking thing–just told you he loves you. This man, who slowly wriggled himself a spot into your cold dead heart (it finally feels like it's starting to beat again), and you can feel he’s there to stay.

One day, maybe. If you can bring yourself to come back. If Tommy Shelby will have you in his city.

If Finn Shelby waits for you.

[musicprincess655]

It hurts.

Ithurtsithurtsithurts.

Atsushi can’t stop screaming through the pain. His whole body is on fire, and he can’t escape it. He barely hears Akutagawa shouting at him, asking him what’s wrong. He barely notices when his face is shoved into the bed, when Akutagawa climbs on his back and holds him down.

He knew what this was, didn’t he? Before his entire world was flames, was embers, was pain? What had he known? What does he know?

No. 6, a part of his brain offers, one that isn’t as affected by the pain, one he used to use as a detective. You saw this in No. 6.

The wasp on the back of the neck. The corpse that was too shriveled and old to match the only person it could be.

“Hold still.”

Atsushi clenches his hands into the sheets, gripping them for dear life.

“Good.”

A cold line cuts into the back of Atsushi’s neck, but he doesn’t scream again. He bites hard on the blanket, gritting his teeth as Akutagawa reaches under his skin and pulls, and when he lets go, the pain finally stops.

Atsushi’s muscles go limp, exhausted from the panic, strung out and finished. He vaguely hears Akutagawa ask once again what this is, but he doesn’t have the ability to answer. He’s just so tired.

So tired, in fact, that he doesn’t even flinch when the door bangs open and Gin returns with Dazai and Chuuya. He does, however, hear Dazai accuse Akutagawa of somehow doing this to Atsushi, and despite their differences, Atsushi will not allow Akutagawa to answer for something he didn’t do.

“Saved me,” Atsushi mumbles, trying to force it out through numb lips. “He saved me.”

Atsushi passes out so completely after that he doesn’t even feel Akutagawa climb off his back.

***

The next time Atsushi wakes, it’s to a furious burning in his throat. He needs water. He needs water, throat so dry it might tear just from swallowing. He stumbles to his feet, blanket sliding off his shoulders, and realizes that he’s still on the bed.

Gin is stretched out on the couch, fast asleep, but there’s no sign of Akutagawa anywhere. Atsushi doesn’t have much time to worry about that, though. He has to find water.

Atsushi walks on unsteady feet towards the door, rubbing at the bandages wrapping his throat, but a flash of white in the corner of his eye stops him. He slowly creeps towards the cracked mirror hung on the wall, and reels back in shock.

His hair is shocked white, only one streak in the front remaining of the color it had once been. Starting under his left eye, a pink line like a scar starts, and Atsushi can see a peak of it by his collar where it must wrap around the back of his neck before it dips under his shirt.

Exhaustion and thirst forgotten, Atsushi rips the bandages off, his shirt right behind, trying to track the line down his body. It cuts across his stomach, uncomfortably close to the scars he still carries on his ribs, the ones he can’t touch, can barely look at without feeling bile rise in his stomach, and continues under the edge of his pants. Atsushi wrenches them down, trips getting his left leg out when he realizes the scar wraps itself around his thigh once and then around and around his calf and ankle.

Finally, bare but for his underwear, Atsushi takes in his appearance and tries to convince himself this is a dream.

His hair is white now, practically glowing in the darkness. The scar – is it a scar? It doesn’t hurt, but what else could mark his skin like this? – twists down his body, doubling back on itself around his shoulder blade, coiling a death grip around his leg. The only thing that remains is his eyes, still purple and gold and just as inhuman as they’ve always been. Now the rest of him matches. Atsushi barely looks like a real person anymore. He crumples to his knees, scar resting at odd angles with itself.

Atsushi has never been vain. It’s never been something he could afford, not with the scars the orphanage left littering his body, not with his scrawny frame from years of hunger, not with eyes that had made everyone call him freak and sometimes monster growing up, but even still, to change so drastically in the blink of an eye, to have to alter the very image of himself he holds in his mind all at once…

He can’t breathe.

“This is why I can’t stand you, you know.”

Of course, of course Akutagawa is here now. Atsushi glares up at him from the floor, wrapping his arms around himself like he might be able to protect himself from Akutagawa’s harsh, cold gaze.

“You’ve got this bleeding fucking heart and nothing to back it up,” Akutagawa continues. “That’s not something you can survive with. It’s going to get you killed, and the only reason it hasn’t yet is because people have always protected you. But this is a world where only the strong survive. You’re weak. You’ll always be weak.”

The thing is, Akutagawa’s right. Atsushi isn’t brave, not really. Sometimes it’s more like he’s just too stupid for his own good, too reckless, too quick to act and too slow to think. Sometimes, he sees someone who needs his help, or a question he can’t keep on his tongue, and he pursues before he can consider all the reasons he really shouldn’t. That’s not bravery, but it is all Atsushi has, sometimes.

Atsushi is a creature of anxieties. Maybe it’s inevitable from the way he grew up, or maybe it’s something that just lives inside him regardless of his circumstances. His whole life has been a series of repressing them, a deep hole of fears bitten back and shoved down, bitten back and shoved down, stifled until it kills him. And then a tiger roars free.

“Fuck. You,” Atsushi snarls, picking himself up, standing on his own two feet to face Akutagawa down.

“You’re growing a spine now?” Akutagawa scoffs. “I’m not interested in your theatrics now, Jinko-”

He cuts off with a cough when Atsushi shoves him against the wall, and Atsushi finally realizes two things.

One, Akutagawa might be taller now by an inch, but Atsushi outweighs him, because scrawny as he is, Akutagawa is still smaller, only the leanest of muscle covering sharp bones, and even though Atsushi doesn’t know how to fight in the slightest, if there are no weapons involved, if he fights Akutagawa for real, there’s a chance he could win.

Two, even if he can’t, it’s not actually going to stop him.

Atsushi gets one good punch in before Akutagawa even sees him coming, knocking his chin back so hard his head slams against the wall. Akutagawa snaps his eyes back forward, teeth bared and feral, and goes for Atsushi for real, nails like claws reaching for his face, and…

Atsushi’s back hits the ground hard where he’s been flung. Akutagawa hasn’t moved from the wall, because Gin is suddenly in his face, furious for having been woken up. Atsushi and Akutagawa both watch her with bated breath.

“Are you two serious?” she snaps. She points at Atsushi. “You’ve been in a coma for three days, and the first thing you do is start throwing punches? And you,” she continues, rounding on Akutagawa. “Stop picking fights! You got hit and it was your fault.”

“But he-!”

“He was-!”

“I do not care,” she growls. “Since neither of you can be trusted on your own, you’re both coming with me. And put some pants on.”

Atsushi bothers to feel a little bad about disturbing her. Even if Akutagawa deserves to get punched, Gin seems to really need her sleep, and he didn’t actually mean to wake her up.

Gin hauls them both up to Dazai and Chuuya’s door. It takes a few rounds of furious knocking, but none of them want to open the door without permission. Atsushi might not understand how Dazai and Chuuya’s relationship works, but he does know there’s a good chance of getting an eyeful of something he doesn’t want to see if they just barge in.

Chuuya finally answers the door, obviously blinking sleep out of his eyes.

“Nakajima’s awake,” Gin says. Chuuya just nods, waving them all inside.

The room Dazai and Chuuya share is smaller than the one next door, but without all the clutter, it also seems reasonably spacious for two people. Atsushi plunks himself down on the couch, and Gin very pointedly sits between him and Akutagawa. Akutagawa is still rubbing at his jaw, bruise blooming purple and red, and Atsushi is still feeling vindictive enough to think good in his general direction.

Chuuya sits on the other couch, facing them across a coffee table, and Dazai joins them, blanket around his shoulders covering his hastily-applied bandages.

“So, Nakajima,” Chuuya starts. “What the hell happened?”

It’s an obvious first question, but it’s not one Atsushi has quite considered until now. It takes him a minute to even gather his thoughts enough to answer.

“There was a wasp in the back of my neck,” Atsushi says. “Akutagawa cut it out before it killed me.”

“So it would have killed you?” Chuuya asks.

“How did you know it was a wasp?” Dazai asks, curiosity evident in his voice. “We couldn’t tell from the pupa. You haven’t even seen it, have you?”

“I haven’t seen this one,” Atsushi says, and though both siblings and Chuuya suck in breath at that, Dazai doesn’t look very surprised. He probably already calculated a few steps ahead. He’s probably even farther along than Atsushi. “We had a case back in No. 6. A woman died mysteriously. Her corpse was old and shriveled, but her ID showed she was a young woman. There was a dead wasp in the back of her collar. We thought it might have been some kind of weird allergic reaction at the time, but now…maybe it actually came out of her, and it got stuck in her collar.”

“So there are killer wasps now,” Dazai muses.

“What do you think?” Chuuya asks.

“More than you,” Dazai says.

“I’ll kill you.”

“I don’t know yet,” Dazai admits. “Even I need a minute to think things through, Chuuya.”

“Fine, go scheme it out,” Chuuya sighs. He promptly ignores Dazai to focus on Atsushi again. “Is this going to happen again?”

Atsushi doesn’t know the answer to that. He hopes not. He doesn’t think he can bear that level of pain again.

“Is he possibly immune now?” Gin suggests. “He looks different.”

“To parasitic wasps?” Chuuya asks. “I guess anything’s possible, but can you be immune to that?”

“This might only be a problem inside No. 6,” Akutagawa says. “We haven’t heard of anything like this happening, and Kyouka would have told us if she had. If it’s only happening inside No. 6, maybe it’s only affecting people there.”

“Nakajima is the only one who spent a lot of time there,” Gin agrees, clearly considering.

“It does have No. 6 written all over it,” Chuuya says, face gone dark. Atsushi wants to ask. Badly. He’s just scared enough of Chuuya still that he doesn’t.

“Then for now, we can say it’s not our problem,” Akutagawa says. “If Jinko’s the only one affected, and we already cut it out of him, we’re all safe.”

“What about everyone still in No. 6?” Atsushi asks.

“What about them?”

“They don’t all deserve to die!” Atsushi protests. “My dad’s still in there! My friends! What if this gets them next?”

“No. 6 deserves to come down,” Akutagawa says. “And besides, what do you expect us to do?”

“Maybe there’s a cure,” Atsushi says. “I survived. If we could get a message inside for what to do-”

“Unnecessarily risky,” Akutagawa cuts him off. “I’m not sticking my neck out for anyone in No. 6.”

“That’s enough for now,” Chuuya says before Atsushi can snap back. “It’s late, everyone’s tired. Get some sleep, and we can deal with it tomorrow.”

Akutagawa pulls Atsushi back before they go back inside their room. Gin throws them a dangerous look, but lets them go.

“That’s two you owe me,” Akutagawa says. “I’m not saving your life a third time.”

Atsushi doesn’t understand Akutagawa at all, doesn’t understand his view of life as a zero-sum game, only helping someone because it might benefit you, this bizarre system of owing and being owed. But at least he can understand the rules Akutagawa operates by.

“One.”

“What?”

“You saved me from No. 6 because I saved you when we were kids,” Atsushi says. “I only owe you one.”

Akutagawa blinks, eyes narrowing in anger.

“Thanks for saving me, for what it’s worth,” Atsushi says.

“Jinko-”

“My name is Atsushi.”

Akutagawa looks like he swallowed a lemon.

“Jinko,” Akutagawa says more emphatically. “Never thank me for that again. Not that I’ll ever give you the chance.”

They both return to the room, Akutagawa to his couch, Atsushi to the pile of blankets he’s been slowly collecting with Kyouka’s help to make the floor more comfortable. It’s an uneasy silence they fall into, but they’re both alive, and they both have enough to think about that they don’t go for each other’s throats again that night.

[erintoknow]

Hurry Home

fallen hero: rebirth fan fiction with Crow and Argent ~2.2k words [ao3]

–––

2 AM in Los Diablos isn’t much different from 6 PM. The haze of streetlights defused into the smog taints the black in sickly yellows, reds, and greens. Crow pulls his arms tight against himself as he wanders down the street. No particular destination in mind. Sail the ship, onward ‘till morning. Normally this is Morrígan’s time to shine. It just makes more sense that way, a witch for the witching hour, when all the specters peer out from underneath their tombstones.

Not tonight, not for a while. Morrígan needs to rest still. Dr. Mortum did a good job keeping the girl out of harm’s way but when you’re dealing with criminals you can’t afford even the pretension of weakness. Morrígan can take it easy until the worst of the bruising fades. She deserves it.

Not like Badb Catha– not like you. Keep your guard up, feelers out. Walking alone, at night, in the closest thing that passes for dark in this sad excuse for a city. There’s a man across the street, that’s been walking the same direction you’ve been for a whole block now. Telepathy assures he doesn’t think of you at all. But–

Sometimes you wonder if you’re suffering bleed-over from Morrígan. She may not have telepathy but she’s always taking count of everyone in sight-range. Assessing probable threats as best she can without the benefit of your talent. But the details that rank her concern… Some part of you, or of her-in-you is screaming the man is a threat. That you should speed up, detour away from him.

But– Crow is a man. Decently tall, more in shape everyday, with his telepathy, Crow shouldn’t have anything to fear from a scrawny twig of a dude. What’s he going to do? Pull a gun on you? Worst case Crow can just reach into the empty head and crush it down like a trash compactor. It wouldn’t even be hard. No training, no discipline–

“Spare a buck, lady?”

A hand on your shoulder pulls you off balance, yanking you sideways towards an alley between buildings. Trained reflex takes over, snapping the offending hand away as you step back and fall into a defensive stance. Adrenaline pumping, mind on full alert and– you squint through the gloom at the unshaven man standing were your telepathy insists there’s nothing and nobody. Strain harder, and catch the faint pop of static.

The man raises both hands up and backs away, back into the shadow. Static or no, how did you miss him? “Woah, easy there.”

“I’m no fuckin’ lady, hey?” Crow spits, narrowing his eyes in contempt. The nerve. The very idea. This guy would piss his pants if he knew he was talking to Macha. She’d bring an armored fist down and crush his head like a ripe grape.

“Yeah, I can uh, I can see that.” The mean looks down on Crow, mouth twitching down at the edges. He shakes his hand and before sliding it into the front pocket of his sweater. “Just looking for help, anything you can spare.”

“Bullshit.” Crow doesn’t relax, little alarm bells ringing in the back of his awareness at least two more minds nearby who are entirely too interested in what’s happening right now. Future trouble? With this guy? Separate? To early to tell. He’s the most dangerous. “How many beggars keep guns in their sweater vests, dumbass?”

The man’s face is full-on frown now. “No need for that, my man.” He’s taller than Crow, not a lot, but enough. How firm is his grip? How quick can he aim? Whatever’s about to happen, Crow should be fine. This guy is nothing that hasn’t been pasted countless times before. It’s just an open question on if Morrígan will need to go fishing for bullets this time.

Crow would, admittedly, prefer that not to be necessary.

“So you feeling charitable tonight?”

Crow rolls his eyes. “You’re not too bright, are ya?” It’s too late in the night for this game. There are places to aimlessly wander, there’s no time to pretend to be held up by a two-bit crook that can’t find the right end of a razor.

Crow snaps to the side, out of the estimated field of fire of whatever gun the man must be holding in his pocket. The sudden movement gets him by surprise. This isn’t part of the script. Yeah, will neither is yanking his arm back 90 degrees in the wrong direction until it makes a gross-ass popping noise. The would-be assailant screams and drops to the ground, a pistol falling out of his hand and scattering into the dark. A revolver? Doesn’t matter, not a factor now. 

Kick the body in the stomach, and he groans. “Fuckin’ idiot.” Crow mutters, shaking his head. Well, they can’t all be Ortega. “Maybe think twice next time ya amadán, ya idiota, ya–”

A crack rings out off the walls and at the same time fire blooms in your leg below the knee. Shot? You’ve been shot? No grazed. Skinsuit under your clothes held up. This time anyway. Gonna be a hell of a bruise. Twist, keep yourself on your feet, feel for who– one of the two you noted as too interested earlier. She’s moving towards, you pissed mad. You fling up your arms, can’t risk another shot. Not until she’s in punching range. Damn your leg. Fuck.

“Get away from him!” She’s on full alert, pistol pointed at you, finger on the trigger. Hands aren’t steady. How much training has she had? “I said get the fuck away from him!”

You keep your hands up, take an agonizing shuffle back. Fight the urge to push up your glasses. “Ya know, back-up don’t mean shit if your on the other end of the block, right?” Reach in there, mind like razor blades. Can you shut it down before she pulls the trigger? Too tense. 

Would the skinsuit hold up? What make is that pistol? You can’t tell in the gloom. She doesn’t know either. Charming. Idiots. Fools. Both of them. Siblings? Cute. ‘Bro’ wanted to try the nice way. Sis’ here knows the real score.

Find the floor, something to smash and bring her down quick.

“–I said empty your fucking pockets!” She jabs the gun in your direction. So much for protecting family. Can’t forget the crime, can we sweetheart?

“Can– can I put my arms down, hey?” Stall for time while you reach in there. This has to be subtle-like or the shock might get her to pull the trigger regardless.

She glares down the sight at you. If she did shoot, could you get Morrígan here in time? Would Morrígan even know where ‘here’ is? You slowly lower one arm. Don’t think about the gun. Pull one pocket inside out. Of course. You weren’t intending to go wandering. Not prepared. Think if you come clean about not having any money on you, the three of you can laugh this off as a hilarious misunderstanding?

No?

Think of another plan then.

Or, consider this: The beat of footsteps and something now way too familiar on the periphery pulls your attention upwards.

As she twirls through the air the phosphor light gets caught in her hair. A tangled mess of reflections, caught however many times before bouncing free? She brings her arm forward, down, pulled in on gravity’s tether and– oh, wait, shit, fuck–

Your leg screams in protest as you dive to the side just in time for Lady Argent to bisect the air between you and ‘Big Sis.’ A shot echoes off the walls blasting your eardrums and you have to clutch at your ears.  “Fuckin’ hell! Are you trying to kill me?”

Argent turns to you, looking none the worse the wear for having dropped from the roof of a three story building. She shakes out her arm like an etch-a-sketch as she takes in the scene. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Holy fuck,” Sis is backing away from the scene, eyes darting between you and Lady Argent.

Argent watches the woman from the corner of her eye. “Street muggers? Not much of a challenge.”

“I had it handled.” You hiss. Now that you’re on the ground the idea of getting up and putting wait on your leg seems impossible. “Had them eating out of my hand.”

Argent tilts her head, looking down at you, paying absolutely no mind to the woman who had just shot at her. “Is that what the bullet hole is for, Catha?”

“Nah, just a graze, hey? Look, it’ll be fine.”

“Your bleeding.” Argent stresses the word. Why does she care? She doesn’t seem to know either. “You’ve been shot Crow.”

“Well, look.” You wince as you pull yourself into a sitting position. “Ya gonna arrest the bitch that did it, hey?”

That gets Argent to shift her focus to the sister, stepping over the still prone body of the first guy. You don’t think he’s actually out of it, if all the internal screaming you’re picking up means anything. Just as good, you guess. 

Argent takes another step forward. The woman drops the gun to her side and books it. So much for family loyalty. You let her drop out of your awareness, her panic is putting you a little too on edge. You’ve got plenty of your own reasons to panic. Such as: Lady Argent wants to chase after the woman, but instead she turns to face you. She’s not impressed.

That’s fair, you concede. You aren’t impressed by you either.

“You need help.” It’s supposed to be a question, but coming out of her mouth it feels like a statement of fact.

You bark back a laugh. Wince as touch your injured leg. You still haven’t actually looked at. It’s not necessary. “You offering a piggyback ride Starshine?”

Her eyes narrow as she stares down at you. “Fuck off.” She tenses, fingers flexing. She wants to move in, can’t make up her mind. “I meant an ambulance.”

You shake your head. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Unlike like some people present, I’ve got bills to pay.” You grit your teeth. The pain a dull throb. As soon as you get back you’ll have to have Morrígan look at it. It’s just bruising, you’re sure. “What are you doing here anyway, hey?”

Argent shifts her stance, mouth wrenched in a tight frown. “What do you think I’m doing Crow, I’m on patrol.” You watch her facial expression, body language. There’s more to it then that, you’re sure. But what, exactly you can’t place. “What are you doing out here.”

You cross your arms. “It’s a free country Starshine.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“My statement is not any less true on accountin’ of the hour.” You shift your position, grit your teeth as you try to get up. “Ah– fuck!” Argent’s hand grabs your arm before you can fall back down. She pulls you to feet with a disturbing ease.

“You need to see a doctor.” She doesn’t let go of your arm.

You scrunch up your face, stare down at the asphalt. “Don’t you have a mugger to chase down?”

“Small fry like that don’t matter.”

“That so…” You take a breath, try to keep your hands from forming fists. “And I do now?” Why won’t she let go?

“I’ll never…” There’s a hesitation in her voice. That’s hardly like the Argent you know. “Ortega will give me hell if I just let you walk off like that.”

Enough is enough. you tug at your arm. She lets go. “What does Julia fucking care?”

Argent doesn’t mince words. “She’s still in love with you.”

Something in your chest twists, you rub at your eyes with one hand, push your glasses back up. “Well, hey, tell her she’s seven years too fucking late for that revelation.” You pull back from her mind, in on yourself. You don’t want to know. Focus on the pain. The pain in your leg. It’s just a dull throb now but that’s real. Your leg is real. Not like her, or this city, or the rest of you. 

“Tell her yourself Crow. I’m not your go between.” She stands still. Doesn’t move after you as you hold yourself up against the wall. 

“Then don’t act like one, hey?” You push off the wall. Test your leg, hurts like a motherfuck but you can do this. It’ll be a long walk, but you’ve done worse. Maybe you’ll jack a car from somewhere to cut down the distance. Or just a taxi?

Argent steps after you, grabs your arm again when you stagger. “If you’re not going to the hospital, then where are going?”

“Where do you think, Starshine?” You snarl, “Fucking home, hey?” She’s close. Too close. Just a skinsuit under clothes can’t protect you. Why is she pretending to care? Does she know? Is this pretense for revenge?

“And where’s home for you, Crow?” You glance up at her, she’s not looking at you. Scanning the area. Empty street. Dogs barking in the distance.

Fuck it. Whatever. If she murders you in your sleep, you can’t say you didn’t have it coming.

You gesture to the left, down the street. “This way. Bit of a walk. Think you can handle it?”

[master-sass-blast]

Wade. No. Stop.

Sometimes, I write fluff. Sometimes, I write angst.

Sometimes, I write crack

Welcome to the drug trip.

Summary: Wade finds out that Piotr grew up on a farm and teases the two of you relentlessly about enjoying cow play. He crosses an unforgivable line, and you decide to get revenge.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader, Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson, and Ellie Phimister x Yukio.

Rating: M for utter sexual inappropriateness, vague descriptions of vomiting, and strong language.

Many thanks to the CACAT discord for helping me come up with some of Wade’s various pranks.

Being best friends with Wade Wilson comes with a number of advantages.

First, if you ever need someone to help you hide a body at 3:48 in the morning during a tornado watch, he’s your guy. He’ll even take you out for pancakes afterward.

Second, his extensive knowledge of the Internet and all things Golden Girls makes him a surprisingly valuable ally on trivia night.

Third, he always has a vast supply of junk food on hand, hidden in little stores around his room --in airtight containers to keep bugs out, thank you Nathan. Snack nights with Wade are the best.

Fourth, he’s genuinely everything you’d ever want in a big brother. Severely inappropriate sense of humor with a gun collection he’s happy to let you borrow from and the best taste in spike heels? Uh, yes please!

You know, not to mention the fact that he loves on you at any given opportunity like the touch-starved octopus he is, will happily waste a day watching YouTube or movies with you if you’re feeling down, and always checks before each shark week to make sure you’re stocked on everything you might need --even though he knows that you and Piotr manage that just fine, he says you deserve to have someone checking in on you.

Which is wonderful. He’s wonderful. In his own weird, mildly stabby sort of way.

However, there are times where being friends with Wade comes with... challenges. Let’s call them challenges.

First challenge: Wade is a purely destructive force of nature when he gets bored.

And not in the ‘I-tried-to-do-wood-shop-things-and-broke-a-few-power-tools’ kind of way.

He’s most liable to go to Blind Al’s and get high on cocaine. Which was unnerving the first couple times he did it, admittedly. Wade gets extremely wound up when he’s on coke, and while his dust bunny catching skills are impressive, the French maid’s outfit he prances around is not.

That particular incident had been a distinct feature in your nightmares for several weeks. You’re still not sure you’re over it.

Fortunately, though, now that he and Nathan are together, most of Wade’s coke episodes are handled by the time-traveling cyborg. He simply scoops Wade up with some telekinesis, takes him to their shared room, and stays in there with him until Wade comes down from his high.

Unfortunately, however, Wade’s boredom fits don’t always involve coke --and, when they don’t, Nathan’s ability to circumvent Wade’s destructive tendencies runs out pretty quickly.

When Wade isn’t coking himself out, he’s shooting things. Or blowing things up. Or lighting them on fire. Or... doing unspeakable things to them.

And, since none of the telepaths in the mansion can read Wade to figure out what he’s doing ahead of time, there’s no stopping him beforehand. It’s always follow the sounds of destruction and clean it up afterward.

Which is what the ‘flaming pool incident,’ the ‘juggling chainsaws incident,’ and the ‘whipped cream in the fire suppression sprinkler system’ are all categorized as. As are the ‘carpet of actual kittens, Wade how did you even get this many kittens, oh god Remy’s allergic to cat hair someone get his Epi-Pen,’ the ‘mac and cheese overflowing from all the toilets,’ the ‘how did Poptarts get glued to the ceiling?’, the ‘wait, you aren’t actually barbecuing a person, oh shit you are, WADE NO, I don’t care if it was for a job and you only need a picture and you weren’t actually going to eat it,’ and the ‘en masse tp-ing’ incidents. Not to mention--

Perhaps the list ought to be left for another time. You know Scott has a file cabinet or two devoted to Wade’s exploits, and there’s no way you’re going to make it through all of them right now.

(Though, in Wade’s defense, if he had known Remy had allergies to cat hair, he wouldn’t have brought cats into the mansion.)

Second challenge: Wade will argue with anything.

True story. It doesn’t even have to be breathing. You’ve watched him carry on a two hour argument with a plastic ficus at Sister Margaret’s. And he lost.

Admittedly, this comes in handy when the game of the night at the X-Mansion is ‘debater’s table.’ You and Wade have an unbroken winning streak.

Unfortunately, that winning streak is only a total of one because everyone decided --aside from you and Wade--that ‘debater’s table’ would be banned henceforth. Possibly maybe definitely because you tried to supplex Scott through the table when he called one of your points ‘uninspired.’

In your defense, Wade tried to help.

In both of your defenses, they really should’ve known better than to put two of the most combative people in the house on the same team --let alone play such a competitive game with them.

Extra unfortunately, Wade’s argumentative streak is the literal biggest pain in anyone’s ass at any other given time.

Especially when rules are involved.

“Wade!”

“Hang on! Hang on!” you shout as you hear your boyfriend tromp through the mansion in defense mode. You grab your bag of insta-popcorn from the microwave and run in the direction of Piotr’s angry stomping, swearing as you toss the searing bag from hand to hand. You sprint towards the clinic room Wade is being patched back together in and dive into your chair, perched between Ellie and Neena.

Neena opens the bag without burning herself, somehow. “Thanks. These are a pain in the ass to sit through without a snack.”

Ellie reaches across you and grabs a handful for her and Yukio to share. “Try to get the Parmesan cheese kind next time. The generic flavor is boring.”

“I tried, but I think we’re out. We’ll have to restock.” When you realize Piotr is watching you four with a mildly exasperated expression, you wave your hand at him. “You can start now. We’re ready.”

He shakes his head, then refocuses on Wade --who’s still regrowing a leg and several bullet holes. “Wade. How many times do I have to say--”

“You can say my name as much as you want, you big silver stud,” Wade interjects before your boyfriend even had a chance to work up a head of steam. “I never get tired of hearing it.”

“Down, boy,” Nathan mutters in his seat next to Wade’s hospital bed.

“What is first rule?” Piotr asks, arms crossed over his chest.

“Label everything in the refrigerator.”

You wince internally as you watch Piotr restrain himself from yanking Wade out of the bed and slamming him against the nearest wall. “Why does he keep opening with that?” you whisper to Ellie. “It never works.”

“Because he’s hoping it will someday,” Ellie whispers back. “Pass the popcorn.”

“You know that is not first rule,” Piotr growls --and damn if that doesn’t do something for you--accent thickening with his anger. “As much as you play idiot, you are not one.”

“Oh, honeypie, I’m touched! But not in the way I’d like to be, if you know what I me--”

You cough pointedly, and Wade relents with an apologetic gesture of his hands.

“Point stands, Tin Man on steroids, I genuinely don’t know what I’ve done wrong or what I’ve done to deserve this raging Russian display of restrained passion --not that I’m complaining, mind you--”

“Rule One: No killing. Ever.” Piotr’s jaw flexes, and there’s a slight metal scraping noise as he grits his teeth. “How is that so hard to understand?”

“Uh, because some people deserve to die. Specifically, the actual child traffickers we were fighting today. Because they’re actual. Child. Traffickers.”

“You do not have right to take lives!”

“Uh, like hell I do! Did you miss the part where they were child traffickers?”

���Who’s winning?” Yukio asks quietly as she scoops more popcorn into her mouth.

“Unfortunately, I think Wade is,” Ellie murmurs.

“You can’t honestly look at me and say the world is worse off for me having killed those guys. Honestly.”

Piotr’s hands clench into fists. He’s on the losing side of the argument, and he knows it. “Your actions reflect on all of mutant kind.”

“Not a mutant, my comrade. I’m a reject science experiment. Come on, the first movie literally covered this in extreme, nude detail!”

“Your actions still reflect on X-Men. We can’t afford to have easily misconstrued actions on our hands.”

Wade shrugs. “Hey, you asked me to come with. You know how I handle people like that, and you asked me anyway. Frankly, I’m not sure I like that you’re willing to let fuckers like that live for the sake of your image.”

Piotr’s jaw tenses.

“Holy shit,” Neena breathes. “He’s winning. He’s literally regrowing a limb. How is this even possible?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” you mutter. “Wade fucking Wilson.”

“Need I remind you that staying at X-Mansion is privilege,” Piotr says, tone icy. “Those who cannot follow rules cannot stay.”

“Fine. I know where the door is. Say the word and I’m gone. I’m still gonna deal with the irredeemable assholes of the world the way I always do whether I’m here or not: scrub them out, one at a time, until there aren’t any left and I can finally retire for the rest of eternity.”

You’re starting to see just exactly why Nathan fell for Wade.

Piotr glares at the mouthy merc for a moment before turning on his heel and storming out of the room.

Wade flops back against his bed with a wince and sighs. “I take it that one goes to me?”

“Amazingly, yes,” Ellie says as she stands, hand already wrapped around Yukio’s. “Stop killing people, dipshit.”

“No can do, Negasonic Beetlejuice. Bye, Yukio!”

“Bye, Wade!”

You toss the empty popcorn bag into the trash and brush your hands off on your pants. “I’m gonna go find Piotr before he implodes on himself.”

You could technically add in Wade’s less than lucid days and grumpy pain-slash-feeling suicidal days in as challenges, but you don’t think there’s anyone in the mansion that would have the heart to assign that to the him as a consequence of his own behavior and choices.

Which, by default, only leaves one other challenge: Wade’s perverted sense of humor.

Wade’s sense of humor is like a fire hydrant: all or nothing. Unstoppable once it’s started. Overwhelming in every sense of the word.

Unlike a fire hydrant, it’s also largely sexual.

Which happens into some less than stellar moments where Wade hits on anything in sight --including your boyfriend--not so much because he wants to fuck whatever he’s laid eyes on, but because he loves the reactions his increasingly horrifying innuendos get.

And, admittedly, he’s funny ninety-nine percent of the time. He has a mouth that won’t quit and he’s not afraid to use it.

However, he does happen into that one percent of the time where it’s just. Too. Much.

Cue the cow-play incident and your revenge on Wade for all his related wrong doings.

You’re all sitting around the kitchen table when the fateful bit of information comes out.

“Wait, hold the fucking phone for a minute.” Wade stares at Piotr, shocked. “You grew up on a farm?”

Piotr nods. “Da. In Siberia.”

“What did you farm? Ice?”

That gets an eye roll. “Nyet, Wade. Cattle, mostly. It was easiest to maintain.”

“Well I’ll be darned,” Wade says in an offensively hickish Southern accent. “Ol’ Petey-pie’s jus’ a regular cowboy, ain’t he?”

“Stop it,” Ellie says flatly as she scrolls through Tumblr. “You sound stupid.”

“That was the point, Negasonic laser canon, thank you very much.” He refocuses on Piotr with a familiar glint in his eye. “So, is it stereotypical of me to ask if you two do the cowgirl position a lot?”

You flick a Cheeto at him while Piotr sighs heavily. “Stop it. Stop being gross.”

“Okay, that’s fine. I don’t want to know about all your cow-play activities anyway.”

And that’s... not a term you’re familiar with. You dig your phone out of your pocket and type in the term into your search engine.

Across the table, Ellie sucks in a breath. “Y/N, no!”

It’s too late.

It’s all too late.

Your precious brain will never be the same.

You stare down at the Urban Dictionary definition, unable to tear your gaze away as your brain tries to comprehend the horrors of Wade’s implications.

Next to you, Piotr drops his head into his hands. “Wade, no--”

“So you do know what it is! You kinky fuck! Here I thought you wouldn’t want to be milked--”

That mental image makes you scream. You drop to the floor and cover your face with your hands. “Oh God, why? Why! Wade, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Hey, no kinkshaming! As long as you two are both consenting--”

“Shut! Up!” You roll to your feet and glare at him. “I didn’t need to know about any of that! I was fine just the way I was without learning about that corner of the world!”

“Oh, but you so weren’t!” Wade cackles. “Man, your reaction was priceless--”

You charge after him, hellbent on beating the ever living shit out of him.

You do, but it’s too late.

Wade’s hooked on the joke.

It starts with texts. Usually late at night, when Wade’s still up and normal people are trying to sleep.

The first one comes in the same night at two in the morning. 

It takes a moment for your eyes to focus on the small lettering, but when they do you wish they hadn’t.

Bro: So, how did the milking session go tonight?

Piotr groans when you toss your phone across the room. “What?”

You flop down next to him with a huff. “Don’t even ask.”

From there, it just gets worse. Not only do the texts become at least a daily feature in your life, but Wade starts tormenting you and Piotr in other ways.

Bro: Question. Does Colossus ‘moo’ when he climaxes?

You: Fuck. Off.

You hadn’t thought anything of it other than Wade was hellbent on being an annoying prick, and had shoved your phone into your pocket.

Until later that night, when Wade loudly, dramatically shouts “I can’t find my phone!”

And Piotr, being the kind and gentle soul that he is, says “I can call it.”

You spy Wade’s phone on the kitchen table, in very obvious and plain view, which isn’t anything suspicious because Wade could lose anything, anywhere.

What is suspicious, however, is the devious grin Wade’s wearing.

You almost tell Piotr to hang up, but the call connects before you can say anything.

Wade’s phone vibrates across the table, playing the distinctive sounds of cows mooing in chorus.

You smack your palm against your forehead, while Piotr merely sighs and hangs up. “Just stop it already!”

After that, it’s just unstoppable.

You find cow everything everywhere. Black and white pictures taped inside the covers of books or tucked in your shoes. A bundle of cow fridge magnets addressed to your boyfriend in red crayon --not subtle, Wade, by the way. An email with a couple’s Halloween costume set of a farmer and --you guessed it--a dairy cow.

The subject line of the email reads “Because milking should be an equal opportunity pastime,” which really should’ve been all the hint you needed.

And the texts. Holy fucking tits, the texts.

They’re horrible. Obscene. They use entirely too many emojis in ways that the app creators never intended!

Bro:  philly cheesesteak all in that order, chili cheese fries as a starter got the steroids keeping me stronger bitch im a cow, bitch im a cow, i am not a cat, i dont say meow bitch im a cow, bitch im a cow

Bro:  ca$h rules everything around me ice cream ice cream you a calf bitch, you ma daughter i ain't bothered get slaughtered got the methane, i'm a farter with my farmer mcdonald and they feed me real good, it's a honor

Bro: I took the liberty of doing a little redecorating before leaving town for my job. Hope you like it!

Okay, that last text isn’t necessarily obscene, but it is... concerning.

You meet Piotr right by the main staircase. He looks just as panicked as you do, which means he got the text, too. “How bad do you think it’s gonna be?”

He looks up the flight of stairs, expression fearful. “Probably worse than what I could imagine.”

The two of you climb the stairs in silence, proceeding like prisoners to their slaughter --execution.

Dammit Wade.

There’s a trail of straw in the hallway that leads to your shared bedroom.

“Oh God no,” you whisper. “Please. No.”

Piotr groans. “This will be impossible to clean up.”

“I think there are other priorities to think about here.”

“I can’t. If I do, I might go insane.”

You walk together to the bedroom door, which has a note attached to it.

You’re welcome for fulfilling all your kinky dreams! --Wade

Piotr tears the note off and crumples it. He put his hand on the door knob, then looks at you. “Like bandaid, da?”

You take a deep breath, steel yourself, then nod. “My body is ready.”

He pushes the door open, and--

It’s worse than you could’ve imagined.

The floor is covered with straw, from corner to corner. On the desk is a machine that looks extremely suspect--

Piotr groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “...blyad.”

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Da.”

“Dammit, Wade.” You spy a Hello Kitty sticky note attached to the side and peel it off.

Fun fact! You can buy Dairy Cow milking machines at Walmart! Who knew? --Wade

Perhaps most suspect, however, is the massive cardboard box sitting on your bed.

With a sigh, you walk over and tear it open. “May as well get it over with. How bad could it be?”

So much worse, is the answer. Apparently.

Sitting right on top are a cattle prod and a branding iron.

You close your eyes and try to breathe through the aneurysm you’re suffering from right now. “Life Lesson Number One: It can always get worse, especially when Wade’s involved.”

There’s also a pack of gloves that go all the way up to the shoulder, a coupon for a free septum piercing, and a book.

On.

Artifical. Fucking. Insemination.

Your phone buzzes in your hand, and it takes all your will power not to chuck it out the window. You inhale deeply and look down at the screen.

Bro: You like it?

You: FUCK. YOU.

The final straw, believe it or not, actually comes a few weeks later. Because you draw the line at being made to vomit.

You’re in the kitchen, innocently pouring yourself a glass of milk to go with a few cookies you’d swiped from one of Wade’s snack stashes when the merc himself walks in.

He stops, waits for you to eat one of the cookies and drink half the glass of milk, then cocks his head to the side and says, “You know, I may have not expected you to milk Pete, but I sure as fuck didn’t think you would store it in the fridge and drink it.”

And that sentence --along with the mental image it conjures up-is enough to make you gag. Your eyes water and your stomach churns, and you have to set down your glass of milk to keep from spilling it all over yourself.

Wade’s waiting, grinning deviously, clearly expecting you to give him hell for what he just said.

Except you don’t. You can’t. You can’t get the mental image of... that out of your head, and it’s making you nauseous.

You sprint past Wade and to the nearest bathroom. You throw open the door, flip the toilet lid and seat up with a resounding smack, and brace yourself for the oncoming storm.

Halfway through puking everything in your stomach, Piotr darts in and pulls your hair away from your face. “Myshka, is everything alright? Are you sick? What happened?”

“She can’t talk,” Ellie says somewhere in the background. “She’s puking. And Douchepool’s looking pretty guilty.”

You can almost hear the glare Piotr gives Wade. “Wade. What did you do?”

“I wasn’t trying to make her puke!”

You dry heave once, twice, and then when you’re sure nothing else is coming up anytime soon you glare over your shoulder at the merc and point an accusing finger at him. “This means war. I’m going to fucking murder you.”

Wade, at least, has the decency to look sheepish. “Yeah, I probably deserve it.”

You’re in the middle of plotting what exactly you’re going to do to Wade --high road be damned, Piotr, some things just required a strong response--when you happen upon a calendar and realize what’s coming up in three days.

It’s perfect. Fated by the universe. There was never a better time for revenge than now.

You fish twenty dollars out of your wallet and go in search of Nathan.

The older man’s in his room, sitting at his desk while he glares down various monitors with findings about various corrupt politicians, black markets, and skeezy billionaires.

You knock on the door frame. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.” He swivels in his chair and takes off his reading glasses. “What can I help you with, kid?”

You hold out the twenty dollars to him. “I made a deal with you about six months ago. You helped me escape Wade’s rant on Halloween in exchange for me promising to help you prank Wade. And twenty bucks.”

He accepts the cash with a sly smirk. “You did.”

“I take it I don’t have to bring you up to speed about Wade’s latest bullshit?”

“You don’t.”

“So, here’s what I’m thinking: I help you prank Wade, and I also get my revenge. Sound good?”

He grins. “Mutually beneficial. Good way of thinking.”

“Great. Do you have a driver’s license?”

“I have a fake one.”

“Close enough. We need to get some supplies.”

There are, of course, a few ground rules.

“One, no destroying anything. Two, nothing about Vanessa; I don’t want to give him a mental break down. Three, nothing I can get in trouble with the Professor for.”

Nathan nods. “Sounds reasonable.”

The first stop is Whole Foods, where the two of you get the blandest, healthiest, boring-est stuff you can find. 

Quinoa. So much quinoa. You never want to see this much quinoa again in your life.

The next stop is Home Depot. You clean them out of leaf blowers.

The stop after that is Lowes. You clean them out of leaf blowers, too.

The average person might find it suspect that your plan requires so many leaf blowers. You really don’t care about what average people think.

After the hardware stores, you stop at a craft store and buy as many plain t shirts as you can and enough fabric markers and puff paint to stock a summer camp.

When you drag everything into yours and Piotr’s room --sans leaf blowers, you leave those in the trunk of Nathan’s car for the time being--you boyfriend gives you a puzzled look. “Myshka? What is all this for?”

You grin up at him. “Revenge. Duh.”

He sighs. “Moya lyubov’, I thought we talked about taking high road.”

“I promised Cable I would help him prank Wade for April Fool’s! You wouldn’t want me to go back on my word, would you?”

It’s a bullshit argument, granted, but it’s not one he can technically out talk you on without giving himself a headache. He sighs and gives you his patented “dad look.” “Y/N.”

“Piotr. We’re not destroying anything, we got our own stuff to make sure we weren’t damaging X-Men property, and we’re not doing anything that relates to Vanessa. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

He relents with a sigh. “Very well. Since you are being responsible about it, I will not complain.”

You lean up on your toes and kiss his cheek. “Thank you, honey. Can I ask one little favor, though?”

“...Da.”

“Can we use your forty-eight hour or less delivery thing with Amazon? There’s some stuff we couldn’t find at the craft store that we still need to get.”

The night before April Fool’s, you and Nathan put everything into motion while Wade’s out of the house on a job.

You switch out all his snack stashes with the healthy, delicious, bland shit you got from Whole Foods; you commandeer the food, hiding it in yours and Piotr’s room.

“It’s just for a day or two, and then I’ll give most of it back!”

“All of it.”

“Ugh, fine!”

Next, you hide all his shirts and replace with them blank ones you’d gotten from the craft store --after writing “I hate Bea Arthur” on all of them with fabric markers and puff paint.

The cherry on top, though, is the death gauntlet you and Nathan construct in the backyard. You tarp off the sides and the tops, put a spraying rig at the very front filled with aerated spirit gum, and attach the leaf blowers at regular intervals down the length of the gauntlet.

And then you fill the barrels of said blowers with glitter.

“Where’d you even get this idea?” Nathan asks as he eyes the fruits of your mutual labor.

“Wade,” you say as you pull the final piece of the puzzle out of your backpack --Wade’s unicorn, Mr. Fluffykins. “He wanted to do this to Scott.”

Nathan chuckles, sharp and gravely. “Nice.”

You carefully carry Mr. Fluffykins down the gauntlet, careful not to disturb any of the glitter canons on your way. You set him on a pedestal out of range of the canons, give him a pat, then creep back down the gauntlet again. Once you’re free, you exhale and grin at Nathan. “I think we’ve got April Fool’s day pretty well in hand, don’t you?”

He grins back. “I’m inclined to agree.”

The day starts, delightfully enough, with Wade wailing at the top of his lungs.

You snicker as you sit down at the kitchen table while Piotr rummages around in the fridge --having anticipated the absolute hell today would bring, he’s already in defense mode. “Do you think it’s the shirts, the unicorn, or the snacks?”

He shakes his head, but you can just barely see the corner of the amused smile he’s wearing. “No comment.”

Wade storms into the kitchen, looking pissed off. “What the fuck did you do with Mr. Fluffykins? Where is he?”

You smirk. “Good morning. How’d you sleep?”

“Perfectly fucking fine, until I realized that my one and only unicorn love was missing. Where. Is. He.”

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough.”

Wade flips you off and storms upstairs. Less than five minutes later, you hear him shriek again. “Quinoa? I hate quinoa!”

You revel in self satisfaction as Nathan’s cackling and Wade’s bitching float down the stairs. Strap in, bro. It’s gonna be a rough fucking day for you.

Wade throws an absolute shit fit when he finds the shirts --“How dare you! How fucking dare you!”--but largely spends the whole day searching the mansion for Mr. Fluffykins.

After a quick confer, you and Nathan decided to not tell Wade about the outdoor gauntlet until he notices it or gives up.

It isn’t until three in the afternoon that Wade finally notices the giant tarped structure outside, which is a record even for his track record of obliviousness.

You and Nathan stand a safe distance away as Wade scampers around the construction, looking for a quick way in and out. “You remembered to hide his knives too, right?”

Nathan gives you a look that says ‘yes, what kind of idiot do you think I am?’

“And you can handle the glue sprayer and the leaf blowers with your telekinesis, right?”

“Relax. It’ll be fine.”

“For us. Not for Wade.”

By the time Wade figures out just what he’s looking at, a small crowd including the X-Force, Logan, Remy, Scott, Jean, and Hank has gathered by the back door.

Wade jabs an accusing finger at you. “You! You did this! You traitor!”

“This is what happens when you take your jokes too far!” You retort. “This is what happens when you joke about things that aren’t meant to be joked about! You dig your grave, and you lie in it!”

Nathan simply holds out a pair of lab goggles and a dust mask. “You might want these.”

Wade gapes at him. “Et tu, Brutus?”

“Take them now or spit up glitter for the next decade. Your choice.”

Wade snatches the goggles and mask before Nathan can take them away. “Just for this, buster,” he grumbles as he puts on the goggles. “You’re sleeping on the couch for the next two weeks.”

Nathan chuckles. “Sure thing, princess. Whatever you say.”

Wade flips him off as he adjusts the mask over his mouth, then walks over to the front of the gauntlet. He inhales deeply, stretches, then mutters “maximum effort” before sprinting down the gauntlet.

There’s a series of screams as Wade flails around inside. They pause when he reaches the safe zone and procures Mr. Fluffykins, then start anew --with added vigor now that his unicorn is being exposed to the glitter death run--when he bolts for the only exit.

A chorus of laughter erupts behind you as Wade emerges, covered head to toe in every conceivable shade of glitter and a sheen of glue.

You smirk triumphantly at him as he tries --and fails--to brush the glitter off him and Mr. Fluffykins, then spin on your heel and strut inside.

Victory to you.

Later that night, when your sitting in a pile of Wade’s snacks, watching YouTube videos and shoving Keebler Fudge Stripes in your mouth, someone knocks on the door.

“Come in!” You smile deviously when Wade shuffles in. “Ah! Have we learned our lesson?”

“I had to take a three hour shower before I stopped rinsing glitter out of my ass! How is this fair?”

“You bought us a milker, a book on artificial insemination, and covered our floor in straw. We’re still finding pieces of straw everywhere.”

Wade grimaces. “Okay, fair enough.”

“Also. You made me vomit!”

“I said fair enough!”

You cross your arms over your chest. “Wade, I’m serious. I love you like a brother, but there are times where you go too fucking far--”

Wade holds up his hands in a calming gesture. “I know. I figured that out when I made you puke. I’m sorry.”

“I just... I really don’t appreciate you joking about my sex life to that extent. I know it makes Piotr uncomfortable on any level, but it really crossed the line after the cow magnets.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I wanted it to be funny, not traumatizing.”

“I know.” You smile fondly --albeit somewhat exasperatedly--at him. “And I forgive you. I really do. But Piotr needs to hear you say that, too.”

“What do I need to hear?” Piotr asks as he walks into the room.

“I’m sorry for taking the cow play stuff too far,” Wade says without prompting. “I took it too far.”

Piotr blinks, clearly shocked by the freely given apology, and then he smiles and pats Wade’s shoulder. “All is forgiven. Just... don’t do it again. Please.”

Wade nods. “Trust me, I won’t. I know when I’ve had my ass handed to me.”

You smirk triumphantly. “You mess with the bull, you get the horns.”

Wade opens his mouth, closes it, then groans. “I can’t comment, can I?”

“Nope. Suffer, bitch.” 

Wade looks like he’s about to physically explode, but manages to contain himself. “Can I at least have my snacks back?”

“Da,” Piotr interjects before you can say anything. “Please. Take them.”

You sputter, outraged. “What? No! Not fair! My tastebuds are in heaven.”

“Myshka, you promised you would give everything back.”

You continue sputtering as Wade starts scooping his goodies back into his boxes, then start squawking when Piotr starts helping. It devolves into a tug of war over a box of Cheez-Its that end with Piotr holding you out of reach of the snacks and with the three of you laughing.

Yeah, being friends with Wade comes with challenges.

But, for as many downs as there are, there are at least as many --if not more--ups.

It’s a friendship you wouldn’t trade for the world.

[iwillphysicallyfiteyou]

Badass Boys - Chapter Fourteen

First, Previous, and Next.

Masterlist/Outfits 

Series Description: Virgil has always been known as a bad boy, Logan very recently has been considered a bad boy. However, no one knows that these two bad boys are gay.

Chapter Description: Virgil meets Reid.

Pairings: Analogical (Side Royality)

CW: Mentions of abuse and poor living, mention of food, eating disorder, and mentions of injury.

“Welcome home,” Virgil’s mom greeted, “nice shirt.”

Virgil looked down to see the blue and white striped shirt that he borrowed from Logan.

“Thanks.”

“Wear something nice. We’re leaving soon.” 

Virgil huffed and went to his bedroom. He put on a black shirt, a yellow and black flannel, and black jeans. 

He took his phone out and pressed Patton’s contact. After a couple of rings, he picks up.

“Heya Kiddo, what’s up?”

“I’m going to meet Reid soon, and I’m nervous even though I know he won’t be in my life soon.”

“It’s perfectly normal to be nervous, Virgil. There’s no reason to fret, and if the rare event that it goes horribly wrong happens then I’ll be right here. You can call me and I’ll pick you up right away.”

“Thanks, Pat.”

“No problem, kiddo.”

“Virgil!” Virgil’s mom yelled from downstairs.

“I have to go Patton.”

“Good luck!”

“Thanks, bye.”

Virgil hung up the phone before going downstairs by her mother.

“You look nice, minus your lip but you can’t control that.”

“You could though,” Virgil mumbled.

“Don’t sass me.”

Virgil’s mom’s naturally straight blonde hair is curled at the ends, and she’s wearing dark blue jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt.

“You look nice too,” Virgil complimented as his mom took out her phone. 

“Stand by the fridge, I wanna take a picture of you with your cute outfit.”

Virgil groaned but he stood by the fridge none the less.

“You’re such a cutie,” she said as she snapped about a million photos. “Alright let’s go.” 

Virgil put on his favorite combat boots as his mom put on black heels. She grabbed her purse before leaving the house. Virgil reluctantly trudged after her and they got into the car.

“Get comfy, the rides going to be less than ten minutes.”

“What why?” Virgil asked.

“He lives on Alrard Street, he’s only two apartment buildings away from Valerie.”

“Dating rich guys never ends well, Mom.”

“He’s not rich, he’s just not dirt poor like us.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes, Virgil, and you know that.”

“I haven’t seen a difference.”

“Virgil Hayes Townsley, stop giving me sass or I swear to God,” his mom demanded through gritted teeth. 

“Sorry,” Virgil mumbled as he looked out the window. He tried to distract himself from the feeling of a fallen brick in his stomach by concentrating on the birds and bunnies outside. He chose to ignore the lady throwing up on the sidewalk and the man laying on the curb. Honestly, it’s way too early for people to be this drunk, especially outside where children can observe them.

“I’m going to get a better job Virgil, I’m going to buy us a better house, I’m going to get you a better life.”

“I’m going to be eighteen in three days, mom. I’m going to move out and make a life of my own.”

“With what money?”

“Logan says that when we graduate we’ll buy a house together on Mattel Street.”

“He’s not going to pay for you, you’d split the rent.”

“I can get a job.”

“No one’s going to hire someone that lives where we do.”

“Then move somewhere else.”

“Goddammit Virgil, can’t you see that this is the only place that I can afford? For fuck's sake, I’m just a bartender, I can’t afford a mansion as much as I want to give that to you.”

“Can you at least treat me as a human? No more screaming or hitting, please. I just want a normal relationship with my mother, that’s all I ask for.”

There was a pause before his mom said, “I think you deserve that.”

“Okay,” Virgil whispered.

“Okay.”

The next five minutes were painfully quiet, and when they finally parked his mom basically jumped out of the vehicle. Virgil slowly got out of the car and followed his mom into the strange building. 

“3A, 3A, 3A, 3A, ah here it is.” His mom knocked on the door. After a couple of seconds a tall white man wearing a white shirt and jeans paired with a grey cardigan.

“Hey, Journee.” Reid pulled her into a hug.

“Hello Reid, this is my son.”

“Virgil, I’ve heard loads about you.” Reid and Virgil shook hands before Reid invited them inside. 

The apartment is... nice. The beige walls don’t have any cracks in them, the wooden floor is a dark brown that doesn’t have any stains on them. The grey couches look new, and the tv looks like it still works. What’s with people and nice houses?

“So, what grade are yeah in Virgil?”

“I’m a senior.”

“Oh, so you’re going to graduate soon, huh?”

“Yeah, in a month.”

“That’s cool. Man I can’t get over yeah curls, they look so cool man,” Reid complimented. 

‘Yeah, I got my curly hair from my father, whom I’ve never met of course since my mom can’t keep a man for more than a couple of months,’ Virgil wanted to say but instead, he just replied with a quick, “thanks.”

“Is yeah lip okay, are kids at school giving you trouble?” Reid asked.

“It’s fine. I like that picture,” Virgil said as he gestured to a photo of a younger looking Reid, a slightly older redheaded woman, and a girl that looked about five or six years old.

“Yeah, that’s, um, my old family.”

‘Great, so he’s like my dad, just what I need in a father figure- a loser that abandons his family.’

“I haven’t seen my daughter in a couple of years you know, but if it was my choice I’d see her every day.”

“So why don’t you.”

“Because I remind her Mama of a bad part of her life, and she doesn’t want to be associated with that no more.”

“I’m not sure if I should be scared or not.”

“I didn’t hurt them if that’s what you mean.”

“Good.”

“So Reid, you should tell Virgil about your job,” Virgil’s mom said as she took off her heels.

“I teach Global Studies at Pistris High School,” Reid told him.

“Is your last name Kappel?” Virgil asked.

“Yeah, why? You heard of me?”

“Yeah, my friend Patton likes your class.”

“Oh yeah Patton, he’s a real hard worker and a nice kid.”

‘How can the teacher that Patton says is kind and understanding be the same man that is dating my mother?’

“Anyways, I got dinner ready,” Reid gestured to the chicken stew on the table. Virgil has always hated chicken stew, but hell if someone made it for him then he’s going to at least try eating it.

-

Virgil kept chewing but he just couldn’t swallow. The fear of becoming fat and undesirable kept creeping into his brain and manifesting itself there with every crunch of chicken. Virgil took a big gulp of water to get the food down. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel guilty as hell, but he’d feel just as guilty if he didn’t eat the food that someone made for him.

“How are you in your classes, Virgil?” Reid asked.

“Fine.”

“You’re barely passing,” his mom commented.

“But I’m still passing. I��m still going to graduate, which is good enough for me.”

“What about college?” Reid asked before he took another bite of the chicken stew.

“I want to go straight into the workforce.” 

“Alright.”

They continued to eat while Virgil pushed his food around with his fork, and once and a while he took a sip of water. Once they finished eating Reid put the dishes in the dishwasher.

“Virgil’s been hanging out with his friends lately.”

“That’s cool, who are your friends?”

“Patton, Roman, Logan, Talyn, Terrence, and Valerie,” Virgil said.

“I think I know all of them except for Valerie and Talyn,” Reid responded.

“Yeah, Talyn is a sophomore so you probably haven’t had them, and Valerie is homeschooled.”

“Logan’s his new friend, he’s been spending a lot of time with him lately.”

“That’s Wood’s kid, right?”

“Yeah.”

“He seems like a nice kid. He’s smart.”

“Extremely.” Logan has always been the smartest in school, and tons of nerds resented him for that. Luckily the ‘cool kids’ don’t give a fuck about smarts. Virgil’s pretty sure that Logan would rather be resented by the ‘cool kids’ rather than other nerds like him. Virgil has been impressed by Logan years before Virgil thought Logan even knew his name.

“He’s quite popular for someone that wears sweaters almost every day,” Reid commented, and Virgil had a sudden urge to punch him in the face. “Which is good, more kids like him should be popular.” The urge to punch him subsided just a bit.

“Yeah.”

“You’re quite popular yourself,” Reid mentioned.

“I guess.”

“Really?” Virgil’s mom asked.

“Yeah,” Reid was going to continue talking but Virgil interrupted them by clearing his throat.

“Can I go outside to call a friend real quick?” Virgil asked.

“Of course, go ahead,” Reid responded.

Virgil quickly left the apartment building and took his phone out. He clicked on Terrence’s contact and after a few rings he picked up.

“Hello!”

“Hey, Terrence, Talyn said you were looking for me?”

“Yeah, days ago.”

“Well, I just remembered now.”

“I wanted to tell you about Kyla.”

“The freshman girl with green hair? Why? What about her?”

“Kyla and Logan’s sister was talking about you and Logan the other day, and I know you don’t like that.”

“What were they saying.”

“Basically that the reason that you are suddenly hanging out with Logan is that of his sudden popularity and not because you like him.”

“That’s bullshit. Logan us one of the nicest people I’ve known.”

“You don’t have to tell me, I already know that you wouldn’t be friends with Logan just because.”

“Okay, well thank you, Terrence.”

“No problem.”

They hung up and Virgil stared at his phone. Before he knew what he was doing he texted Roman ‘what is logan’s number?’ 

He read his favorite story on his phone for almost ten minutes before Roman texted him Logan’s number. He added Logan’s number to his phone before calling him. Almost immediately Logan picked up.

“Virgil?”

“How’d you know that it’s me calling you?”

“Do you really think Roman would give my number away without asking me first?”

“Right, that makes sense.”

“Anyways, is something wrong?”

Virgil paused. Why did he call Logan? There’s no reason for Virgil to call him, but he felt like he needed to.

So Virgil told Logan the truth.

“I just needed to hear your voice.” 

“Are you okay?”

“Physically yeah, my chest kind of hurts but that’s about it.”

“What about mentally?”

“I’m a bit of a mess if I’m being completely honest, but I’ll be fine.”

There was a pause before Logan said, “want to have a movie night tonight?”

“What, oh,” the fact that this is how Logan’s cheers people up makes him even more adorable to Virgil, “of course.”

“It’s a date.”

“I should probably go back to talking to my mom and Reid.”

“Good luck.”

-

Logan hung up before putting his phone in his pocket. 

“Movie night? Really?” Brooklyn asked as she shoved popcorn into her face.

“Stop eavesdropping.”

“You are so smitten for him.”

“I’m going to punch you.”

“Are you going to take his last name when you get married? What even is his last name?”

“I swear to God-”

“There’s no swearing in this household,” their dad said as he entered the living room. “There’s also no eating in the living room.”

Brooklyn groaned before leaving the room with her popcorn.

“Hey, dad?”

“Yeah?” His dad sat down next to his son.

“What should I do if I really want to tell someone something, but I’m extremely scared to.”

“Is this about Virgil.”

“...Shut up.”

“Logan, I can tell that he likes you. Just go for it.”

“I’ve never been scared to tell someone something so silly.”

“Your feelings aren’t silly, Logan.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Did you text Leo about-”

“Oh no, I forgot,” Logan interrupted him.

“Alright well, it’s midday so he’s probably asleep.”

“I’m going to text him anyways,” Logan said as he pulled out his phone.

This is a reminder that even though Journee wants to change her ways, she still did some terrible things which are inexcusable. If you are in any situation like Virgil or any of these characters then please click on one of these links.

Childhelp National Child Abuse Hotline

RAINN Pixel Thoughts

Mental Health America (MHA) Recovery Record

Trevor Project

Inspire

To Write Love on Her Arms

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Your Life Your Voice

Love Is Respect

Stay safe my beautiful Fanders.

Taglist

@metaphoricalpluto @scorching-scotch @sockopath @confinesofpersonalknowledge @nienna14 @awkward-avocado-of-death @6tick6tock6

Next Chapter (Coming June 13th, 2018)

[vanderlinde-moved]

a bitter truth (part one)

this is an angstier version of a post-scarif fix-it verse, much more than this series. don’t worry tho, there will be some good rebelcaptain action. 👌 hope you enjoy!

read it on ao3!

It should have happened like this:

Jyn faces off with Krennic, eyes narrowed, teeth bared. She tells him that she is Galen and Lyra’s daughter, that she is the one who’s going to transmit the plans to his precious Death Star to the Rebellion.

He tells her that she’s lost.

It should have happened like this:

Just as Krennic moves to shoot her and Jyn gets ready to charge, Krennic falls at her feet with a hole in his chest. And there stands Cassian, against all the odds, with a smoking blaster in his hands.

In that moment, Jyn thinks he’s the most beautiful sight she’s ever seen.

It should have happened like this:

Together, they transmit the plans. Together, they limp off the data tower and into the elevator. Cassian asks her if she thinks anyone’s listening and she replies yes, someone has to be. She refuses to think that this whole suicide mission has been in vain.

They fall on the beach together, embracing for the first and last time. She holds Cassian as tightly as she’s able to and he does the same, taking comfort in human contact. Maybe in a different life, they could have been something other than partners.

The Death Star fires. She watches the wave of fire get closer and closer, and in this moment, she’s not afraid to die. When the blast hits them, it’s only a few seconds of agony before they’re turned into stardust together.

In a better world, they die together on Scarif.

 Instead, it happens like this:

Cassian doesn’t come for her. He leaves her alone at the top of the data tower.

She hadn’t expected him to, but a small part of her had assumed he would. Especially after he did on Jedha and Eadu, and especially after he had rallied almost all of the members of Rogue One. The pain of his absence stings sharper than it should, but Jyn’s used to people abandoning her by now.

Maybe he’s given up on her. Maybe he’s run into some trouble and he’s on his way. Or maybe he’s dying alone at the bottom of the tower, unable to move and hoping that she’s able to finish the mission alone?

(does that mean she’s the last person left standing? that she’s killed everyone else on this little suicide mission of hers, all in the name of a rebellion she barely believes in?)

It doesn’t matter. She can’t afford to think about these things right now.Cassian isn’t here, but when she turns around to transmit the plans, the man in white is. He looks the same as he did all those years ago when he took her father and killed her mother right in front of her.

In this moment, all Jyn feels is rage. She doesn’t think about Cassian. Instead, she thinks about surviving, with her fists clenched and ready for a fight.

(in a better world, this would be different. cassian would be there with her. though is it really a better world if they all die at the end?

at least then they were together, even in death.)

Jyn charges him before Krennic even realizes she’s moving, but as she tackles him to the ground, red hot fire laces through her gut. While he hits the floor, she hits it harder, wheezing and wrapping an arm around her torso. Her hand comes away sticky with blood.

it hurts it hurts it hurts.

She tries to hoist herself up but fails, reaching up for the guard rails. Her bad leg, already hurt before coming up here, crumples beneath her. Krennic gets up before she can and aims the blaster at head. She freezes, eyes locked on his.

“My, my,” he tsks, giving her a once-over. His mouth twists in displeasure at the state she’s in, all broken and bloody. “I should have known that Lyra’s daughter would have so much fire.”

The plans, she thinks desperately, trying once again to get on her feet. But it’s so hard. Her insides feel as if they’re going to fall out but she needs to get up and she needs to transmit the plans to the Rebellion.

“Don’t even bother with that. You’ve lost, Miss Erso,” Krennic smiles, and she wishes she had enough strength to punch that smug look off of his face. “You’re coming with me. After all, we do need information about your little Rebellion and this is the perfect opportunity.”

Her stomach is on fire and there’s blood in her mouth and she can barely think straight, her vision darkening, but if there’s one thing that Jyn’s always been, it’s rebellious.

As a Star Destroyer appears in the corner of her tunneling vision, Krennic turns ever so slightly to watch its arrival. Jyn takes that moment of distraction to use all of her remaining strength and grab the small vibroblade she had shoved in her thigh holster during the flight. Saw had taught her that there’s no such thing as too many weapons.

When Krennic turns back to her, she lunges upward and stabs him in the thigh, digging the blade as deeply as she can.

It’s not enough to kill him, but she feels a grim satisfaction watching him curse in pain as blood trickles down her leg. She falls backward, suddenly exhausted and her head hits the floor with a dull thud. Her heart is pounding quickly enough that she thinks it might explode and the wound in her gut pulses in time with her heartbeat.

Even in the light of her small victory, she can’t find it in herself to feel anything except guilt. She’s failed. The plans haven’t been transmitted, Cassian and the rest of her crew is dead or dying, and she’s about to die at the same hands that killed her mother and father.

“You bitch!” Krennic snarls. He rips the blade out of his thigh and tosses to the side. Jyn watches it fall off the data tower until she can’t see it anymore. When she turns back, Krennic has one hand over the wound in his thigh and the other is pointing the blaster back at her head again. “You’ll pay for that.”

Jyn grins, teeth bloody. “Fuck. . .you,” she wheezes in a final act of defiance, before Krennic’s eyes darken and his blaster cracks across her forehead.

I’m sorry, Papa. We’ve lost and you’ve died for nothing. I failed you.

When the darkness comes to take her, Jyn Erso welcomes it with open arms.

 It should have happened like this:

Cassian climbs the data tower just in time to save Jyn from Krennic.

Instead, it goes like this:

Cassian lays gasping on the cold, metal ground. Every breath burns in his lungs and there’s a coppery taste in the back of his mouth. Hot blood leaks out of his shoulder where Krennic shot him and there’s something wrong with his back. His leg hurts too and he hopes that it’s nothing more than a sprain. He can’t afford it to be anything worse.

At this moment, lying at the bottom of the data tower and staring upwards, there’s nothing he wants to do more than just lay here and die.

But he needs to get to Jyn. He promised himself that he wouldn’t leave her behind. He promised himself that he wouldn’t abandon her like her mother or father or Saw had.

(he’s only known her for a week but jyn erso compels him in ways he never knew possible.)

He forces himself to a sitting position, crying out when something in his back shifts. When he coughs, blood stains his teeth and he knows that he doesn’t have much time left.

Get up. The mission isn’t over yet.

It feels like forever before he drags himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the data tower. His ribs ache with every movement and it’s a far way to climb, but he has to try. He can’t rest until he’s completed the mission, and as far as he knows, it’s not over yet.

He places his other hand on the archives and tries to pull himself up. This sudden movement jars his battered body so badly that he loses his grip and falls back to the ground with a stifled moan, unwelcome tears pooling in his eyes.

it hurts it hurts it hurts

“Come. . .on,” he grits out, forcing himself to his feet once again. He so badly wants to give up but he knows that he can’t. There’s more at stake here than what he wants. The Rebellion needs him. “Come on!”

Slowly, almost pitifully, Cassian climbs the data tower. At one point, he almost falls -- his hands are too slick with his blood and his head is spinning so fast that he thinks he’s going to pass out, but he digs his fingers into the handhold and rests his forehead against the tower, waiting for it to pass. When he gets the dizziness in check, he keeps going.

At this point, stopping isn’t even an option for him anymore.

When he pulls himself up to the top, barely conscious, Jyn is gone. She didn’t make it and it’s all his fault. If only he had been faster, if only he had shot Krennic before he had shot him --

Stop. The mission. He needs to focus on the mission. He can mourn Jyn later, if he survives all of this.

(by the way he’s feeling right now, the chance of that is slim.)

He stumbles to the console. Everything’s all set up for him -- all he has to do is pull the lever. She’s done everything else for him. Cassian laughs quietly, though sounds more like a wheeze. Leave it to Jyn to do all of the hard work. He lets his fingers rest on the lever before pulling it down as hard as he can.

Thank you, Jyn. I’m sorry.

When the screen lights up and the plans begin transmitting, he slides down the console to rest, sticking his bad leg out in front of him. His job is done now. The mission is over. Finally, he can sleep. He thinks that after all he’s done, he deserves a couple moments of peace.

Just as his head drifts forward and his vision darkens, hands start shaking his shoulders. Blearily, he tries to swat them away but finds that he can’t move his arms anymore. This would bother him if he didn’t feel so tired.

“Captain Andor! You need to stay awake!”

It’s done, he wants to tell whoever is shaking him, but he can’t seem to make his throat work properly. Let me rest. I’ve completed the mission. We did it. Please, just let me rest.

The last thing Cassian Andor feels before fading into unconsciousness is two arms pulling him upwards, and a sharp pain. Then -- nothing.

 Jyn wakes up bound to a chair.

She thinks that she must still be in the Star Destroyer because she can just barely hear the vibrations of the ship through the floor. She can’t see much in the room that she’s trapped in, but she knows that she still must be in the hands of the Empire. After all, it’s very unlikely that the Rebellion would tie her up after she tried to save their asses.

(but she doesn’t know. she’s not even a member of the alliance, not to mention that she took some of their best operatives and went rogue, killing all of them on what was supposed to be a win for the rebellion.)

The blaster wound on her stomach is hastily bandaged, but there’s blood leaking through the bacta patch. Her captors haven’t done anything for her leg, but she doesn’t think it’s anything worse than a sprained ankle. Her head is what worries her the most; she can feel dried blood crusted on her cheek and her forehead throbs in time with her heartbeat. Every so often, her vision goes dark and she has to swallow down a wave of nausea.

How the hell is she going to get out of here with a concussion?

Weakly, she tugs on the binders around her wrists. They’re notched one slot too small and are digging uncomfortably into her skin. To get out of this, she’s thinks she’s going to have to break her thumb and dislocate her shoulder, but the very thought of that makes her head spin.

The door to her dimly-lit cell opens before she can think too much about it. Light floods in, making her head explode in pain, and she has to close her eyes until the door shuts once more. When she looks up, Krennic stands in front of her, with two guards flanking him. There isn’t an IT-O droid with them and at that small mercy, Jyn lets out a small sigh of relief.

“You’re finally awake, I see,” Krennic says, taking a step closer to her. He doesn’t limp and there’s no sign of the wound on his leg -- she know that the Empire has more bacta than the Rebellion ever will. At least now that supply has been slightly depleted because of her actions. “I thought we might lose you. And we can’t have that, now can we? You’re the last surviving Erso.”

She says silent, appraising him the same way he’s looking her over. She takes note of the blaster strapped to his hip and the dark bags under his eyes. She doesn’t know how long she’s been out, but it doesn’t look like he’s slept since before Scarif.

Krennic doesn’t seem perturbed by her silence. In fact, he keeps talking. “You know, we’ve been trying to find you for years. You’re extremely good at hiding, Miss Erso. I’m sure you imagine my surprise when you revealed yourself on the data tower. Just where have you been all these years?”

“Hiding from you,” she spits, leaning forward to get as close to him as possible. Her wrists scream as she strains on the bindings. “What, did you think I would just come out and let you take me prisoner? You’re a lot dumber than I thought you were, Krennic.” A slow smile crosses his face at that. Jyn doesn’t like the look of it. “Maybe if you had, your father wouldn’t be dead right now. He died on Eadu. Did you know that, Miss Erso? Your precious Rebellion killed him with their bombs.”

The pain of her father’s loss hits her all over again, like a sharp knife driven right through her heart. She hasn’t had the time to properly mourn him since the battle on Eadu and she has to close her eyes to ward off the grief.

She failed him on Scarif.

“In fact, now that I think about it, I’ve knew you father better than you ever did,” he muses, jolting Jyn back out of her thoughts. “We met a long time ago. Shame you didn’t get to know Galen better. He really was a good man. Well -- at least, if you excuse the flaw he built into my machine.”

“What do you want?” Jyn snarls, sick of this idle conversation. She knows the answer to her question, but she doesn’t want to talk about her father with the man who took him away from her all of those years ago. He doesn’t deserve to have known him better than her. “What the hell do you want from me?”

Krennic doesn’t bat an eye at the change in conversation. “Information. You tell me what you know about the Rebellion and I’ll let you die quickly. If not, well.” He shrugs, then folds his hands in front of him. “I think you know what happens then.”

She does, in fact, know what happens. This isn't her first interrogation.

“Come on, then,” Jyn bares her teeth, slightly feral. Adrenaline courses through her veins. They both know she’s not going to talk. “Let’s see what the Empire’s got.”

Krennic returns her smile, though it’s full of malice. He motions to the two guards behind him to move forward. “Then let’s begin.”

 Cassian wakes to the sound of beeping.

His eyes fly open of their own accord and he’s met with the blurry sight of a pristine white ceiling and a woman sitting next to him.

It can’t be. It’s impossible. And yet --

“Jyn?”

“Captain Andor,” the woman replies and he blinks, trying to focus his vision. Her accent isn’t anything like Jyn’s crisp Coruscanti one. “It’s good to see that you’re finally awake.”

“Your highness,” he croaks, finally recognizing the figure in front of him. The last he heard, Leia had been on Alderaan with her parents. For some reason, she’s here, sitting at his bedside. Her outward appearance is immaculate, like always, but the dark circles under her eyes tell a different story. “What. . .?”

What happened?

Somehow, he’s back on Yavin 4. His hair is damp with what he assumes is bacta. While he’s still in a considerable amount of pain, it’s much less than it had been on Scarif. Someone must have rescued him and taken him back here.

“One of our pilots noticed you on top of the tower before the Death Star fired,” Leia twists her hands in her lap but keeps her chin up high. He can tell that something’s bothering her. “Do you remember anything else that happened on Scarif?”

He remembers too much. Losing K-2SO, falling off the data tower, transmitting the plans. And -- Jyn. The sting of both of their deaths is too strong for him to deal with right now, so he locks those memories away, pushes them to the very back of his mind.

But he doesn’t remember the Death Star firing. If Jyn had been alive on Scarif before that, then there’s no way in hell she survived the blast.

(he should have been the one to die. with everything he’s done, he knows that he deserves it.)

“The plans,” he rasps instead, sitting up as much as he’s able to and watching her face. He needs to know. “Did you get the plans?” Leia nods, and a small, sad smile crosses her face. She doesn’t look as happy as she should. “The Death Star was destroyed hours ago.”

At that, Cassian falls back and closes his eyes. They did it. They got the plans. All of those deaths -- Jyn’s death -- those hadn’t been in vain. But despite the relief that’s bubbling up in his chest, he can’t quite tamper down the guilt.

He’s the only survivor. He’s alone.

“We’re being to evacuate the base. You’ll be on one of the first transports out of here. Get some rest, Captain; you deserve it.”

As she leaves, he feels as if there’s something she isn’t telling him. But a medical droid is at his bedside and he’s feeling too tired now to call out to her and ask about it.

 The next time Krennic comes back to her cell, he brings an IT-O droid with him. This is when Jyn finds out that the Rebellion has destroyed the Death Star.

And even though the droid is injecting something in her neck that makes her blood feel as if it’s boiling and there’s a big part of her that wishes she died back on Scarif, she laughs. When he asks her where the rebels are going now and backhands her across the face, all Jyn can do is laugh.

They did it. Somehow, they did it.

[blancheharlow]

Assalted || AJ & Blanche

TLDR: I guess you could say AJ and Blanche are both... salty. 

Backdate: August 13th

Blanche was freaking out. Trying to convince AJ to not come get her in this fucking terrifying situation was harder than it seemed, if only because she didn’t actually want him to not come. She was certain that stupid thing was in her house. She could feel it. Blanche was sitting on the ground, mourning the fact that she couldn’t reach the thermostat in from her circle. It was hot and sticky, and she was covered in salt—that wasn’t doing much for her knees. The kitchen was a mess, there was salt everywhere, and there was blood splatters from her knees. And palms--- the bloody hand print on the fridge was mocking her. Ten minutes—Blanche had groaned and hung up, sliding down and curling herself into a ball. Why did this have to happen? And where the hell was Granny???

Something about Blanche’s house just seemed creepier when AJ pulled up to it. Obviously it was because of the conversation he had with Blanche due to the possibility of a murdering ghost also hanging out inside with her. He couldn’t quite grasp the claim from Dustin that salt kept evil spirits away. If that was the case Mcdonald’s must never be haunted. Still, he grabbed the giant bag off the passenger seat that he had swiped from his kitchen and ran into her house. He found her in the kitchen and the sight wasn’t pretty. She was covered in a salt circle, flakes of it also coating her arms and legs and sticking to the blood caking her leg and hands. She had hurt herself at some point. He found himself constantly glancing over his shoulder. If Blanche was right that ghost was here somewhere. “You look like hell.” He said as his hello, “We need to go.”

Blanche curled in tighter when she heard AJ pull up. This was getting worse—What was going on in this town? She heard him come in, and she glanced up as he entered the room. This must look pathetic, she was covered in salt and blood… Maybe scary and not pathetic. “I hope you use that compliment with everyone.” She eyed his giant bag of salt, her eyes immediately starting to water as she started to scramble to stand. “I don’t know where she is,” Blanche said, her voice cracking. That feeling of being watched was still there, but that didn’t mean anything. “Come on.” She was at the edge of the salt circle, and Blanche was scared that the second she stepped out of it, the ghost was just going to tackle her. She grit her teeth, keeping her head down as she stepped out. “Let’s go. I’m… I’m so sorry.”

“Nah, you’re special” AJ was trying to keep things as lighthearted as possible. Mostly because he didn’t know how to deal with this. This entire situation, this broken mess of a girl crumpled on the kitchen floor in front of him. He moved towards her to extend his arm and help her up, “My truck is out front, I saw we run for it.” He tucked the bag of salt under his arm and grabbed onto her hand, “Ready?” He asked her before the made a break for it. They cut the corners like a racetrack and high tailed it to the front door, AJ swinging it open and dashing through before realizing that the two weren’t outside of Blanche’s house at all. “Fuck me, not again.”

Blanche sniffed, looking at him. “Gee, thanks.” She tried to grin, but she settled with taking his arm to help him. “Right, let’s run.” She agreed, allowing him to grab her hand. She was okay with hightailing it. Blanche tightly closed her eyes, held onto AJ tightly--- she only realized something was wrong when she forced her eyes to open and they were not on her porch. “What the hell?? Again?! You mean this has happened to you too?!” Blanche looked around, letting go of his hand. But it was dark and a little hard to see. “This is how I got into this mess in the first place! Oh my god—where are we??” Blanche squinted. “And where did we just come out of— maybe it’ll be back at my house… Which isn’t that good…” Blanche turned and threw open the door they just came out of. “… Supply closet….”

This had happened to AJ one other time. That time he had ended up in an abandoned house in the middle of the woods with a complete stranger. This time he at least knew the girl he was stranded with. Wherever the hell they had just ended up. Of course, that same girl was being hunted by some killer ghost so had he actually lucked out? “About a week ago yeah” AJ watched as Blanche threw the door open and then followed her out of it. They had definitely been in a supply closet. And now they were in some dark, ancient looking room that looked as though gypsies had passed through in a hurry. “And now I have no idea where the hell we are.”

Blanche ran her hands down her face in frustration. This was so bad. This was so so so bad. They needed to get to the Parrish house immediately before that thing started chasing her again. “Why can’t this town just be normal.” Blanche whispered, shutting the supply closet door. “Do you have your phone?” She asked. “We could gps to your location, maybe.” She looked around, sniffing slightly. Her eyes were still watery and she still felt like hell, but that was regardless. Blanche frowned slightly, looking around the room as she crept forward. “I don’t… think I’ve ever been here before. Are we still in Ashkent?” She walked further into the room, examining the stuff closely and – “AJ?” Blanche glanced behind her. “I found, uh… a crystal ball?” Blanche pointed. Blanche had that feeling in her stomach that told her she was really, really, really starting to get creeped out.

AJ patted his pants pockets to double check but already knew the answer to Blanche’s question. “It was in my truck.” He had planned on being in and out of Blanche’s house in just a minute tops. Just long enough to grab her from her salt circle and make a run for it back to the truck. He should have known he would find himself going through another portal. Without either of their phones he had no idea where the two could be until they got out of this freaky 70’s throwback store and back into reality. He glanced back at Blanche and spotted the crystal ball. Suddenly all the décor started making a lot more sense. “A fortune teller” AJ stated, making his way over to her and tapping the crystal ball, “Doesn’t look like it’s still in business though. Guess not enough people fell for the scam.”

Blanche bit back a groan. Of course, but it wasn’t AJ’s fault. This was all hers... “I shouldn’t have called you.” Blanche admitted. “I… am sorry.” She was scared and afraid, and sitting in the middle of a salt circle… Calling in a friend when some psycho ghost was hunting you was selfish. Granny would have taken care of her once she got back from wherever she was—and now they were stuck here. Blanche leaned over, examining it. “This looks more expensive than most of my mom’s china we’re not allowed to touch. I wonder why they just left it—“ Blanche reached to touch it. A voice floated to them. “I’m not sure whether to scold you for calling my business a scam, or you for touching things that don’t belong to you. Or the both of you for hiding out in the broom closet.” Blanche squeaked—a literal squeak of terror—before whirling around, trying to use her body to block AJ. He didn’t deserve this shit. This ghost was relentless. Had it followed them through the portal?!

“Now isn’t really the time for this” AJ took a step closer to the crystal ball, “When we are back at my truck or at Dustin’s we can discuss how much you owe me.” The weirdest part was that it wasn’t until this exact moment that he remembered the medical records that she may just have the capabilities to get ahold of for him. She definitely owed him now. At the sound of the woman’s voice AJ spun around and rolled his eyes when Blanche practically threw herself in front of him as if she had just fired a bullet towards the two. He took a step forward, pushing her aside so that the two were standing side by side. “Relax. I doubt the glorified palm reader is gearing up to kill us.” Not that he could be sure though. “Busy place you run. Not sure how you afford the crystal ball maintenance without any customers.”

It took Blanche a bit before realizing that this was not some ghost trying to kill them. Blanche didn’t relax, and ran her hands down her face in exasperation. The woman stepped into what little light there was. “I only appeal to customers truly in need of guidance,” she said, simply. She stared at the two of them, before giving Blanche the once over. Blanche realized she was still covered with salt and dried blood and various scab wounds from where she ate it in the middle of the road earlier. “It seems, for the two of you to stow away in my supply closet, that’s exactly what you too need. My name is Katrina. I am a fortune teller.” Blanche’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “We were—Hi. I’m Blanche and this is AJ. We really didn’t mean to end up in your supply closet, it kind of just happened when… I mean we were just—“ Katrina held up her hand. “Running away from something as fast as you could?” Blanche’s mouth snapped shut. She felt like she was officially in a bad horror film.

AJ remained unconvinced. He knew that logically- or whatever the hell that even meant now- he should be keeping an open mind to anything he would have deemed insane two months ago. Even fortune tellers. But old habits die hard and his skepticism was persistent. Fortune tellers used broad statements and were well versed at reading body language. What they did was impressive, even AJ could admit that, but it was hardly magic. This fortune teller, Katrina, could obviously tell that Blanche had been in distress and was clearly out of breath so it wasn’t a stretch to claim they had been running from something. He wasn’t sure why Blanche was introducing them to her. If she could see the future she should know their names. “Actually we were mostly just looking for the door. If you could just point it out to us I’d be happy to never hide out in your supply closet again.”

Blanche stared between AJ and Katrina. It was a miracle that AJ had believed her in the first place, and she wasn’t too keen on believing fortune tellers either. Granny had always said to trust them, but Granny also was adamant that her nose piercing was going to be the death of the both of them. Blanche sniffed, nodding in agreement as she ran a hand through her hair. Katrina’s eyes were wide and piercing, staring at the two of them sternly. Her eyes suddenly snapped to Blanche’s and she wanted to dive under the table to hide--- but she didn’t. “You should be careful meeting someone’s eyes that easily.” Blanche paled slightly. “And to realize when it’s too late, dear. “ Blanche sucked in a breath, her eyebrows furrowing. “Right, well, thank you for that… enticing advice, but we really should be going. I don’t think I’ve contaminated enough McDonald’s fry stations so let’s… uh, go?”

AJ was happy to dip out of this creepy little freak show. After whatever broad vaguely threatening fortune the woman was trying to sell Blanche, AJ was happy to walk out that door and never need Katrina again. But before the two could make their escape Katrina turned her focus towards him. “Ah, Amadeo. You stand by your beliefs and you should know that you’re not wrong. But not everything is as it seems. To figure out your future you should look further into your past.” AJ could admit that her knowing his name was a little freaky. Not impossible though. Many people know his name because of his father and it made sense for a fortune teller to want to keep up on the news and events. So he just held a single thumbs up to her and smiled, “Got it. Vague and foreboding just how I like it. Blanche we need to go.”

Blanche herself went rigid at AJ’s full name. That was [i]scary[/i]—though the rational part of her brain was telling her that no it wasn’t, there was definitely some way… But Blanche shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t like this woman. Her advice was vague and scary and she knew AJ was right. Blanche looked at AJ, nodding. “Yeah, I’m right with you.” She muttered. Katrina simply smiled at the two, extending an arm in the direction of the door that Blanche hadn’t noticed before. “Thank you, um, for the advice…” Blanche said, and Katrina simply stared at her. “Be careful, Blanche.” Blanche gulped slightly. “Right. AJ. Come on, let’s get out of here.” Before she told one them that they were going to die. Perhaps faster than necessary, Blanche shot forward and out of the store, barely waiting for AJ to follow her. “Christ, christ, [i]christ![/i]” Blanche ran her hands down her face fr the umpteenth time, turning to stare at the store… [i]Calling Card[/i]. “I’m leaving. The [i]second[/i] I get the chance.” She didn’t care if AJ was listening or not, but she quickly saw the address on the front of the store. “…. We got spat out on Amity Road?!” Wasn’t this where that ghost club was? The one where she picked up Nora? Blanche didn’t remember exactly, but she sighed. “We should be going that way… If we wanted to get back into town.”

Back out on the street, AJ saw that they had found themselves on Amity Road. Given how freaky the woman was he couldn’t say that he was surprised to find her shop located here. Mostly out of curiosity, AJ reached behind him and tugged at the shop doors only to find it had somehow locked right behind them. It didn’t matter. She still wasn’t a real fortune teller. “Back to town it is.” AJ sighed and hit the back of his head against the sealed doors before using pushing off of them with his back and making his way down the road. “We need to get back to Dustin’s.”

Blanche frowned slightly, following AJ. This was bad. Fear creeped up on Blanche, and she glanced behind her. “We’ll be safe there, at the very least.” Blanche agreed. “As long as we don’t get spat out somewhere else in town.” The frown on her face deepened. “I wonder why this is happening… I, uh, think I visited Ashford River again earlier too.” She had almost forgotten about that. The blonde boy who yelled at her—asked her why she couldn’t just hide herself or go away forever. She examined AJ, hoping his reaction would be too disbelieving. “I don’t think that—“ She saw something. A flash of black, out of the corner of her eye. Shit! Had it found them this quickly?? Her voice caught in her throat and she broke into a coughing fit, whipping her head around. “Did you see that?” She asked, hoping his answer was no. If he couldn’t see that that either meant her mind was playing tricks on her or there was a ghost afoot…. Most likely the bad one.

“Ashford River? Again?” AJ questioned Blanche. “I know what Ashford River is” He held up a hand because something told him that Blanche was the type that felt the need to explain her craziness away to people and AJ did not want her getting the wrong idea. “I just assumed that it was fake. Like ghosts and teleporting doors and fortune tellers.” AJ tried reasoning with himself. If all of this crazy shit was true then why the hell not also have some kind of antichton? “Still don’t believe the fortune teller for the record.” He started down the road in the general direction of Dustin’s house when Blanche started freaking out again. He sighed and turned back towards her, too exasperated to make a joke. “I think you’re being paranoid. And even if you’re not paranoid I think we should keep moving instead of standing around waiting to find whatever you saw.”

 “Oh I thought I told…. Nevermind—“ Blanche shook her head, immediately picking up the pace again. AJ wasn’t wrong, she would have explained it immediately. “There was an incident at work a few days ago, and… well, today. And I saw Ashford River with my own two eyes.” Blanche glanced over her shoulder again. “I don’t think I believed her either. But she was super creepy. I’ll have to ask Granny about her, she believes in Fortune Tellers. I don’t trust anyone in this town—“ Blanche glanced back at him, unamused. “I’m not paranoid, I’d just rather you take off if you did see it because I guarantee you’re faster than I am and it was that thing—“ she was practically speed walking, agitated. There was a flock of ghosts who looked like they were heading to that club going in the other direction. Blanche was staring at them. “—I’d want you to run.” There it was again. Blanche ripped her gaze from the ghosts going to party and glanced around, eyes narrowing. 

“But you’re back. From Ashford River I mean.” AJ still felt skeptical, regardless of how much he had seen with his own two eyes the past couple of days. Some things just seemed a little too far-fetched. He believed that Blanche believed that she saw Ashford River though. It wasn’t like he thought she was making it up. AJ caught himself glancing around with Blanche as her eyes ping-ponged across the street. Then he realized that no matter what she was seeing he wouldn’t be able to find it even if he was looking straight at it. Ghosts were real. Blanche could see them and AJ couldn’t. That meant that even if the ghost that was trying to kill Blanche did make an appearance he wouldn’t be able to see it anyways. “Do you see her?” AJ asked out loud, clutching the bag of salt just a little tighter than before. Then he saw the police cruiser coming down the street towards the two and AJ swatted at Blanche’s arm and pointed towards it. “Run for the police car.”

“Yeah, after meeting my dead promdate who wasn’t so dead there and my brother,” Blanche muttered, half under her breath. There it was again, and Blanche felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It was as if something was looming behind them.. She knew she could be seen—or that they knew she was here. Blanche froze, her heart sinking. What would happen to AJ. “I—I think she’s behind m—“ Blanche could barely stutter it out, her eyes automatically starting to water. She almost turned her head to check., but AJ’s swat stopped her. Her eyes locked with the police car. Blanche did as she was told—sprinting towards the police car- she stumbled once or twice, and her ankle yelled but she didn’t care. He would drive them back to Dustin’s, right?

AJ was pretty sure that he wasn’t supposed to be able to see ghosts. But whatever the thing was that had suddenly appeared behind Blanche damn sure looked like a ghost. Or at least a girl in an exceptionally well made early Halloween outfit cosplaying as one of the children of the corn. So Blanche took off towards the police car and AJ followed behind her, popping the seal on the bag of salt before sending it flying towards the girl and watching in disbelief as the bag soared through her. Ghost. Definitely ghost. He followed behind Blanche and smacked against the hood of the police car once they reached it, the officer jumping out with his hand hovering over his gun. “Amadeo?” he asked, not exactly surprised but still weary. “Officer Johnson, good to see you. Think you could give us a lift?”

Blanche damn near almost slammed into the car, as if she was trying to run through it. She barely managed to stop, before AJ smacked into the hood of the car. When she looked between the officer and AJ, she was vaguely aware that AJ was no longer carrying the giant thing of salt with him. She was also aware the ghost was gone. Did he really just throw-- Blanche focused on the Officer in front of them. This… Probably wasn’t the strangest thing the cop had ever seen, but she was glad that AJ knew him. He was eyeing the two of them, and Blanche self-consciously tried to brush off some of the salt stuck to her. “Hi.” She said meekly. The group of ghosts on the corner were now watching, and chattering away. Blanche was doing her best not to rip her gaze from the officer and stare. “Please. We, uh, would really appreciate a ride.”

“Amadeo” The officer started, the discomfort apparent in his voice. AJ was lucky that they had run into an officer that didn’t hate his guts. Most of the police had been able to disassociate his father’s case with his father’s family. Most had held more empathy than hatred towards AJ and his mother after his father split. Over time as AJ kept showing up at the station demanding answers and updates and vowing to solve the case for himself the station became less and less apathetic towards the kid to the point where most would kick him out as soon as he stepped foot inside. Eventually he gave up. But he still knew a few that worked there that liked him or his father. “Bryce.” AJ started, keeping his voice levelled and calm despite the fact that he had just thrown an entire bag of salt through a girl. “When you first started out and rammed your police car into a mailbox who talked the owner down from filing a report and saved your job? He would want that same kindness returned. Preferably by giving us a lift.” Then he smiled one of those smug smiles because he knew that he was going to get what he wanted. The officer groaned and rubbed at his temples, “God damn it. Both of you get in the back.”

Blanche couldn’t stop herself from gawking between AJ and the Officer. Did he just do some type of blackmail to a cop? Blanche’s eyes were wide, but she saw the second the officer relented. Blanche let out the breath she hadn’t known she had been holding, and she squeaked out a “thank you” to the officer before scrambling to do what he said. At least it had worked. And she couldn’t believe that it had worked—ghosts existed, and she couldn’t believe that AJ had enough pull to start blackmailing a cop?? Blanche glanced again to the group of chattering ghosts, and grimaced. Things would be so much easier if she couldn’t see them. She got into the back of the cop car, trying to ignore her feeling of being arrested, before looking at AJ. She really, really owed him after this one, didn’t she?

[ec-sanderssides]

So,,, If you are still taking prompts, here is a really badly thought out one! Mainly angst, but like,,, hurt/comfort too lol. Preferred ship is poly sanders but any ship is fine. I really just want an angsty one-shot for Logan. Possibly with cuddles from the others at the end. My original idea for this was somewhere along the lines of "One of the others calls Logan heartless/emotionless and he spends te rest of the day over thinking it, wondering if he should feel more emotion and (1)

he tried to make himself feel as much emotion as he can, because he has experienced emotion before (his love for the others? ;) ) but due to the statement (emotionless) he starts doubting whether or not those were actually emotions. He eventually breaks down and the others find him? Sorry, I’m really just rambling off the top of my head lol. I hope you have fun with this prompt! 💗 Have a great day!!! (2)

I don’t know what you’re talking about, this was a great prompt. I had a lot of fun filling it. I hope you like how it turned out. 

“I don’t know how you can be so heartless.”

Prince’s words rang out in the room. “Sometime, I swear, it’s like you don’t even have emotions.”

Logan felt himself stiffen. “Just because I don’t feel the need to weep over a cartoon deer, does not make me heartless,” he said quietly.

“Well, you didn’t need to roll your eyes at me for doing it either. And besides, that’s hardly the only example. Why, just last week, you so cruelly refused to let us get that dog Morality had been begging for.”

“We can’t afford to have a dog and you know that, Roman.” Logan pursed his lips. That had been a bad day, Morality had nearly cried, but there was no way they could afford the proper care for a dog.

“You could have at least considered it,” Prince grumbled, turning back towards the TV.

“This is irrelevant.” Logan turned towards the door. “I have work to do, I’ll see you at dinner.”

Prince only offered a dismissive wave of his hand as a response. Logan made his way out of the common room, towards his own bedroom, locking the door upon entry. He stared blankly at the ground. Was that really how the others thought about him?

He knew that he was… colder than the other sides, who were so much more easily influenced by emotion, but he hadn’t thought they’d minded. But this wasn’t the first comment of this sort he’d heard. Hadn’t Morality asked him to have a heart when he refused to let them get the puppy?

Logan knew he was obsessing over what was in all likelihood a throwaway comment from Roman, but he couldn’t stop. Were the others unhappy being with him? Did they feel he wasn’t demonstrative enough in their relationship? Or worse, perhaps they doubted his interest in their relationship at all.

Logan swallowed hard. He really hoped that last part wasn’t true. If they thought that he didn’t reciprocate their feelings, that would be devastating. Because he did, he did. He loved them.

Really, are you sure? A voice crept into his mind, hissing softly. You’re not very good at showing it.

Logan squeezed his eyes shut. He was being ridiculous. It wasn’t like he had faked being in love. Perhaps he could stand to show it more, but he did love them

They were the ones to approach you though, the voice pointed out. You didn’t even notice they were interested until they flat out told you. You hadn’t even thought about being in a relationship with them. Are you sure you joined because you loved them, or just because they asked and it seemed reasonable enough to you.

No, he loved them. True, he hadn’t realized it before the others had said something. But once they had, he’d examined his feelings and realized the truth.

But the voice had managed to plant a seed of doubt. Had it really been love? Or had he just mistaken fondness to something else? He certainly enjoyed the company of the others, but that wasn’t the same as love. He didn’t declare it often like Morality. He wasn’t one for big romantic gestures like Prince. He didn’t even sneakily offer gifts and cuddles like Anxiety.

Logan could feel his pulse rate going up as his breath came in faster and more raggedly. God, what if he was heartless. What if he’d only just been going through the motions this entire time, and he didn’t actually feel anything for the others? What if he’d been lying this entire time? That would devastate them. He’d hurt them.

He- he couldn’t, no.

Logan sank to the floor, completely lost. He had no idea what to do. Normally he would got to Morality for emotion-related issues, but if he was correct the news that he hadn’t ever loved any of them would devastate Morality. No, he couldn’t tell any of the others. He just had to keep quiet for their sake. Even if he truly was emotionless, he still could keep up the pretense long enough to slowly pull away. That way he wouldn’t hurt them.

Logan ignored the ache in his chest as he thought about pulling away. If he was so incapable of feeling, they’d be better off without him in the long run. He had never really brought much to the relationship anyway. They’d probably be relieved in the end.

Logan stayed in his room till dinner, calming himself down, and reluctantly making plans for how to break things off as gently as possible. By the time Morality came to knock at his door, he had a rough sketch of an idea, but he wasn’t much calmer. As he walked to the kitchen, Logan decided to just stay quiet for most of dinner. He wasn’t really sure what would end up pouring out if he opened his mouth.

The table had already been set, and he could see Anxiety sitting at the table looking at his phone. He looked up when Logan walked in though.

“Hey,” he drawled, “haven’t seen you all day.”

Logan just nodded at him as he sat down, forcing his lips up into a small smile.

Anxiety’s eyebrows knit together and he put down his phone. “You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Logan forced out, “Merely tired.”

“Want to come back to my room for a cuddle and a nap after dinner?” Anxiety offered.

Logan shook his head. “That’s unnecessary, thank you for offering though.”

If he wanted to break this off, he had to begin pulling away now. Although Anxiety’s offer was truly tempting. While the darker side could be temperamental in his affections, once their relationship had progressed, he had revealed a love for physical affection. Many times when tired, he would just flop onto the lap of whoever was closest and refuse to move.

Anxiety looked like he still had something to say, but whatever it was, it was interrupted by Morality entering with dinner.

“I made chicken and mashed potatoes tonight,” he said cheerfully. “Plus a side of green beans. I hope you like it.”

It smelled delicious, but Logan didn’t take very much food. His stomach still felt tight and the thought of food made him feel slightly queasy.

His lackluster appetite evidently caught Morality’s attention, as the other side asked in a concerned tone, “Are you feeling alright, champ?”

“He says he’s just tired,” Anxiety cut in before he could reply, his eyes studying Logan intensely.

“Well that’s no good,” Morality said, now looking even more concerned. “Here, let me feel your forehead. Maybe you’re coming down with something.”

“I’m fine,” Logan said through gritted teeth. He stood up from the table, unable to bear the concern any longer. “I’m just going to go back to my room to nap.”

Prince’s hand caught his arm before he could leave the table though. “Let go of me, Prince,” he snapped. He had to get out of there.

But Prince wasn’t letting go, instead he pulled Logan closer, looking up at him with confusion. “Logan,” he began, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on,” Logan told him, tugging at his arm, “I just need I’m just not hungry.“

“If you aren’t feeling well, I could make some soup instead,” Morality offered, having gotten out of his seat to stand near Logan.

“That’s unnecessary,” Logan said, “I’m fine.”

But on the last word, his voice cracked. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t handle them being so kind when he’d been so awful. He squeezed his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to stop the approaching tears, but it didn’t work. He could feel them slip down his cheeks, one right after the other. A sob tore out of his throat and his hands came to cover his face. He-he couldn’t do this.

Instantly, he felt arms wrap around him, and soothing voice begin to croon in his ear.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay sweetheart. It’s okay, we’re here, you’re okay. We’ve got you, it will all be okay.”

Logan couldn’t stop crying though. There was a slight murmur then a rustle of fabric, and suddenly he was being picked up and carried bridal style in Prince’s arms. He could feel himself being set down on the couch and the couch cushions dip as the others joined him, but he didn’t dare open his eyes.

A set of hands tugged him sideways, pulling him to lean into their owner’s chest. Meanwhile, other hands rubbed his back and ran through his hair. Eventually, Logan’s choked sobs trailed off, and he was left sniffling and exhausted.

He pushed himself out of the warm embrace, which he now recognized to be Morality’s, sitting up straight instead, as he began cleaning his glasses, still refusing to look at the others.

“I’m sorry for that,” he murmured, “But I’m fine now.”

“If you think we’ll believe that, you’re an idiot,” Anxiety said, peering at him with concern from his perch on the back of the couch.

“He’s right,” Prince said quietly from Logan’s left. “What brought this on?”

Logan just stared at his feet again. He really didn’t want to tell them. If he told them he might ruin everything.

But then Morality’s hand tugged his chin up to face the other side, whose eyes were shimmering with worry. “Baby, please,” Morality begged, “Just tell us what’s wrong. Tell us how we can help.”

That broke him.

“I don’t deserve you,” Logan said, shame filling his voice.

There was a pause as the others processed that. Then-

“What the hell are you talking about?” Anxiety asked harshly, sounding agitated. “Where the fuck did you get an idea like that?”

“You all deserve people who can love you,” Logan explained, having broken from Morality’s grip to stare at the floor once more. “And I- I can’t. I’m too cold, too emotionless, too heartless to love you the way you all deserve to be loved. And I am so, so sorry.”

He went to stand, not wanting to stay and draw out his pain any longer, but the he was being firmly pressed to Morality’s chest, his arms clutching Logan desperately.

“That’s not true,” the other side was whispering, his voice sounding horrified. “That’s not true at all. You’re perfect and we love you, and we love the way you love us. There is nothing wrong with you!”

“But it is true,” Logan said trying to pry himself out of Morality’s arms, to give himself some space before he broke again, but the other refused to budge, and he could feel the arms of the other two begin to wind their way around him as well.

“It is,” he insisted, “I am heartless. I disappoint you all the time. I didn’t- I didn’t even notice you had feelings for me before you outright told me, and I would have never considered being with you if you haven’t suggested it. I thought that I could be enough, that my inability to deal with emotions wouldn’t matter, but I’m not and I can’t. I’m not enough!”

He could feel the tears dripping out again, as he sat trapped in a cocoon of arm affection, knowing he deserved none of it.

“I don’t know why or how you can think that,” Anxiety said fiercely, his voice coming from right next to Logan’s ear, “but it’s a goddamn lie. You will always be enough.”

“He’s right, sweetheart,” Morality said, now sounding as though he was crying too. “And I’m so sorry you ever felt like you weren’t.”

Prince was the next to speak. “Is this because of what I said earlier?” he asked, sounding terrified, “because I swear I didn’t mean it. I was annoyed and embarrassed and I lashed out at you. And that was so wrong of me. I never should have hurt, I am so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Logan muttered, “You were right anyway.”

Immediately after saying that, he felt his shoulders being seized and whipped around, as Prince pulled him into a fierce and desperate kiss. Prince’s hands came up to cup his face, thumbs gently stroking away Logan’s tears.

The gesture was so full of love, that Logan couldn’t help the small sob that broke through his lips. Prince’s only response was to pull him closer, the kiss gentling as Logan leaned, trembling, into it.

When they finally broke for air, Prince leaned his forehead against Logan’s his eyes  wild and intense. “You are not heartless,” he said firmly. “Do you struggle with your emotions sometimes? Yes, but that doesn’t make you heartless. You are an amazing man, who I am so lucky to have, and I will love your forever, because you will always be enough. Do you understand me?”

“I-“ Logan began, but his voice was too choked to speak anymore.

Anxiety broke the silence. “Roman’s right,” he said, “Struggling with emotions doesn’t make you a bad person. I mean, how many times have you had to talk me down when my head gets too screwed up to think straight?”

“That’s different,” Logan rasped out.

“Is it?” Morality asked, letting his chin hook over Logan’s shoulder. “Because I don’t think so. And if you’re still worried, well, would someone who’s emotionless be in this position? Would someone who didn’t love us feel this hurt?”

Logan’s breath caught. That- that was…

“He’s right,” Prince murmured.

Anxiety nodded, “You can’t argue with logic.”

Logan’s mind spun, they were- they were right. They were right and they loved him, and they weren’t upset, no, they were here, and they were holding him, and oh god.

“I love you,” he sobbed out, “I love you, I love you, I love you”

As he repeated his mantra over and over, their arms tightened more around him, filling him with warmth.

“Let’s take this to a bed,” Morality suggested, “I think we all could use a good cuddling session.”

That sounded amazing to Logan, but…

“What about dinner?” he asked.

“Dinner can wait.” Morality said, pressing a sweet kiss to Logan’s lips. “You’re much more important.”

Later lying in his bed, with his three partners wrapped around him, Logan felt like he was finally starting to believe that, that he was important, that he was loved, and that he wasn’t heartless.

He let his eyes close with contentment, and snuggled deeper into the warmth surrounding him. No, in this moment, he didn’t feel heartless at all, but rather than his heart might burst from the love filling it.

He was enough.

[akittenwrites]

Shatter me again [5]

Title: Shatter me again [5]

Author: @deanwinchesterxreader

Beta-reader: @eyesxsewnxopenx

Summary: Dean has been living a normal life with his girlfriend Lisa and her son Ben for the past year. Everything seems to be going well until his past comes knocking on his door.

Type: multichapter

Pairing: Dean x reader

Word count: 5439

Warnings: angst, swearing, depression.

Tagging: @deanssexyassbutt@sherlock44@anokhi07@supernatural-jackles @winchesterprincessbride @daydreamingintheimpala @training-wolves @poemwriter98 @starlingfalls @superwhomerlockinuum @destiny14444 @speckof-rarity @wonderless-screwup @yaya-snowflakes @life-is-supernatural- @hell-h0undd @dancingalone21 @lexipasta @bender-overr @kevstiels @jadedhillon @xfanqirlinq @harleenq4life @cloudroomblog @a-court-of-stydia @voidjillybean @xxsugarturtle @otakuforlife12 @basicallyspn @baitellasupernatural @manawhaat @thing-you-do-with-that-thing

Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four.

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Dean swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, staring out of the window. The alcohol burned his throat in a pleasant way, making him relax. The rain was pouring outside, and the large grey clouds matched his mood. It had been six days since he had left Y/N at Cas’ place, and six days since he had cut contact with them. He knew he would have to answer Cas’ calls eventually, but not for now. Now he needed to be left alone so he could think.

His relationship with Lisa was still strained, but she had whispered that she loved him last night in bed, so perhaps everything would turn out to be alright. Still, it felt different this time around when he said he loved her too. He wasn’t lying, he did love her, but Y/N’s face was fresh in his mind so he couldn’t help thinking about her.

That’s what he had been doing for the past days. Thinking about Y/N.

Her memory was stubborn and reluctant to leave him. He would think of her when he got up in the morning, wondering if she was getting up as well or still asleep. He would think of her when he brushed his teeth, took a shower, drove his car. He still checked the rearview mirror to make sure she wasn’t in the backseat. When the door rang this morning, his heart took a leap in his chest, but it turned out to be just one of the neighbors. And at night, as he lay in bed with Lisa in his arms, he couldn’t help but wonder if Y/N was in bed too. If her body was warm. If she had trouble sleeping. If she was thinking about him too.

If he kept this up, he would end up ruining everything with Lisa. Still, Y/N had just turned up after years of silence. He was sure her memory would fade away later, so he was allowed to think about her for now.

He let his body relax to the soothing pattering of the rain on the window took him to that time, six years ago.

It was raining just like now, and he and Y/N had been forced to pay for a motel room until the storm passed. They had been driving for hours, and they were soaking wet and bone tired. He was lying on the bed wrapped in the vaguely itchy motel comforter, his wet clothes hanging on the chair beside him, when Y/N entered the room with two cups of hot coffee. The inviting aroma made him sit up, and she placed one of the cups on his nightstand. Then, she proceeded to take her damp clothes off too until she was in her underwear, leaving them discarded on the floor and crawled into bed with him. Her soft skin brushed against his as she made herself comfortable, and he almost shuddered from how cold she was.

“I like this,” she sighed, warming herself up with the covers and his body heat. Her own cup of coffee lay forgotten on her nightstand.

“Mmm? Me?” he teased.

“Partly,” she laughed. “I meant this. Cuddling in bed, drinking hot coffee, being sheltered in the middle of this storm…”

“I agree,” he whispered, placing her arm around her to bring her closer. He felt serene. “This is… nice.”

She rested her head on his shoulder, her hands finding her way to his taut stomach under the covers. Her touch was delicate and soothing.

“We should move to California,” she said, her eyes on the wall in front of her but her vision a thousand miles away. “Once this is over, I mean.”

He furrowed his brows.

“Why California?”

“I don’t know, I always loved it. Beaches, mountains, rain, sun… it has everything. And it’s far away from Crowley.”

“It’s also far away from Kansas,” he noted. Sam was away in college now, but he would finish his degree this year, and had already hinted on moving back to Kansas with his girlfriend, Jessica.

“Well, Sam will be filthy rich in a few years,” Y/N replied, knowing where his reluctance came from. “I’m sure he can afford a house near us.”

“Or we could live near Kansas,” Dean insisted.

“But there is no beach, and it’s boring,” she replied, making a show of crossing her arms and pouting like a child.

“Fine, I’ll live in Kansas then, and you’ll live in California,” he joked, hugging her tightly. “We’ll see each other once a year and make love.”

“Once a year lovers?” she laughed, her eyes were bright and joyful. “Sounds passionate.”

He was still smiling at his treasured memory when Lisa entered the room, eyes on the floor, and sat next to him. He ignored her stare for a few minutes, contemplating the rain until she started rubbing her eyes and sighed audibly.

“Hey,” he said, finally acknowledging her presence. She turned to him immediately.

“Dean,” she addressed, examining him with narrowed eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, why are you asking?” he asked lightheartedly.

“Because you haven’t been yourself lately, Dean,” she accused in a harsh tone. “At first I thought it was because of the incident, but it’s been a week now Dean, and you’re still the same.”

Not a week. Six days.

But he didn’t say anything.

“I don’t know what’s going on in your head,” she continued, pressing her lips in a thin line. “But it can’t go on any longer.”

“Nothing’s going on,” he responded, irritated by her approach. He knew she was right, and yet he felt as if she was interfering with his private affairs.

“Then why have you been so distant? It’s Y/N, isn’t it?” she bit out, crinkling her nose.

He clenched his jaw but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t about to have this conversation with Lisa. She wouldn’t understand.

She sighed.

“Look, Dean, I’ve been thinking about this for the past few days,” Lisa began, and his heart froze in his chest. No, she couldn’t leave him. Not after everything they had been through together. This couldn’t end because of Y/N of all people. “I don’t want to lose you. I love you and I don’t care who she is or what she was to you in the past as long as it stays just that. The past. But if you can’t stop thinking about her, maybe you should just go.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked in disbelief. “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t want to go anywhere. She’s nothing to me, and you’re not going to question that. I don’t want to leave!”

“Well, you should consider it!” she snapped, getting up suddenly and pacing in front of him. “It seems she’s the only thing in your head lately! Tell me, Dean, are you sure you don’t want to leave?”

“Of course I am!” he got up right behind her, his nerves on edge. “I don’t give a fuck about her, Lisa, alright? I don’t wanna leave because you and Ben are my life right now, not her. And I don’t want it to be her.”

“Then stop this!” she yelled, and he saw some tears pooling in her eyes. He grabbed her by the shoulders immediately, soft but firm, and focused his gaze on her. “Why are you doing this to me? To us? We’ve been together for a year, Dean. We’re a family. Ben adores you. I adore you. If you want to leave, I can accept that. Whatever makes you happy. What I can’t accept is you being here but not being really here! I have a kid, Dean. It’s not just me I have to think about now. I can’t let you hurt him.”

He grits his teeth, furious at himself. He knew this would happen eventually if he didn’t stop thinking about Y/N. He was damaging his relationship with Lisa and Ben, his family, because of a woman that had nothing to do with him anymore. He hated himself for being so weak. All Y/N had to do was show up for him to almost throw his relationship with Lisa to the garbage.

When had it come to this? No, this couldn’t be happening. Y/N wouldn’t be threatening the only good thing he had in life.

She was poison. Why did she have to ruin everything she touched? And why was he allowing it? Lisa was his partner, the woman he loved, the woman he wanted to live the rest of his life next to, not Y/N. Y/N was his past, and she shouldn’t matter anymore. He wouldn’t let Y/N spoil everything, not with how hard he had worked for what he had now. She had ruined him in the past, and she wouldn’t do it again.

He loved Lisa, not Y/N. And Lisa didn’t deserve this.

“Lisa,” he began. “I love you. Only you. You have no idea how hard it is for me to say this, I’m not this kind of guy and…”

“It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I know. Please don’t leave me. I can’t lose you. I love you too much.”

“I can’t lose you either,” he responded, and it was the truth. Lisa was his savior and his future. He vowed to himself he wouldn’t let Y/N get between them.

“Then forget about her,” she begged, sinking into his arms, basking in his warmth. “She shouldn’t mean anything to you.”

“And she doesn’t,” he assured her, his fingers threading through her hair. “I don’t think about her. It’s Cas that has me worried.”

“Then call him.”

“He’s with her, and I don’t want to hear from her ever again,” he sighed.

“I know, but he’s your friend. You should be able to be near her and show her that she has no relevance in your life now. Cutting her out would only make her think she matters to you.”

“What? I don’t think that’s how it works, Lis.”

She lifted her head, still resting on his chest, and looked at him through teary eyes.

“That’s how it works if you’re mature,” she responded. “Castiel thinks you might have feelings for her.”

Oh, there it was. The reason Lisa had assumed he had been thinking about Y/N, having no reason to believe such a thing. It was Cas. He squared his jaw with an unpleasant snarl. How dare he? Now he would actually give him a call.

“He’s an asshole,” Dean guaranteed, trying his best to contain his rage, though he could feel his fists shaking a little. “Don’t listen to him.”

“I’m not angry if she meant som—“ Lisa started, but Dean interrupted her.

“It wasn’t his place!” he fumed. “Don’t talk to him, ever again. Y/N poisoned him, and he’s on her side now.”

“Her side? So she wants to be with you then?” she prodded further.

“I don’t know,” he scratched his hair, taking deep breaths to calm down. Lisa didn’t deserve to see him like this. He had to save his anger for Y/N and Castiel. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what she wants with me. It’s gone.”

“Then you have to make it clear, or else she won’t stop,” Lisa embraced him, caressing his back until he relaxed his tensed muscles.

“I am making it clear, I have cut all contact with her. And I’ll make it clear to Cas too. I’ll give him a call later. He has no business meddling with our relationship.”

“Dean,” she whispered after a while.

“Yeah?”

“We’ll be okay.”

“I know, Lis. We’ll get out of this one. Together.”

Y/N found herself relaxing on Cas’ couch, as she had been doing for the past few days, when she heard the typical scraping sound of the front door opening. Castiel entered the house in a hurry, striding his way through the corridor and towards her. Y/N paused Netflix when he appeared in front of her, regarding the grocery store bags held firmly by his hands.

“Hey Cas,” she greeted, swinging her legs off the couch. “Do you need some help with those?”

“No, it’s okay, I’ll just leave them here,” he answered, as if only now realizing he was holding them, before carelessly dumping them on the floor. Glass clinked, probably from bottles, as Cas took a seat on the couch next to hers. “Y/N, there is something going on.”

His grim expression and agitation made her wary.

“What is it?” she inquired, leaning forward.

“It’s Crowley,” Cas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just got a call from Ezequiel—“

“Who?” she interrupted brusquely. The mere mention of Crowley’s name was enough to speed up her heartbeat and make her break in a cold sweat.

“Ezequiel, a cop friend,” he said in a dismissive tone. “Don’t worry, he only thinks I’m interested in the case because I worked to bring Crowley down.”

“Oh, alright,” she tried to sound relaxed. “What did he say?”

“Crowley made a deal with the prosecutor. He’s pleading guilty and giving up names from everyone who was working for him when he fell, and in return, he’ll get only 15 years.”

“What?!” she blurted, running a hand through her uncombed locks. “What the fuck?!”

How could this be happening? She should’ve been expecting it, it was obvious Crowley would take as many down with him as he could, but still… why would anyone want to negotiate with the mob leader? If they had him, the organization was disbanded and scattered throughout the country. Having the leader is the only thing that mattered. Why would they want his pawns? It would be a nice plus if they had caught them with him, but take years off his sentence in exchange for low ranking mobsters? That didn’t make any sense, and she was fucked.

“I know. I’m sorry. I already called Charlie on my way here, she’s coming—“

“Wait, who’s Charlie? Dean’s Charlie?” she fretted, darting her eyes towards him.

“Yes, she was my classmate too,” he reassured, resting his back on the couch. “She’s smart and willing to help, and help is what we need most right now, so please trust me.”

“What are you talking about?” she exclaimed. “I should run. I’m good at that. At least until things calm down, you know?”

“No way, you’re not going anywhere, especially with that wound, Y/N,” he denied, his blue eyes scanning her face. “We have to work on this together.”

Was Castiel acting this stupid on purpose? It wasn’t hard to understand that her being in his house was putting him in unnecessary danger. She should run away and avoid the police for a while. It had been part of her job for the past thirteen years; vanishing without a trace was her area of expertise.

“You could go to jail for protecting me,” she tried to reason. “And your bright idea is to add more people to this shitshow? This is gonna turn out bad, Cas, and you know it.”

“Dean’s name might come up too, Y/N.”

She paled, resting her arms on her thighs and leaning forward. She let her eyes shut on their own and took a deep breath, the stiff muscles on her neck bothering her more than ever now. Had everything been for nothing? Had she hurt everyone she loved and resigned herself to a life of heartbreak and solitude just so Crowley to shit on all she’d worked for? This wasn’t fair. She always knew she would have to pay the price for the lives she took, but Dean didn’t. He’d paid enough.

She swallowed to wet her dry mouth before speaking again.

“Cas,” she begged. She needed him to tell her this was unlikely, that everything would be okay. This couldn’t be happening again. “You said he was giving up names of those who were working for him when he fell, not past hitmen.”

He hesitated.

“Yes. They have your name for sure, and your description from your last little run in with the cops,” he looked down, taking a deep breath. “That doesn’t mean he won’t mention Dean. I’m not saying he will, but he might.”

“But he can’t! Right?” she insisted, searching for his gaze. “They have no proof!”

“Exactly,” he conceded. “Dean is safe as long as he acts smart. I will call him later so we can discuss this.”

“Oh my god, Cas. What if Dean’s really in danger? What if Crowley has some kind of proof or something? Oh my god.”

Please, tell me everything will be okay.

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t,” Cas reassured her. “But we need to decide what he’ll say in case he’s brought in for questioning.”    

“Isn’t Sam a lawyer now, though? I’m sure Dean will go to him for help, not us.”

“He would,” Cas agreed. “However, I have all the information that we might need about Crowley’s case, so Dean will have to talk to me anyway. And Sam can help too if he’s up to it.”

“Alright,” she nodded, pursing her lips. “I just… I need to go for a walk.”

She propped herself up with her hands as Cas rushed to assist her. She grit her teeth when a twinge of pain radiated from her lower abdomen. Her legs were numb, and the blood rushing back to them felt like a thousand needles being stuck to her skin.

“It’s okay,” she grunted, shrugging Castiel’s arm off. “I don’t need help.”

“You’re hurt, Y/N,” he stated. “You can’t walk around without—“

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” she snapped, and he dropped his arms at his sides, relenting. She would’ve stormed out of the room if she could, but she had to settle with slowly walking away from him. Every time she leaned on her right foot the pain in her abdomen would intensify, but she ignored it. It wasn’t the first time that she was this hurt, and she would get over it. Cas had tried to get her to use crutches or a cane to move around the house, but she had refused. She was not incapacitated, and she didn’t need him to look after her every move. Her freedom was limited enough already.

If there was something she hated more than anything in the world, it was feeling powerlessness. Her chest closing in on her right now was the least of her problems. She was trapped all over again, and no matter what she did, she could never, would never get out. She would always depend on somebody else, and what she did for herself would never matter. She was a prisoner wherever she went. She hated it. She hated depending on Crowley then, she hated having to rely on Dean a few days ago, and she hated living off Cas now.

Why was it so hard for her to be free? That was all she wanted in life.

Freedom. Free will. A choice.

She barely made it to the front door before collapsing against the wall and sliding down to the floor. The pain was unbearable, in her muscles, inside her head, everywhere. She cried in frustration and tugged at her hair, despising every breath she took. Her body shook as she tried to contain the ugly sobs escaping her, and she wrapped her arms around her knees, resting her chin on her chest.

Maybe being free wasn’t it for her. Maybe she was destined to live the rest of her life running. But she was tired of it. So damn tired.

Her mind was invaded by memories of Crowley, dark alleys, dirty money, and blood she wanted to forget, to wipe it all away, but she couldn’t. Instead the images started flashing before her eyes, blurry and inconsistent, as if it were a movie with missing frames.

“Why would I accept such a deal, darling?” Crowley asked, his British accent flowing with elegance as he eyed her.

They were in his house, in what he called his office, which was more of an entertainment room. Luxurious carpets decorated the floor, while some clearly expensive paintings hung off the walls. The whole place smelled of incense, and while it had the biggest flat screen tv Y/N had ever seen, it also had hundreds of books. The chandelier that illuminated the room with a bright glow was fit for a king, something Crowley would never be. Still, as she sat there, feeling small before the extravagance of his lavish lifestyle, she knew she wanted to get out. She didn’t want palatial sculptures and plush furniture, she wanted freedom.

“Because you will have me at your mercy,” she answered. “It’s always been me you wanted. You found me, you trained me. Dean was just a plus. You don’t need him if you can have me.”

“I knew you cared about the boy, Y/N, but I didn’t know you’d become so… sensitive.”

She bit her tongue and kept her face stoic, knowing better than to tell him to shove that comment up his asshole. She waited in silence as Crowley stood up and circled around his desk, coming to her side.

“Tell me, how much at my mercy would you be? Because if I recall correctly, our dear friend Castiel already made a deal with me regarding how involved you will get.”

“That deal is broken,” she stated. “I already talked to him. I will do whatever you want whenever you want. There are no conditions.”

Crowley seemed to think about it as he paced around the room, admiring the paintings that decorated it. She swallowed the lump in her throat and stayed as still as humanly possible, not wanting to look at him. If he said yes, this was it. It was over. Dean would get out of the life, and they would never see each other again. He’d think she had betrayed him, but he couldn’t know the truth. If he knew what she was doing right now, he’d burst in and drag her out himself. He would never let her do this. And he would never leave if he knew the reason he was free.

“Alright, darling,” Crowley sat in front of her again. “After careful consideration, I’ve decided to take you deal. Dean was becoming too… reckless, anyway. You, on the other hand, still have potential.”

“Good,” she nodded, pretending to be emotionless as her fingers trembled under the desk. She tensed her muscles so she wouldn’t give anything away. This was definitive. If she did this, there was no going back.

“However,” he began, “should any of you betray me, know this: I will destroy you. I have all your records, I know who you are, and I have contacts everywhere. So, keep your word, or I’ll have fun tearing you apart. Are we clear?”

“We are,” she agreed, standing up.

He stood up too, and even though he was a foot shorter than her, he intimidated her. He didn’t look intimidating, but it was that easiness with which he carried himself that made him dangerous. He hadn’t lied when he said he would destroy her. There was no way to escape Crowley’s wrath: he would chase you till the end of the world. She had witnessed that herself.

“Now come here, we gotta seal the deal,” he said, pride evident in his voice.

“What?” she asked, confused at what he could possibly mean. And before she could react he yanked her by her shirt and his lips were on her, kissing her fervently. Her eyes widened, and she pushed him away, wiping her mouth to erase the feeling of his beard rubbing on her skin, of his wet tongue caressing her lips. She blamed the whiskey she had drank before coming here for her poor reflexes.

She would’ve puked right there, on his expensive carpet, if she could.

“What was that for?” she exclaimed, disgusted.

“Sealing the deal,” he answered simply. “Now go. I have things to do.”

She backed away from his office, humiliation still raw. She wouldn’t see Dean again after this. She would just call Cas, and the plan would be set into motion. She wanted to kiss him one last time now to forget about this, but it wasn’t possible.

She was in hell.

Footsteps approached as she drew in a shaky breath.

“Stay away from me,” she croaked. A wave of self-deprecation washed over her. “I want to be alone.”

The footsteps stopped for a few seconds and then resumed their pace, this time walking away from her. Her skin was burning so hot she was sure she had a fever, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She would be in some sleazy bar right now drinking herself to death if she wasn’t trapped in this broken body. Or maybe she would be in the Bahamas. Or in a ditch. Who cared? She didn’t.

She just wanted to be away.

Castiel had called Dean three times that morning, and he hadn’t answered, so he was rather surprised when his own phone rang, and Dean’s name was on the Caller ID. He picked it up immediately and made his way to his room, both to give Y/N some privacy and to speak freely without upsetting her even more. He hadn’t seen her this dismayed since she decided to make that deal with Crowley. He knew she only needed some time to recover, though, before she got back on her feet. It had always been that way.

Because Dean was there for her, and now he’s not.

He clenched his jaw to get rid of the intrusive thought, but the seed of doubt was now planted deep in his mind. What if she only got worse?

The phone rang again, distracting him, and he answered right away.

“Dean,” he said, relieved. “I’ve been calling you for—“

The voice on the other side of the line was a lot harsher than he expected it to be.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Cas?!” Dean snarled, clearly fuming. “Goin’ behind my back and talking to Lisa?”

He frowned. He hadn’t talked to Lisa for the past few days. What was going on here?

“Dean, I don’t kn—“ he tried to explain himself in an attempt to calm him down.

“Don’t you dare say you don’t know what I’m talking about, ‘cause I swear to god I’ll drive up there just to snap your neck in half,” he threatened.

Castiel sat on his bed, involuntarily tensing the muscles in the back of his neck. He didn’t recall having other conversation with Lisa aside from that one time when Dean was driving back home and wouldn’t pick up his phone. What was wrong with him?

In any other situation, he would’ve told Dean not to involve him in his relationship issues, and to seek couples counseling if he needed it, but this wasn’t any situation. He couldn’t just hang up the phone and cut contact with Dean until he apologized when everything was hanging by a thread. Y/N might go to jail, and if Dean weren’t careful he would be dragged down too, so he decided his best shot at getting him to collaborate would be to stay impassive.

“I apologize,” he began, his tone neutral. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was worried about you, and you weren’t picking up your phone.”

“You didn’t?” he laughed humorlessly. “Then why would you tell Lisa that I was in love with Y/N, uh?!”

“That’s not what I said,” he stated, keeping his voice level despite the way his body burnt him from inside, his jaw clenching to keep his composure. This was crossing a line.

“Well, that’s what she told me, and right now, I trust her more than you, Cas.”

Castiel had never been fond of Lisa, but he had never really disliked her either. Right now he thought she was one of the most unpleasant people he had ever met. She entered Dean’s life barely a year ago, and he had been by his side since the beginning. So if her goal was to isolate Dean, it wouldn’t work. Castiel wouldn’t allow it.

“All I said,” he started, slowly spitting his words with blatant rage, “was that Y/N meant a lot to you in the past, and that was why you were so worried. I was merely excusing your behavior. I never mentioned love, but if that’s what you want to believe, go ahead,” he snapped. “It doesn’t matter. That’s not why I called.”

A few seconds passed  before Dean spoke again, this time in a much more controlled manner.

“Then why did you call, Cas?”

“It’s Crowley,” he revealed, glad for the change of subject. He would deal with Lisa later, she wasn’t a priority right now. “He’s giving up names in exchange for a shorter sentence.”

“What?” He could almost see Dean gritting his teeth on the other side of the phone.

“We know for certain they have Y/N’s name, and there is a possibility that Crowley will mention you as well,” he continued. “If that happens, you will most likely be taken in for questioning. We need to be prepared.”

Dean cleared his throat and didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he spoke again, his voice low, as if testing the waters.

“Will she go to jail?” he asked, completely disregarding the part about his name coming up too.

“Not if I can help it. I talked to Charlie,” he rubbed his forehead as he spoke. “She’s coming down here this weekend, and we’ll see what we can do about the files. Y/N might even need a new identity.”

“What do you need me to do?”

That’s Dean Winchester he knew. He sighed, relieved to have him back on their team.

“We need to discuss your story, just in case. You’re safe, Dean, so don’t worry. We just need to take care of this.”

There was a pause, and Castiel was sure that it was Dean not believing him. Hell, he didn’t even believe himself. With Crowley’s statement, Dean could be arrested. He wasn’t safe, not really.

“Alright, when are you free?”

“We’ll be working on this on the weekend. You should come here too.”

“Oh, no, I’m not going,” he announced. “We’ll do it over the phone.”

“Dean…”

“Look, I can’t go. Lisa and Ben need me here, and if I leave again, they’ll kill me.”

“This is too important to be done over the phone.”

“They wouldn’t understand, Cas,” he insisted.

“Then make them understand. If it’s such a problem, tell them to come. I have enough room for everyone.”

Castiel wanted to be as far away as possible from that woman and her child, yet, in such a desperate situation, he’d take anything he could get. He’d let go of his problem with Lisa until everything was back to normal, and then he’d have a conversation with Dean. He knew he was thinking the same thing: they would talk once this was over.

“That’s not a good idea. Y/N will be there.”

“Then stay in a hotel. I’d rather have them here with you than not having you here at all.”

“I don’t want to put Y/N in more danger than necessary. Ben called the cops the last time, Cas,” he sighed. “And I promised Lisa this whole mess was over.”

“Explain it to them, Dean. If you trust them, let them know what’s going on. Tell them that if Y/N is in danger, you are too. And that everything will be fine and you’ll go back to your ordinary lives once this calms down. There is a storm coming, Dean, and we need to be prepared. If they truly love you, they will have your back.”

“Alright,” he gave in. “I’ll see what I can do. It will be hard but… Whatever. Talk to you later.”

He said “goodbye” before hanging up, and let himself fall on the bed. As he examined his roof, he thought of the long road ahead of them. One mistake and they’d all end up in jail. Still, he was willing to take the risk. Y/N was family.

He had to figure out a way to tell her Dean would be here, under the same roof as her, again. And it was possible Lisa Braeden would come with him. He knew it would destroy her, open her wounds again, but there was little he could do. He just had to find a way to break the news to her.

That was the last thought in his mind when sleep claimed him.