#and a wide band that doesn’t kill my back or ribs

[discountalien-pancake]

I think that’s a pretty damn good match, wouldn’t you say? I dyed a strip of silk crepe de chine to match the lace I’ll be using for some fancy new underpinnings.

[charnelhouse]

would u ever give us some rick sex pollen 😳👀

A/N: Rick Flag x F!Reader. Sex Pollen (dub-con). Floor sex. Slightly rough.

What’s it like to burn? Under your skin? In the meat-pit of your gut?

Flames scorching up your thighs and nipping at your ankles and the worst of it - the greatest pain of all - is the fact that it’s a scratch you can’t itch and it’s swelling in your -

“Jesus fucking christ," Rick chokes as he appears in front of you. “You didn’t? You didn’t open it did you?”

His voice is thick as he blinks - digesting the scene in front of him. His eyes slide over your body - your trembling fingers and the sweat now beading your brow and soaking your hair. You gasp as a cramp twists in your core - a spear of agony that ripples through the rest of you.

You know that he knows what this is. You can see it in the way he grits his jaw - his nostrils flaring and his expression ridged in a fight that he’s taking up against himself.

Because Rick is a good ole boy. Rick cares for his own and this - this - situation calls for something out of the box.

“Flag,” you whimper as another shudder sweeps through the barrel of your ribs. You drop to your knees - hand stitched to your lower abdomen as the room begins to spin. It’s a garish flare of color - lights swathed in chipped paint and metal and glass.

You’d been foolish. You’d opened that container without a care - a single fuck. It had exploded in your face - shooting up your nose as it cracked and sputtered and birthed the fever that was now ravaging your insides.

“How bad?” he breathes as he lowers himself to get on your level. He’s tender as he lifts your chin to catch your eyes. You can’t focus - can’t find a point to zero in on and you must look like shit or half-mad because Rick’s brow furrows deeply. “How bad, honey?”

“Bad,” you husk as you collapse forward - falling into his chest that’s broad and cool and hard with muscle. You curl your fingers into his shirt - the fabric soft and smelling like dirt. You need him to ground you - anchor you in place because the fucking poison is tearing through your senses - nails raking through the back of your nose and across your parted mouth. You feel both numb and like you are feeling every fucking thing at once.

Lights too bright. Smells too cloying. Too fucking warm as you begin to rub up against him. “My shirt..please…get it off.”

“Fuck,” he hisses as his grip on you tightens. “Fucking shit - I don’t - you’re ill, sweetheart. It wouldn’t be -”

“No,” you protest. “No - this is - this is poison, Flag.”

He groans - cursing under his breath. “Maybe - we could get you back in time.”

You manage to glance up at him. You spot the clench of his jaw - his entire structure going all rigid as his enormous hand strokes your waist. You need him to engulf you - possess you - bury you beneath him.The pollen begins to work harder - slicking up your cunt as you shove your cheek against the uncomfortable tac gear.

“Flag...Rick...please...it fucking hurts...hurts so so badly.”

You gingerly climb up his chest - nosing at his throat - snuffling at the skin available. It soothes you - the masculine bite of him. It’s cooling your heavy head - your dizziness.

He grunts when you wrap your thighs around his waist - your arms closing around his wide shoulders. He palms at your ass - his mouth tracing your jaw as he breathes deep and slow. It’s a nudge - a bump forward. Rick is good in all the ways so many aren’t. You hurt and he wants to take it away and at the same time doesn’t want to take something that he cannot give back.

“You have to,” you murmur. “It’ll kill me.”

“I know,” he sighs as his fingertips find the band of your pants - the pop of the button. “I know - fuck - I just - I didn’t want it to be this way.”

There’s weight behind it - your mind sane enough to grab onto the inflection of yearning and regret. Frustration slightly bunched at the end of it.

I didn’t want it to be this way.

Want.

You’d ask him after - if you remember - you’ll ask him after.

He’s moving through the opening in your pants - knuckles curling through the dripping slit of your sex. He makes a broken sound - ragged and low from the thick of his chest.

You’re out of words - out of thoughts or sense. You just need him to touch you - break you open on the rod of his cock. You know nothing else - nothing - but Rick - Rick - Rick.

He becomes more frantic in his ministrations - more aggressive and stark as he presses his fingers together before pushing them inside you. You inhale - practically riding his hand.

“Please,” you sob as another cramp stabs through your gut. “Please.”

The side of his face is pressed firm to yours - his chin digging into your shoulder. “I’ve got you. I’m gonna take care of you. Just hold on for me - just like that - just - fuck - hold on, darlin.”

***

You really don’t know up from down. You know few things except for the weeping, molten ache of your pussy and the punch of Rick’s cock inside it.

You’re clenching around him - spasming by the second. There is climax after climax just from the touch of him - the brutal slide of his length inside you. He’s got you right on the floor - his pants tight under his ass as he pumps himself through the drenched channel of your sex.

He bears his weight - pinning your wrists above your head as you wrap your legs around the snatch of his waist. You cum again and he growls: that’s it - fucking hell - that’s it baby - get it out - breathe through it -

Out of the corner of your eye, there’s a tremble in his forearm and you have enough sense to grip him by the shoulders - smoothing the sweat-damp muscles that bunch beneath your hands. It’s a gesture meant to comfort - to soothe- because you understand Rick and you also understand that he’s probably hating himself right now. You give him words and reassurance.

“Thank you, Flag,” you pant into his ear. “Thank you - fuck - right there - right there.”

His hips snap between your spread legs. His tac gear is sandpaper rough as it rasps against your tender flesh. He’s barely pulling out of you with each draw and shove of his cock. The ridge of his pelvic bone bumps up against your clit and it makes you gush around him - soak him. There’s the wet slap of skin - the guttural break in each feral growl from Rick’s mouth.

You glance down and nearly cry at the sight of him disappearing inside you. Everything is coated in a thin film of your slick - the dark thatch of curls - his abdomen - his thighs. The sounds are filthy and lewd as he pants into the curve of your neck.

You’re returning to yourself with each stroke of his cock - each spear of him burrowing so far to the point where you think he’s hitting you belly-deep. “Rick,” you whisper and he rears back - his eyes golden and warm as they find yours through the mess of it all.

“Yeah?” His thumb slips over your lower lip - his palm gentle. “What is it, baby?”

“Kiss me.”

He looks surprised and you know you’ve changed the rules. This was a cure - something to help you - save you. His mouth quirks and you’ve hit right - a kiss is more - it means something.

He eases his hips back - just enough - just to the head of his perfect cock so that it is still caught inside you. The both of you connected while he scans your face searching and searching until he sees the sharpness in your eyes - the clearness - the familiarity - the you that has returned from the fog of pollen.

“As you wish,” he grins and drops his head.

He presses his lips to yours, his cock sinking fully to the hilt - filling you completely - making everything fucking better and sweet.

[universitypenguin]

Steve Rogers - Sex Headcanon

Warnings: Smut, Light bondage, NSFW, 18+

Word Count: Too long, as usual.

First of all, Steve Rogers loves sex. 

He’s a bit touch starved after waiting for the right woman, but when he finds you and things move into the physical affection stage, he’s all over you.

During sex, Steve loves that he can pick you up with little effort

He likes doing it against the wall

Standing, almost any position

Likes that he can hold your hips still even when you start to squirm when he hits the right spots

In general, holding onto your hips, your butt, and even when he gets to curl his hands around to grasp your inner thighs, Steve is thrilled. Captain America is an ass man.

He loves your legs too, though.

Likes to pin you down for prone bone.

He hates to admit how much using his strength against you turns him on.

But you love it too and when he realizes that you like the same positions he does, it gets more intense.

Like, he’ll pick you up while he’s standing and lift you to his shoulders, draping your legs over his shoulders to eat you out.

When Steve learns that you not only can orgasm multiple times, but that you enjoy it, he starts to let go a bit more.

At first he was careful in bed. He kept things slow and gentle, not being entirely sure of his strength. But once he gets comfortable…

He goes feral

It starts when you ask him to tie you up. The idea is only familiar to him from Tony and Thor’s jokes about 50 Shades of Gray.

Steve hates 50 Shades of Gray. He thinks Christian is an ass who doesn’t respect women.

But back to the topic: bondage. He’s willing to hear you out about why you want that. And eventually, he says yes.

The conversation about bondage goes like this:

You’ve never done bondage before. Despite having several past relationships and experiences, you’ve never trusted a man like that. Erotica tastes aside, reality is a beast of its own.

And without the feeling of complete safety that Steve Rogers inspires in your heart, you won’t have even brought it up.

But you trust him without reservations.

The idea of bondage for you is totally psychological. To have your hands restrained and be blind folded takes the pressure off of you. Sometimes your mind starts going during sex and it ruins your enjoyment.

It’s not like you’re thinking about the groceries or anything, just that you start planning your next move. Should you kiss him now, or do you need to moan louder? Does your moaning sound like a dying cat? Maybe you should keep it down.

So the blind fold is important.

And you don’t want to be able to move because you’d try to plan that too. Sometimes you put a lot of pressure on situations to be perfect. Perfect because you made it perfect, you mean. Your expectations are of yourself.

This is one reason you hate not being able to achieve orgasm. That matters to Steve a lot and he always but your pleasure first. The man is selfless and sweet. And when your mind decides to shut down the orgasm buttons, you hate disappointing him.

Steve is sold on the idea of bondage once he understands that it’s only an option because you feel safe with him. And he likes being the only person you’d trust to be this vulnerable with. All the 50 Shades objections vanish for him once you explain that part.

When you tell him that your struggles orgasming sometimes are from your own pressures to be good in bed, he gets it.

He loves that about you, your desire to please him and make things good. It motivates him to accept the offer of bondage.

Because it makes perfect sense that being forced to be the recipient and having control stripped away would fix that for you.

Steve says that you’ll have to let him make the plan. Which is *so* Steve Rogers it’s almost funny.

On a random Tuesday you get dinner with a friend and come home late. The lights are off which is weird because you expected Steve to be home. When you step inside you call out for him but no reply. Kicking off your shoes you wander to the kitchen and when you reach for the light switch, a hand grabs your wrist.

You give a small scream as a body presses you into the wall. Then you recognize the feel and the scent of his aftershave.

Steve has you pinned to the wall, wrists on either side of your head, feet spread apart and his big body caging you in.

It’s happening. It’s so happening. And you feel thrilled and scared and outrageously excited.

He’s excited too, you can feel it pressing into your back. The man’s been planning and fantasizing, clearly.

“Do you still want this, honey?”

His first words to you are the reason that you want this. It warms your heart at the same time your panties are growing wet.

“Yes, Steve. So much. Please.”

He rolls his hips, pressing his body against you and you can’t control the moan that passes your lips.

“Red means we stop. Yellow is slow down. If I’m going to do something that I think you need to consent to, I’ll ask ‘is this okay?’ and you’re going to say “Green” if you want it. Understand?

“Pick a safe word, doll.”

Eagle is your safe word. Your mind just liked the whole patriotic motif, you supposed.

Once the ground rules are laid out, Steve turns you around and with a tap on the curve of your ass, signals you to jump up.

With your legs around his waist and arms curled around his neck, he carried you upstairs to the bed.

Blindfold goes on first. Then cuffs that are lined with something soft that feels like shearling.

You know without asking that he picked them because he thought handcuffs would be too aggressive. Again, your heart flips.

“I’m going to push you, baby. I want you to wring every bit of enjoyment you can out of this. I’m going to make you come hard. You with me on that?”

You’re with him. You’ve waited a long time to try this.

“I have a plan for aftercare too,” he says.

And that’s your first hint that he’s about to go feral on you like he sometimes does when he’s keyed up from a mission.

Steve Rogers has freaking stamina for days. The man could kill you with sex if he wanted to.

(His sex drive is high… all that waiting for the right girl makes a man horny)

He undoes the halter tie of your dress and pull it down, slipping it over your legs.

He uses his mouth first. And it’s frustrating that he left your panties on. 

(The outfit was something he’d suggested. You’d thought he just liked the sundress and had been complimented when he’d said you’d look great in it today. Now it was clear he’d been planning all day. Probably longer.)

He’s been planning since the night you told him two weeks ago. Before the conversation was even over. You felt safe enough with him to ask for such a private and vulnerable fantasy and that turned him on in a mental way he can’t even explain.

So he starts by teasing you.

He kisses your mouth, slow and sensual. His tongue flicks against yours but never quite for as long as you’d like. And he knows how you like it by this point in the relationship. So you’re well aware he’s teasing you.

His mouth begins to wander to your neck and he laps at the sensitive spot. Your thighs clench in response. You’re soaked now, so wet it’s a little bit embarrassing.

He finally finds your breast with his mouth, taking an aching bud in his mouth and drawing on it. Softly. Gently. Lapping and teasing without the friction you needed to enjoy it.

Your breath came in pants now and you spread your legs to open yourself to encourage him to continue. Because there’s somewhere else that really needs attention.

Instead he turns to the other breast and gives it the same attention. Slower. And softer. Stroking with his tongue until your nipple was painfully tight.

His hand trailed up to cup the breast he wasn’t sucking on. The pad of his thumb made teasing circles and you moaned, arching your back into his mouth.

He chuckled and released the aching bud with a pop. Fingertips swirled the nipple he’d just abandoned, coating it with his saliva. He pinch it just right and your hips jerked.

Arousal was a living breathing thing inside your body now, clawing at your lower belly, turning breath into unsteady pants.

“How are you doing, baby?”

The bastard knew you were dying. Sweat was starting to burst from your pores. Your entire body was hot with need.

“Please, Steve…”

“Mmmhh? What do you need, doll?”

“I need your to touch me.”

“Where?”

“My pussy. I’m so wet for you, please touch me. Get inside of me.”

He purred. This was the moment you realized that you’d created a monster. Because he was getting off on the power play.

(This wasn’t actually when the monster was officially created. No, that would be later when you were done and he got to see your dazed face and tear filled eyes from the magnitude of what he’d drawn your body.)

He let go of the nipple and flattened his palm on your ribs, sliding it down inch by inch until he paused on your low belly.

He toyed with the band of your panties.

“You’re wet for me? Does this needy pussy want my fingers or my mouth?”

“Both!!”

He laughed again. But he went ahead, so it was worth it.

And heaven help you, there were fireworks. The bondage was working wonders for your mental need to be out of control. But Steve took it higher when he forced your legs wide and pinned them to the mattress.

And while spin class workouts did amazing things for your thighs, nothing topped super soldier strength. You were stuck. Legs pushed flat to the bed, hands cuffed to the head board and nothing stopping the extremity turned on man with his head between your legs.

He lied about giving your his mouth and fingers. At first he only used his mouth on your clit, licking around it, touching the tip of his tongue over it in slow flicks, then finally, finally, sucking.

Your body seized at the shock of pleasure, white hot and raw jerking through nerve endings frayed from lack of fulfillment.

He knew what pitch he needed to hear you moan at before he added his fingers.

He knew it because Steve Rogers is a man who studies all the angles of a situation and knows his enemy. Or in this case, knows his lover.

He rubs at your G-spot with the pad of his finger and you scream.

Your head falls back on the pillow and tears start to flow because it’s not enough.

“More, oh, please. Steve, I need-“

He growls. “I know what you need, babydoll. And I’ll give it to you when you’re a good girl and you hold back that orgasm for me. I don’t want you to come yet. Don’t you dare come. If you do I’m going to have to take you over my knee.”

Just the idea of him spanking you almost makes you lose it.

He backs off the intensity. And you start to sob from the brutal frustration of being taken so high and left without release.

His name begins to fall from your lips like a litany, as you start to beg.

“Steve! Please, I want to come!”

“Not yet. Hold back. You be my good girl and hold back. I don’t want to spank that sweet behind until it’s red, but I’ll do it.”

Your scream is gargled by a wave of pleasure that makes your whole body roll as it rips through you from head to toe.

“Let me come, damn it!”

Smack. He’s light and there’s a sting on your right inner thigh.

“Hold. It. Back!”

Screams become sobs. You can’t hold still. You’re fighting the restraints and trying to move but he’s not allowing it. All you can do is clench around his fingers and cry.

“Come for me, baby.”

Release floods you in a second when he gives permission.

The cord of tension snaps. Your muscles lock. The scream you felt building is nowhere to be found. Your voice disappears in the violence of the orgasm. It’s totally silent as your body takes control.

Your channel clamps down around his fingers. The orgasm pulses through your body like being set on fire.

Then you scream. And the muscles that had gone stiff suddenly quiver with release.

If Steve hadn’t held you down through it you’d have been snapping your hips and arching into the sensations, away from them.

He keeps going, pushing you through it until the orgasm is finished.

Then you cry.

Honestly crying, because of the intensity of the release.

You’d expected to get off. You hadn’t guessed that you would get obliterated by the world’s most intense orgasm.

Steve immediately crawls up and takes off the blind fold.

“It’s okay, doll. I’m here. You’re okay, you’re safe. Hold on to me.”

You move, trying to reciprocate when his arms go around you, but they’re still cuffed.

This makes you cry harder.

Steve rips them open, letting you free.

And then you’re in his arms and you can cry properly.

He rolls over with you in his arms, one arm tight around your waist, the other cupping the back of your head.

What shocks you is that he’s not nervous, apologizing, or asking if you’re hurt. He’s petting you and whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

“It’s okay, baby. Let it out. I’m right here, not goin’ anywhere. Hold on to me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

The warm hand moving over your back is a delicious comfort. Almost as good as being held to the strong chest by arms thicker than most people’s legs.

When the storm of emotions passes, you blink up as Steve, a bit confused.

His smile is gentle and his eyes are filled with warmth.

“I did my research. You came down from that hard, didn’t you?”

Your answering “yeah,” is slurred.

He kisses your forehead. If you weren’t already boneless from your release, that would have finished you off.

“You were such a good girl for me. I can’t wait to do this again.”

With a tired smile you arch an eyebrow.

“But we can’t be done. I haven’t had you inside of me yet, soldier.”

Steve’s eyes go wide at the remark and you smirk.

“I still need you to fuck me, baby. I need to feel you finish on top of me and collapse into my arms. Please.”

You said please. And if he didn’t get assist a lady who needed his help, what kind of a hero was he?

[a-game-of-stars-and-ink]

Ashes to Ashes

Fuck it. Posting my first Whump Story on here.

Warnings: Gunshot wound, infection, pus, blood, harsh caretaker, assassin, painful wound cleaning, painful medical procedure, bullet removal, restrained, sick, fever, graphic wound description.

I have no idea if I’ll continue this, so if you think I should, please tell me.

Jackson still did not understand how things had gone so wrong. All the planning, all the preparation… And now he was on the run from the cops… with an infected gunshot wound.

He didn’t remember stumbling to Zion Marshell’s door. After all, it was her fault that he was in this mess. He didn’t want her help.

The door opened, and he saw fear and shock flash across her face, before he collapsed inside.

“If this is you coming for revenge, you picked a bad time.” She snarled, pulling a glock out of her waist band, and clicking off the safety.

Jackson sighed, too tired to fight, he closed his eyes.

Zion frowned down at Ryler, hating that she felt some pity for the monster lying where he’d collapsed on her floor. Sweat shone on his face and neck, but he was shivering. 

She hesitated, and nudged him with her foot.

He groaned, his eyes fluttering open. Upon seeing her glare, he swallowed thickly.

“What are you doing here?” She snapped.

“I-I… I don’t know...” He wheezed, his blue eyes glazed over. “Where else to go…” 

Zion frowned. “What about the people who hired you?”

“If they find me… I’m dead.” He rasped. “And I’d rather die here… than slowly with them.”

Zion sighed. “Steve?” She called.

“Yeah.”

“I have a problem down here.”

“What?”

“Please just come down.”

Her friend’s shocked look mirrored how she’d felt upon first seeing Ryler, who was unconscious again.

“I need you to help me get him upstairs.”

“Have you lost your mind, Zion?”

“Look, are you going to help me or not?”

“He doesn’t deserve your help.”

“Maybe not, but…”

“But what?”

“I still need to do this. Please.”

Steve sighed, and slung Ryler’s arm over his shoulders, dragging him up the stairs, and then dropping him unceremoniously on the guest bed.

Ryler’s eyes snapped open, and for a moment, he looked fearful. Steve ripped open his shirt, and began to inspect the oozing hold in his ribs.

“Who… Who are you?” Jackson rasped at the man, who gave him a scathing look.

“The closest thing to a doctor you’re getting.”

“Police way of t-teaching me a lesson?” He tried to sneer, but his voice trembled.

“Listen asshole, the only reason you’re not with the police, is because she’s a far nicer person than I am.” The man snapped, gesturing to Zion, who was standing in the doorway.

“Now, I’m helping you because she asked me too.” Then, he turned to the girl, and said. “We need to get the bullet out. I don’t have any anesthetic or freezing.”

Jackson struggled to sit up at that, only to collapse back to the bed, panting. He hated being so weak.

“So, I need you to let me do what I think is best.”

“...Okay.” The girl said hesitantly. 

The man took out four rolls of bandages, and approached. Jackson watched in confusion, as the bigger man grabbed his wrist, and began wrapping it in gauze, before tying him to the bed frame. Jackson spluttered, trying to free himself. The man shoved him hard back against the bed, and Jackson yelped in pain.”

“Fuck, Steve, be gentle.” Zion snapped, coming over and watching as the man restrained his other wrist. Jackson was still dazed from the pain, and unable to resist this time.

The assassin seemed too stunned to continue struggling, and Zion shot a glare at Steve, who lifted a shoulder in a shrug, and finished tying Ryler’s wrists to the bed frame.

The assassin tugged weakly against the makeshift restraints.

“Y-you can’t do this.” He moaned.

“You’re in no position to be telling me what I can and cannot do.” Steve snarled.

“Steve!” Zion objected.

“What? He tried to kill you, Zion. He spent twelve hours trying to force you into his scheme. You really think I care if he’s comfortable?”

Zion opened her mouth to answer, but was surprised to see Steve also tying Ryler’s ankles to the frame at the foot of the bed.

The assassin thrashed weakly at this, clearly trying his hardest to resist.

“Stop it, dickhead. Do you want to live or not?” Steve snarled.

Zion glared at her friend, and stood next to Ryler’s head. “Just lie still. We won’t turn you in.” She said softly.

Steve grumbled something, and stood up, walking into the next room. He returned with a first aid kit, and a pair of forceps.

Ryler’s chest heaved in panic, and he thrashed, body arching off the bed. 

“No!” It wasn’t a command, but a desperate plea. For the first time since she’d laid eyes on him, he was truly terrified.

Steve stood next to her, and took Ryler’s jaw in his hand, opening his mouth, and placing a twisted cloth between his teeth.

Zion’s stomach twisted as the once smug, frightening man looked up at her with wide, pleading eyes.

“Better than your tongue.” Steve said gruffly, and began to wipe iodine over Ryler’s wound.

The man stiffened with a pained groan and Zion gently brushed his sweaty hair back. He was scorching from a fever.

“Get ready, it’s going to hurt.” Steve said coolly, and dug the forceps into the wound, trying to pull the bullet out of the rib it was lodged in.

Despite the cloth he was biting, Ryler wailed. Tears spilled down his face, which had gone white with pain.

“Sssshhh. I know.” Zion said, doing her best to comfort the assassin. She watched in horror as pus and viscous, dark blood began to run from the hole. Ryler sobbed, squirming against his restraints.

After what seemed like an eternity, Steve pulled back.

“Got it.” He said mildly, and dropped it into a jar, even as Ryler sank back into the bed with a pitiful whimper.

Zion gently stroked his cheek, murmuring reassurances as Steve cleaned his wound. Then, she gently removed the cloth, and untied his wrists, while Steve freed his ankles.

The assassin slumped to the mattress, his chest shuddering. Small squeaks escaped his lips, and Zion gently placed her hand on his burning forehead.

Jackson pressed weakly into the touch, too sick from the pain to care that he was showing such weakness.

“It’s over now. I’m so sorry.”

“We just saved his life!” The male voice objected.

“It was still painful for him!” Zion growled, turning her attention back the the assassin, who was still breathing raggedly.

It was going to be a long night.

[thenovelartist]

The Drunken Vow - Tears of Themis

Number 3 in the "Drunk Wedding" series, here's Marius.

Wow. The hammer smashing repeatedly into his head was a real pain.

Marius didn’t want to so much as move despite knowing he had to. It took him a hot minute to realize the reason he felt like he’d been hit by a truck was because he was hungover to high heaven and back. He cursed himself. Normally, he was far better at pacing himself so he doesn’t get trashed like this, and yet, here he was. Must have made a drinking exception last night for his graduation party.

When the bright idea lingered in his head that maybe he should go grab some aspirin, he took hold of it. Though, it did take him another minute to get up.

And when he did, he realized he wasn’t the only person in bed. His heart stopped.

What did he dooooo?

He didn’t want to look. He so did not want to look at the woman he brought home with him. What in the hell was he thinking?

Had he been thinking?

Probably not.

But still, he wouldn’t do that! At least, he thought he would never stoop that low. Besides he was in love with Rosa. He wouldn’t chose any other girl beside her.

Right?

With a groan, he fell back on his pillow, shutting his eyes and cursing himself for the second time this morning. He was a total piece of trash. Either that, or he was drunk enough to be swayed by some girl who took advantage of his inebriated state to get with him. There were a lot of those types of girls; another reason he tried to limit his drinks.

He rubbed his eyes, only to feel something metallic slide across his face. He barely registered it, but it was enough to make him look at his hands. When he caught sight of a ring on his left hand, he narrowed his eyes down at the unfamiliar band. He didn’t recall wearing any last night. So why…

Oh.

Oh…

Um… does the wedding ring go on the left hand? It was the left, right? Or was it the right?

He couldn’t think straight.

Steeling himself, he decided that he not only had to see just who was beside him in bed, but whether she was wearing a ring or not. Because if she was…

He didn’t want to think about it.

He turned his head, looking at the girl. Her back was to him; her nearly bare back, he realized. The covers had sunk down her shoulders to reveal the fact he could only see her in her underwear. Which started up a whole new round of blushing for Marius. How far did they go last night? Because for the life of him, he honestly could not remember.

After taking a breath, he forced himself up on his elbow so as to get a better look at the petite brunette beside him. As he pulled the sheet back up over her shoulders to preserve her modesty, he took a look at her face—

And dropped the sheet.

That was his beloved Rosa…

Oh, shhhh—

Frozen in place, his mind had come to a screeching halt. Rosa was in bed with him, they were both nearly naked, and yes, they both had rings. Plain gold bands, but there was no denying that they weren’t matching wedding rings.

Meaning they got married last night?

How could that have even happened? While Marius may have called it a graduation party, it was hardly anything of the sort: a couple of his college friends, their girlfriends, and Rosa, who he’d begged to come with him. They were all being responsible, right?

Right?

For the life of him he could not remember.

With a sigh, he rolled back onto his back and stared blankly up at the ceiling. Lifting up his hand, he stared at the ring, and a wave of disappointment hit him like a truck. He’d wanted this. He’d really wanted this, being married to Rosa. But not like this. He had been still trying to convince her to go out with him in the first place. Whether or not last night could be classified as their “first date” when it was really just a “fake date to dissuade any ribbing from his not-single friends” was still up for debate. He had been so close to asking her out for real, but just as he always did, he somehow chickened out and put up that too-flirty persona before cursing himself for it.

He let his hand drop, his arm now covering his face as he let loose a tired groan. Geez, he was an idiot.

“Marius?”

The sweet voice rang from beside him had him tensing up again. He lifted his arm from his head, squinting at the sudden reintroduction of light to his eyes as he looked over at Rosa who was now looking over at him with wide eyes.

He wanted to flirt, to do something, anything, to loosen the intense tension between them. But this was the one time he really couldn’t string anything together. He blamed it on the hangover. “Er… hi?”

Was she blushing? He was pretty sure she was blushing as she clutched the sheets against her chest and turned over to face him. “H-hey.”

Wow, this was so awkward. “Umm…” he started stupidly. “Uh… I think… did we get married last night?”

Rosa’s eyes could rival saucers with how wide they got. “What?”

This time, Marius forced a smile while he raised his left hand and pointed to the ring on it. “You’re in one, too.”

Her wide eyes shot down to her left hand. She blinked once. Twice.

“Holy cats, I’m Mrs. Von Hagen!”

…

Fifteen minutes later, they had gotten dressed and were now in the kitchen, staring at the marriage certificate Marius had found crumpled in the back of his discarded pants pocket. The smell of coffee that Rosa had started permeated the kitchen, and frankly, Marius was dying for a cup. Between the hangover and the headache from his drunk marriage, he really needed the caffeine. And maybe an aspirin.

Beside him, also staring at the offending document, Rosa was standing in clothes she’d stolen from his closet and somehow looked better in than he ever could. Marius, on the other hand, had barely enough wits about him to throw on a pair of comfortable pants and plain tee shirt.

“This… it’s legal, isn’t it?” Marius asked despite all ready knowing the answer.

She nodded. “Yeah. It means we’re legally married.”

Guilt wracked him even more. This wasn’t how he wanted to go about things. At the very least, he actually wanted to remember getting married. Best he could recall was his graduation party had gotten very out of hand and he’d allowed himself far too many drinks. Rosa then recalled leaving with him in a taxi, and she was pretty sure she remembered kissing him—which had sent Marius into a blushing panic because why couldn’t he remember THAT sweet memory?—but that was the extent of it. What had happened after that was something neither Rosa nor Marius could recall.

“I’m shocked at you.”

Marius glanced over to the girl giving him a confused look. “What?”

“You haven’t cracked one inappropriate joke yet.”

Though stunned for a second, he let out a self-depreciating chuckle before shooting her a forced smile. “Sorry, Miss Attorney. Or should I say Mrs. Attorney. Guess the shock of being married to you has really gotten to my head.”

“There we go,” she said with a wink.

She was going to kill him, but he would at least go down smiling albeit hopelessly embarrassed. “I’m more concerned for what we’re going to do about… this.” He pushed the paper over to her.

She giggled as she straightened the paper out in front of her. “I’m surprised you didn’t even suggest ‘hey, let’s just stay married’.”

He huffed, running a hand through is messy hair. “Like you’d go for that.”

“I totally would.”

He froze. Wait… what?

Looking over at Rosa, who was smiling at him with a feisty twinkle in her eye that he loved more than anything, Marius’ heart began to beat wildly. “You serious?”

“What do you think?”

He thought that if she was serious, he would die of happiness. He’d been trying to figure out how to best ask her out, seeing as all his previous attempts had been thwarted. There may or may not have been a painting he’d been working on as a gift to present to her that may or may not have just been an excuse to avoid figuring out just how to sincerely ask her out. Because he really didn’t want to mess it up.

But now… Now it felt like all that work flew straight out the window because…

“Earth to Marius.”

He blinked a couple times. “Huh?”

“I asked you a question.”

He gaped like a fish as his mind scrambled back to what she’d asked. “Do… you mean it?”

She grinned. “Geez, normally you’re the one who’s all cocky, but look at you now. Apparently, I just have to suggest I might want to stay married to—whaaa!!”

He didn’t let her finish. He swooped her up and set her back on the kitchen counter, trapping her in with his arms. “No, really. Do you mean it?”

“Do I mean what?” she asked, clearly a little dazed at their position.

But he didn’t really care, for once. Instead, he was inwardly freaking out over the possibility that she actually did care for him as much as he did her. “That you’d want to stay married?”

She blinked up at him a couple times before a smile crossed her face. “I do.”

That was all he needed to hear. In a second, he wrapped her up in a hug, garnering a squeak from her as he pushed her back and pinned her fully against the kitchen counter. “You really mean it?” he asked again, desperate to make sure. Because if she really did, he was never going to let her go.

His racing heart somehow settled when she wrapped her arms over his shoulders. “Yeah,” she said, voice sweeter than any dessert he’d ever eaten in his life. “I do. I mean, I didn’t think it would go like this, but—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he cut in, squeezing her tighter. “That’s all I needed to know.”

She giggled, saying nothing and just holding him tighter.

“Wait!” he realized, his foggy mind making it extremely difficult to string his thoughts together. “This means I can kiss you now!”

She blinked up at him before bursting into laughter. “Yes, it does, Mr. Von Ha—mphfff!”

He didn’t give her a chance to finish. He wanted to kiss her, and seeing as she was his wife—his wife!—now, he could do that.

This was really exciting. So exciting that not even the beep of the coffee machine announcing the coffee was finished could pull him away. He had a better drug now than caffeine, anyway.

She pulled away first, and he pouted at the loss.

“Much as I’d love to continue,” she said. “Can it be somewhere more comfortable than the granite countertop?”

Oh… “Sorry,” he said, a bit of guilt slipping in as he picked her up and set her back down on the floor. Or, tried to, anyway. She seemed more than happy to wrap her legs around his waist and cling to him for dear life.

“This is okay,” she murmured into his shoulder.

Yes, he thought, happily tightening his hold on her as he made his way to the couch. Yes, it was.

…

By noon, Marius was freaking out again. For totally valid reasons, he believed, so he really hoped Rosa would stop laughing at him.

“I’m serious!” he cried, pouting. “Do you want a real wedding or not?”

“Marius, calm down, will you? You just spent the last ten minutes obsessing over getting me a new ring—”

“Because you deserve it! I don’t even remember buying you that one, and I didn’t even get you an engagement ring, so can’t I do that?”

“I’ll let you, but not today,” she said, grabbing his phone from him.

“Hey!”

“Mr. Von Hagan,” she said, shooting him a stern look. “As your wife, it is my job to—”

“Wait! You’re my wife now!”

She leveled him with a tired look.

“Do you want to take my last name! Because then we have to get the paperwork for that. And we’ll also have to turn in the certificate, right? And wait a minute! You’ll have to move in! We’ll have to get movers and pack all your stuff and—”

“Marius!”

She slammed her hands down on the armrests of the chair he was sitting in, glaring at him with a look he knew full well meant “stop it.” “Calm down,” she said. “One step at a time, right? You don’t have to fix everything now, okay?”

He wasn’t convinced.

She sighed, hanging her head in exhaustion. “Ugh, I liked it better when you were annoyingly flirty,” she grumbled. When she lifted her head, her stern expression had faded into something softer. “Can’t we just enjoy today and figure things out as we go?”

He supposed they could, but he also didn’t want things to take forever. If she was going to be his wife, he wanted her here with him. Furthermore, he wanted everyone to know she was his…

Wait.

He shot into a panic for the umpteenth time that morning. “The media! I’ll have to call Vincent right now and tell him to pressure the news to tamp this down!”

“Unless they caught wind of it already,” Rosa grumbled.

But clearly she hadn’t even been aware of what came out of her own mouth because it took both of them approximately ten seconds to realize just what had been said.

And how likely it was.

With a new weight on his shoulders, Marius sank back into his chair with a groan. His first day of being married, and he couldn’t even enjoy it.

[thisisthehardestthing]

тоска, Tanaka x Reader, 18+

Written for The Smut Pile Server Collab: Mafia AU | MASTERLIST HERE.

тоска tus-ka: Russian, noun It is a dull ache of the soul, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases, it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, lovesickness.

Russian Mafia AU: Tanaka Ryu x A Reader OC Rating: E for explicit Warnings: Violence, Blood, Death, Oral sex, Public Sex, Grinding, Cheating, Denied Orgasm, Manipulation, YEARNING Word count: 11,752 Part 1 | Part 2

GLOSSARY

This is my baby. I have spent so much time writing this. I won’t give too big of an intro. Please enjoy.

Special thanks to: @joyousandverywarlike​​​ for being my ride-or-die beta,  @pleasantanathema​​​ , @present-mel​​​​ and @linestrider​​​ for hosting this collab, and everyone in the server for being amazing friends. I would not have been able to write this without any of you, and I truly mean that.

1.2

Part 1 - Valentina

The room is all rich browns and leather, an oiled hardwood floor, mahogany furniture and taxidermied bears. Against the wall, watching over everything with a bored expression is Daichi "The Bulldog" Sawamurov, Mafia Boss of the Bashkortoskaya. His brown eyes inspect his nails as another grunt echoes in the room. Beside him, you, Valentina Sawamurova, stand tall, a well-manicured hand hooked onto his bicep. In a neat line with arms clasped behind their backs stand six bratji, 'brothers', the hitmen of the Security team. They all watch as a shaved-haired man beats the shit out of a pariah.

Tanaka "Khazak" Ryunoslav wipes his tattooed knuckles, alternating X and O’s, onto a white handkerchief pulled from his neatly pressed slacks, staining the fabric red with blood. It is not his. In a simple chair at the centre of the room, a man -no, he doesn't deserve to be called a man- a boy slumps forward. His head hangs low as blood seeps from his brow, nose, mouth. A tooth lays in his drenched lap. Shivers run down Tanaka's spine as he takes in the defeated form of one of his boyevika.

"Huh? Nothing to say for yourself, predatel?" he questions, bruised knuckles tugging the fallen head of his ex-comrade up to peer into their eyes, almost swollen shut.

"I did not betray the Bratva, I swear on my babu-" 

"You only swear on God and the Pakhan, traitor." Tanaka interrupts, releasing his grip so that the boy’s head falls back down in a large swing before lifting up with a painful groan. The Bulldog sighs, checks the time on a glinting gold Rolex. Your fingers slip from the bulging bicep to cross in front of your chest. He nods to you, keep watching, and you smile back, wide, catty, red lipstick violent against white teeth.

"Tanaka, enough. Finish him and dispose of the body. I am tired of his crying. Like a baby. Ha!"

"Da, Boss."

"Make sure his friends are sent a message, also."

"Of course."

Tanaka doesn't take his eyes off the trembling informant but acknowledges the Boss's departure with a casual wave. Most people wouldn't have the audacity to be so lax to the Head, but he isn't just anyone. He's the most trusted. More than you.

"Nyet, nyet, nyet, nyet!" the rat cries, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and splashing onto the floor as he struggles against the bonds. Filthy. Fuck, how Tanaka loves it. He holds his hand out and a more competent, loyal, brat hands him a gun. His fingers curl around the weighted metal of the handle with a sigh, cocking it, and without hesitation, pulls the trigger.

.

.

.

There are only a few seconds of silence after the bang, just enough for Tanaka to relish in the feeling of complete calm after the storm. The hole between the eyes spits blood onto his crisp white shirt, before the lifeless body is untied by his boyevika in the room and dragged out to be 'made an example of'. One by one, the men clean up. A mop, bleach, breaking down the chair for firewood later. No loose ends, including The Khazak's shirt as he unbuttons it to be burnt with the chair. All the while, you watch from the sidelines, against the wall, as the wife of the Boss should.

Your toes tap rhythmically against the floor, the clackclackclack of your stilettoes a steady beat for the men to work to, but your eyes are on Tanaka's back. So muscular, so supple, still shivering from the endorphins of taking a life. The twin pistols tattooed on either shoulder blade seem armed, willing to fire again. 

You watch as he drops down fluidly with crossed legs to sit on the floor in the very spot he killed the predatel with no remorse, taking deep lungfuls of air to relish in the feeling. He can feel your eyes on him, a smile threatening to spread across his lips as he turns his head over his shoulder to peer at your scrutinising gaze -which is very careful not to let your lust show. But he knows it's there. He can taste it on his heavy tongue.

One by one, the men walk from the room, leaving only the two of you in your husband's office. The oak door shuts.

"Tell me, Gadyuka, how was I?" Tanaka enquires, eyes closed and head straight so that you can see the back of his scalp move as he speaks. The shorn hair shimmies and waves with his words, washing over you in the vast expanse of the room. Your pseudonym, 'viper', poison in your veins.

"Same as always: bloody," you hum, pushing off the wall and walking in front of him to lean against the broad desk. "You enjoy making a mess, don't you, Ryu?" you use your nickname for him, not his name, or his pseudonym, but something more intimate. He barks out a laugh, chest shaking as he examines the backs of his knuckles with gleaming eyes.

"Blyat, you know damn well that I do."

Like a gunshot has just echoed once again, the silence in the room is deafening. Your gazes lock, his ocean-grey ones with your cat-like stare. From his position on the floor, he looks up at you. Your stocking-clad legs are inviting his hands to stroke up them, and he's lucky enough to see the hint of the garter strap under your short skirt. He licks his lips. You tap the desk behind you impatiently, nails clacking against the glossy hardwood.

"My husband is going away on business in a week."

"I know, I arranged security."

"You're not going with him?" you ask, eyebrow quirking, no longer tapping the table. Tanaka shakes his head, a coy smile pulling at the corner of his lips, dried blood cracking on his sharp jaw.

"Then where will you be, Khazak?"

The grin almost splits his face in half with his reply, "in your bed, Gadyuka."

His bluntness never fails to shock you, to send heat pooling between your thighs and your heart spasming beneath your ribs. You almost want to have him right there, on top of the ledgers and documents of the many businesses Daichi is in charge of. Tanaka places his strong hands on the floor, easily dragging his body to your feet where he sits once more, staring up with eyes cloudy like the spray of a hurricane. A palm wraps behind your right leg to pull it close to his lips, kissing the lycra, the apex of your kneecap. His touch ripples through your skin so that your chin tilts up, breaking the gravity of his eye contact.

"Careful, Ryunoslav, not here."

His teeth nip at the fabric.

"I can not wait a week to taste you, Val."

"The cameras-"

"Are off because of the interrogation. Only I have the code to enable them for this room."

Calloused palms drag up the backs of your thighs, the stocking tugging slightly as it catches, until they pass the band where they wrap around your thighs, secured with a garter. You almost beg him to feel higher, to grab the fold of your ass, instead, you bite your lip between your teeth in thought.

"Then we must be quick, get under the desk." 

You don't tell him how unusual it would be if you were found to sit in your husband's chair, but with lust swimming from your thighs to drown your mind, it's not important. 

Tanaka is always rowdier after a kill, high off adrenaline, energy flowing in his veins that wants to devour everything in its path. He prefers to devour you. To savour your taste with his head between your supple thighs, to feel you come undone around his quick-witted tongue. With you balancing so precariously on the edge of the leather office chair, he can barely contain his onslaught of touch, desperate to hear you moan in the sound-proofed room. He's tucked so tightly between your knees, his broad yet lean shoulders spreading you so that he sees the dampened lace beneath your skirt.

It never takes much to arouse you. He likes to think it's only him that can pull forth your wetness from your folds like the moon coaxing the tides. He doesn't waste time, doesn't stop to watch the string of slick connecting the fabric to your cunt as his thumbs pull it to the side. He licks a long stripe up your slit and moans into the taste like a man starved. It's times like these when you wish he had hair for you to grab on to, so you settle on gripping the edge of the mahogany desk until your knuckles pale and forearms burn.

His tongue dances between your folds, lapping up each new wave of wetness that touches the shore of the muscle, only nudging the bundle of nerves at the top with a slight jostle.

"Don't tease me, Ryu, not in here," you breathe out at him between his licks, to which he chuckles, head turning to muffle the laughter against your inner thigh.

"Prosti," he apologises, the grey in his eyes glimmering with childish glee, "I can't help it sometimes." 

But he doesn't give you a chance to reply before his lips attach once more to your throbbing skin, wrapping around your swollen clit to suck greedily. Finally, he hears you moan, the sound kissing his sensitive ears like cool ocean spray. It's not loud, more constricted, but it's for him, because of him.

You feel how he sucks you into him, swallowing your heat and lust and desire with his mouth, having it all flow back into your body to stir at the whirlpool between your legs and behind your eyelids. It's torrential, dizzying, you're dragged beneath the waves, chest heaving as if you're drowning, 

but then it stops 

and the sea dies down, leaving your battered body behind.

Tanaka pulls away, silently. His palms close your legs, knees knocking together, his thumbs teasing circles against the bone. You're aching from your denied orgasm, the pained moan in your throat cutting off as a knock sounds in the room.

"Come in," you clear your throat, repeating the command.

One of Daichi's body guard's strides into the room, a look of shock on his face at your seat before he masks it quickly. His long brown hair is tied up neatly into a bun, a slight stubble on his chin tells you he hasn't slept properly in a few days. You can feel the heat radiating from your cheeks, feel the static in your hair that you smooth down. Tanaka keeps tracing shapes into your thighs, keeping the fire in your gut from extinguishing.

"Yes?" you thank Saint Mary that your voice doesn't tremble, "what is it?"

"Mrs. Sawamurova," he nods a greeting, "The Boss says he will take you out for dinner tonight and has sent me to escort you back to the main estate in preparations."

"Of course, I look forward to it."

You kick away Tanaka's hands, standing at the same time to walk around the table and follow the guard you know as Alexei Asahi from your husband's office. It means leaving The Khazak under the desk, along with a piece of your dignity.

***

Dinner is the kind with clinking glasses and soft chatter. The lighting is dim, intimate, with a soft glow that bounces off the crystal and silverware. As usual, the two of you are seated in the middle of the restaurant, the surrounding tables strategically blocking the view of you and Daichi from all the windows and doors, as well as the bodies seated in them. You can never be too careful, even if your husband owns the restaurant -or the entire town. To your left, behind Daichi and closest to the door, sits Tanaka.

"You look beautiful tonight, darling," Daichi says, taking a bite of his steak.

You do. The black silk dress lays flat against your chest, the deep v tailored perfectly. The tie behind your neck falls softly to your waist. Against your skin is a gold pendant, a coin pressed with the Sawamarov crest. Sleeveless and backless, the dress shows your beautiful viper tattoo curling down your right arm as though protecting you. It’s jaw opens near your wrist to bite anyone you may touch. You hold your glass of wine, swirling it before you sip.

"Thank you, my love. You bought me this dress for our first date."

"And that engagement ring on our second."

You swallow down your guilt, thighs clenching together, the silk fabric teasingly softly against your still-ignited skin. You give him a pointed stare, leaning forward ever so slightly to whisper over the table.

"I wouldn't call that a second date. We never left each other after the first."

Daichi laughs heartily, waves for another bottle of wine, eyes shining with the memory of the very active week in a skiing lodge. He hopes he can recreate some of it tonight, knowing he's been neglecting you, ignoring your needs. He glances down at the subtle curve of the fabric around your slight breast, the hint of the peony tattoo peeking under the edge of your neckline, low on your sternum; it’s the only delicate thing about you.

Daichi watches as you excuse yourself to use the restroom, the way your hips sway beneath the silk as though you have a secret. He frowns when the door closes, checking his watch for the time and pouring a shot of vodka to swallow down. You do have a secret. The waiter takes away the plates, bringing a simple dessert to share with the wine, and when you sit back down with a happy sigh, The Bulldog tries to sniff it out. He taps the table with two fingers and the nearest bodyguards turn slightly away to give you both privacy.

“I was told you were seated at my desk.”

A bite of mousse passes between your red lips with a small smile, eyes penetrating his gaze and not faltering. 

“Can a wife not sit in her husband’s chair?”

“Nyet, you know this. Why?”

“Calm down, my love.”

He fixes his cuff links, leaning back in his chair so that the gold chain around his neck glints in the light. His strong brow shadows his darkening eyes, lips pressing into a thin line, and, true to his nickname, it seems as though his muscles inflate. It makes you melt to see him hard, pectorals and biceps wanting to burst through the fabric of his Armani shirt. The spoon clinks against the plate and you reach across the table, viper stretching to grab his hand and bring it to your lips with a soft kiss, red lipstick on his jewelled knuckles. As much as you want to flicker your gaze to the man behind your husband, you hold firm.

“It’s embarrassing, but I’ll tell you. Come closer so I can whisper,” you usher him in, and Daichi grunts but follows your suggestion. He has no reason to doubt you, yet his gut is telling him you were doing more than just resting your heeled feet. He watches your pink tongue lick your bottom lip, teeth cracking between them with a coy smile.

“As you know, it has been quite some time since we’ve, how should I put this, made love.”

“I know.”

“Had I known we were going to dine tonight, fuck tonight, I would not have.”

“Your point, Gadyuka.”

Your whisper turns into a low hum, right hand squeezing his and your left hand toying with the coin pendant around your neck. Butterflies swirl in your gut, but you kill them swiftly with venom. He can sniff out any insecurity.

“I was masturbating.”

“What?”

“I was masturbating. Touching myself. In your chair, by your desk, thinking of you. I was almost finished but then Alexei had knocked on the door and stopped it.”

The look on Daichi’s face can only be described as speechless, which he is not often. His mouth opens, eyes stormy as he pictures your flushed face. He remembers that glassy look your eyes adopt when you're close, far away in bliss. Your delicate palm touches his clean-shaven cheek, drawing his attention back to the restaurant, to you.

“How about we go home and finish what I started, huh?”

Daichi didn’t need to be told twice. Standing fluidly, everyone around him follows his movement. Your fur coat is draped over your shoulders, thick and warm, a crisp white. His hand is on the small of your back, leading you out of the restaurant with the haste of a man collecting a prize. The air is cold, snow shovelled aside as you climb into the car to feel heated lips pressing to your neck instantly. You laugh, locking your wrists behind his neck to capture his mouth with your own. Men are so easily convinced.

Part 2 - Tanaka

The frame rattles as Tanaka slams the door closed behind him. He tracks melting sludge onto the thin, rust-coloured welcome mat, the tip of his nose red with more than the kiss from the windchill. The heater of the cabin is turned on, the warmth a welcome refuge from the thick snow outside as he shrugs off his coat.

Tanaka doesn’t hide his thoughts and feelings. He’s the kind of guy that wears them on his sleeve, bares it all out there for everyone to see. When he’s angry, you can see the tips of his ears burn. When he’s thrilled, that shark-tooth grin spreads so wide across his face, his eyes close. And when he’s murderous, nothing and no one can stand in his way.

“Cyka blyat!” he shouts, punching the wall of his residence, missing the mirror by mere centimetres, his already bruised knuckles stinging with his rage. A slew of curse words tumbles from his lips, both from searing pain and soaring anger. The eyes on the back of his hands stare at him, judging.

Seeing Valentina out at dinner, looking so delectable, so sinful, Ryunoslav felt ravenous for just a taste of her skin. It was bad enough that he never got to feel her convulse on his tongue earlier, he had to watch her flirt with her husband. He knows the deal, that nothing can ever really happen between the two of them outside of sex, and if they were both to get caught, it would be his end. He understands, yet he can’t help his rising natural anger. The buzzing in his pants pocket pulls him from his internal struggle, and he relaxes his hands, feeling the half-moon indents in his palms hiss in relief.

“Da?" a pause, "I’m on my way.”

Daichi wants to see him; did they finish their ‘love-making’ so quickly? Tanaka catches his reflection in the mirror, massaging the centre of his furrowed brows to try dissipate some of his frustrations before grabbing his thick coat and making the five-minute trek to the main estate. He’s frozen to the bone by the time he arrives at the large mahogany doors, but his anger keeps his blood warm. He needs to be careful, to calm down.

***

The Boss is waiting for Tanaka in his oversized office, the door open ajar, letting a soft yellow light stream into the hallway. This one is different from where the interrogation took place that afternoon, yet it is decorated almost identically. A shiver runs down Ryunoslav’s neck as he remembers Valentina’s sumptuous taste, the supple skin of her thighs brushing against his jaw and the way her lips sighed his name. Fuck, he takes a deep breath, pacifying his licentious thoughts before rapping on the door with his knuckles. Daichi’s deep voice tells him to enter.

He sits there, behind the desk, the white shirt he wore to dinner wrinkled, half unbuttoned to show a burly chest. A gold chain with a coin and two wedding bands glints from the curled chest hair.

“Vodka?” Daichi asks, doe brown eyes glancing up, already pouring both him and his head of security a shot of the clear liquid.

“Spasiba,” Tanaka’s voice is a grumble, deep in his chest as he tries to warm his body but cool his temper.

The Bulldog leans back. They toast, downing the drink with a casual swallow. As per usual, Tanaka automatically refills the next round for the both of them, but it remains untouched. Instead, Daichi opens a ledger, fingers curling up the pages as he flips through the numbers and accounts.

“Sergei has told me we were underpaid last month.”

“Mm, I will talk with Yuuri to find out who.”

“Make sure you show them the repercussions.”

“Always.”

Tanaka cracks his knuckles, excited to teach yet another lesson in punctuality. Daichi eyes his most trusted brother, the way that cocky smirk appears at the thought of fists colliding with skin, but there’s something else underneath.

“Khazak, you’re angry,” Daichi concludes, reaching across the table for the vodka, motioning Ryunoslav to sit down across from him. The shorn-haired man shrugs, slinking into the leather seat, removing his black beenie to run his hand through the trimmed hair. He can’t lie to the Boss, but he can’t tell him the truth either.

“I am… frustrated.”

The pair cheers, the glasses clinking before thudding onto the leather ingrained into the top of the desk.

“Why?”

"Ha! Please, I do not know, Boss.”

Daichi lets out a hum, shifting forward in his chair so that the wheels creak beneath his weight.

“I think I know.”

Tanaka stays silent, keeping his stare level and curious with the Bulldog’s.

“You need a woman!” Daichi barks out, smacking the desk with a flat palm, laughing deeply so that it echoes in the quiet room and probably through the manor. Tanaka can’t help but join in with the infectious laughter, the vodka soothing his nerves, relaxing the tension in his jaw.

“You’re right. It’s been too long,” since I fucked your wife.

They pour another shot, the buzz of the first two beginning to hum pleasantly through their bodies.

“Next week I go to Georgia to see the business there. While I’m gone, bring a whore to your bed. You have my permission.”

“Thank you, Boss.” Tanaka says, his cock twitching at the thought of Valentina in his residence. She’s never been there longer than a few minutes, and never without Daichi in the ten years Ryunoslav has been working for the Sawamurov family, and the two he’s been fucking her. He can't help but fantasize about it.

They catch up in light-hearted talk, about the state of Russia and the business, that they don’t see her peer around the corner of the heavy door, black silk nightgown wrapped loosely around her frame to show the lace of lingerie beneath.

“Daichi, are you coming to bed?” Tanaka hears her say, Valentina’s voice caressing his sensitive ears, but it’s not for him. He turns around, both men shocked into sobriety when they see her leaning against the now open door. 

“Ah yes! Sorry, my love! We lost track of time.” Daichi says, pushing up from his seat. Tanaka swallows, watches as her gaze floats from her husband’s to his own. He can see the pale blue of new bruises around the column of her throat, where Daichi probably sucked into the skin. Tanaka can’t help his smirk. She always did like it rough, and it means he can leave his own over those later.

“Khazak,” she greets with a curt nod, fixing the dropped shoulder of the gown to make herself more modest. “Don’t keep him too late, okay?”

“Mrs. Sawamurova, as you wish.”

Daichi chuckles from behind the desk, walking around to clap Tanaka on the shoulder.

“I may be the Pakhan, but Gadyuka here always has the last say, huh? Good night, Ryunoslav. Don’t forget to talk to Yuuri. And don’t forget what I said you can do.”

“Da, spakoyne noche, Boss.”

With a two-finger wave, Daichi walks out of the room, his hand travelling to the small of Valentina’s back as he leads her back to the bedroom. Tanaka takes one final shot, pulling his hat low over his ears as he prepares to walk back to his house.

***

“He said what?” Nishinoya Yuuri exclaims, cackling inside Tanaka’s small living room. His shorter counterpart smacks the armrest of the chair, the sound against the leather cracking like a whip.

“I can entertain a whore this weekend.”

Yuuri can’t believe his ears, face red with laughter, the file of the business owner coming up with short change forgotten on his lap. His bleached bangs hang in his eyes and he pushes it up, wiping tears with a deep breath. 

Together, Ryunoslav and Yuuri make up the Elite Group within the Bashkortoskaya, Daichi’s most trusted men. Each one runs their own Brigade: Nishinoya the Support Group and, by default, oversees the entire Workforce, while Tanaka is head of Security and keeps everything running smoothly.

The Khazak’s sharp jaw pulses, cheeks red to resemble a heart as it beats in humility. He clenches and unclenches his jaw.

“In the years I’ve known you, you’ve never had a prostitute.”

"I've never needed one," Tanaka shrugs, stealing the manila folder to flip through the details. Simple enough. His men were already bringing the tinted black SUVs around for them to make a ‘house call’ to Ukai Keishin. He shrugs on his thick coat, the kind that’s easy to clean, and black leather gloves onto his hands, slipping knuckle dusters into his pocket. Just in case. He doubts he’ll need them. He waves Yuuri a goodbye as he hears the tyres crunch over the sleet of snow.

“Remember to pick up condoms while you’re out!” He hears his brother call out to him as the door closes and ice invades each inhale.

Tanaka grumbles under his breath, fiddling with the direction of the hot air coming through the car’s vents. Just what he needs is word getting around that he would be fucking someone while the Boss is gone. These kinds of things never stay quiet, and he knows it will reach Valentina’s ears within the day. He shivers to think how she will lash out at him if he actually invites one of Daichi’s prostitutes back to his bed. The girls at those establishments can’t even hold a candle to her beauty or skill.

Prostitution is a lucrative business and one of the main sources of income, other than drug smuggling and the many (legal and illegal) casinos and tech companies owned by the Sawamurov’s. Ukai's particular business—and why The Boss is so invested in it—is a front for a prostitution call-centre. According to performance, they should've made a profit for the month past. Usually, Tanaka wouldn't make an appearance personally, delegating the task to his experienced team members, who might even give the order to the security brigades that they run. However, he is glad to get out of the estate grounds and think of something other than Val’s voluptuous lips and the swell of her breasts from beneath that black lingerie last night.

***

The Sawamurov's reach controlled all of Bashkortostan, a republic within Russia nestled between the picturesque Ural mountain range and the Volga river. Tanaka watches as the trees surrounding the estate give way to highway and grassland before the small town of Belebey comes into view. It's all Daichi's, and in turn, all Val’s.

The town is quiet, the late morning sky a dark grey with clouds that make the winter more formidable. Tanaka wouldn't have it any other way. They pull up to the slightly rundown storefront, graffiti against the wall with crude swear words act as a greeting. He snorts, watching as the glossy black SUV's reflect in the windows as though looking into a parallel world. Inside he can see movement, a tall man in a white apron walking around the counter to open the door. Confident. 

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Ukai shouts out, arms crossed over his chest to protect his fingers from the stinging cold. Tanaka doesn't answer, tucking his chin into his scarf as he observes the man. He's older, bleached blonde with honey eyes that seem more solid, hardened. On his forearms are scars, his flannel shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal a tattoo of a web with a downwards facing spider: recovered drug addict.

"We've come to collect," one of the lackeys says in his boss's place.

Ukai steps aside to let them in, sighing deeply, flicking a cigarette to the moist ground, and leading them to a back room where there's a round table with a few wooden chairs. Papers litter the room, boxes of unpacked stock are piled in a corner. The place is a shithole.

"Can I get you anything? Vodka, cigarette?"

"Sit, Ukai." Tanaka speaks, gesturing to the nearest chair, unbuttoning his coat to drop it onto the table, his beanie and scarf piling on top of it. "We're here for business."

Ukai collapses down, slouching casually as he stares at the leader of the men. Ryunoslav drags a chair in front of the debtor, spinning it on a single leg so that he leans against the backrest as he sits with his legs spread out on either side. A sliver of gold chain catches the fluorescent lighting under his simple suit shirt, matching the multiple piercings in Ukai's right ear.

"You did not pay the full amount of February."

"Correct."

"Why?"

"I couldn't."

The man's blunt lie is shocking to Tanaka, refreshing from the usual quivering imbeciles, and he feels the need to suppress a smile that threatens to reveal itself. Instead, he keeps his tone cynical.

"Was the month not profitable, Ukai? Men get lonely in February, their beds cold."

Ukai shrugs, smoothing out the wrinkles in his apron, eyeing the handsome shaved hair man with intrigue. Tanaka feels a ripple down his spine. "For the whores? Yes, it was profitable. But my business was not."

"So you used the money for the Bashkortoskaya to save your ass from bills?" Tanaka begins to laugh, his wide mouth swallowing the sky as his chin tilts up. He stares straight at the man once more, "you should've paid us first."

"Ah, but then I wouldn't have had the pleasure of your visit. I am touched an Avtoritet will come to see me personally. You are better looking than I thought you would be, younger."

Tanaka raises an eyebrow at the flirtatious comment, a very open individual. He sees some of his subordinates shift uncomfortably in his peripheral, unsure of how to proceed. He drums his fingers on the back of the chair, the beat steady like his heart.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, I'm not one of your kind."

"And what kind is that?"

"Gay."

Ukai chuckles, pulling a packet of cigarettes from his apron pocket, offering one to Ryunoslav who instead takes the full box, holding it up for someone to confiscate. He stands, walking to inspect the stacked boxes around the room. Ukai swallows; he knows not to push his luck too far.

"Are you going to kill me if I don't pay?"

"Hm, nyet, not yet. Are these fresh?" Tanaka holds up a dozen eggs, the green carton sickly. He doesn't wait for the reply, tearing it open and tossing one to the ground with a resounding crunch, the yolk bleeding into the tile grates.

"Listen, Ukai," splat, "you will pay the balance," splat, "by the end of this week," Tanaka walks closer with each drop of the egg until he's next to the grocery store owner. Ukai sits upright, a cool gaze on Tanaka's tattooed hands as they stroke the shell of the brown eggs. The crosses and circles are targets, his hands the weapons.  

"Or your head, will look like these eggs." Tanaka drops the entire carton on the ground, the bright yellow spilling out and pooling beneath Tanaka's black boots. "Vy ponimayete?"

"Da, understood."

"Good. I hope I will not need to see you again."

On his way out of the store, Tanaka picks up a box of condoms from the aisle.

Part 3 - Valentina

Friday cannot come fast enough... so that you can throttle your lover. 

The double-pane french doors to the balcony shine with frost, the sky beyond dark and unforgiving, much like the irritation boiling inside you. It’s the last night; Daichi leaves on the first flight to Georgia tomorrow morning to meet with the Vashadze, your father and owners of half the Casinos under your combined empire. Your marriage three years ago was the biggest news since the raid on the Uhaluba club in Prague, 1995. Together, your families control prositution, drug smuggling, money laundering, the list goes on. Behind the scenes, of course. 

Up front, Daichi is a wealthy investor of tech: Facebook, Tesla, oil companies in the Middle East and Serbia, whereas your father is a top Politician and Minister in Georgia, maintaining his position with dirt he’s collected on those with darker tastes and kinks in the underworld.

“Supply snakes with a meal, and you’ll have them all by the fangs,” your father regularly told you over dinners since you were thirteen, when he began to show you the truth behind his wealth, once your mother passed away.

It’s how you got your nickname. It was the first thing you said to Daichi, before he took you out, before he became The Boss . You were eighteen when you laid eyes upon that hulking mass of muscle. He asked how you could be so beautiful, and you parroted your father’s words. He knew from that moment on that you were dangerous, poisonous, and he had to have you.

When you were twenty-one, you met Daichi again, this time in an underground gambling soiree. You were the host, of course. The felt green betting mats stood out in stark contrast against the white dress code and the dark wooden tables. You wore black. Translucent red dice swirled between your fingers expertly before you rolled snake eyes.

“Bad luck,” Daichi commented over your shoulder, spiced wood and tobacco tickling your nose. You sipped a vodka martini with a twist. There was always a twist with you.

“It’ll be fine, I own the club,” you shrugged, cashing out with the chips you owed and strolling back to the bar where another drink awaited you. Even now, you could remember Tanaka Ryunoslav hovering behind Daichi, drinking in the sight of your curves, the red of your lipstick and the wit of your tongue. A lot less subtle then than now. 

If you closed your eyes, you could very easily conjure the tapping of his heels, the eager look in the Young Khazak’s eyes at being surrounded by some of the most powerful men in Eastern Europe. You could even taste the vodka on his tongue that you sucked down your throat in a supply room all those years ago.

Back then, that bout of casual sex meant nothing. You married Daichi four years later, when your paths crossed once more at twenty-five, the turf wars between neighbouring families becoming too much to bear for Eastern Europe. You were lucky Daichi was--is so exceedingly handsome. Interesting. Smart. Powerful. However, so is your father. And you never wanted to marry your father.

“Darling?” Daichi’s voice calls you out of your pacing when he walks into the room, the silk of your dressing gown swooping around your feet as you stand still. “Everything alright?”

“Da, sorry, you know I get nervous when you fly,” you lie quickly, easily, turning your back on him to close the curtain and shut out the irritation of outside, the faint golden glow of Tanaka’s cabin sealed away. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Mm, yes, I know. Relax a little. When I am back we have that gala. Is your dress finished?”

You give him a pointed glance, turning down the bedsheets and unravelling the delicate bow of the robe to climb under the covers with bare skin.

“Weeks ago, Daichi. You were at the final fitting.”

He nods as if he remembers, but you know his mind is elsewhere, much like your body would rather be.

“Are you coming to bed early tonight?”

For several days, weeks, months, Daichi has been sneaking into your bed too late in the evening. Or early in the morning. The business is doing fine, there’s no cause for him to spend some nights not even at home. Some part of you--a small, small part--misses his thick muscles wrapped around your body.

“Later, there is something I have to do first.”

You merely hum, settling yourself down and dimming the lamp beside the bed until the room bathes in a soft glow. With your eyes closed, you don’t see him leave, the door clicking shut. Instead, you picture red, your empty bed, and across the snow, a cocky smile letting a too thin, sallow-skinned blank face past their threshold. He will have to have a hooker, Daichi will ask him all about it. Motherfucker. You turn the light off.

***

The Bulldog kisses your forehead when he wakes, sleeping behind you for a total of an hour. You’d woken up slightly when he clambered into the bed, smelling freshly of his cologne from a recent shower, at three in the morning.

“I’ll be back soon,” he whispers into your ear, not staying to hear your ‘be safe’ in response, still mumbling from a fitful night’s sleep. 

However, you don’t drift off again, eyes suddenly open and staring into your nightstand where a cool glass of water rests. It’s still, silent and calm. You turn over to the right, seeing the empty space where Daichi’s body barely left a mark, his lamp still buzzing. It isn’t until you hear cars pull away in the driveway that you sit up, wiping the remnants of sleep delicately from your eyes to sigh. It’s going to be a long day.

Dumdumdum, three quick taps echo in the quiet, the door creaking open as a curious head peeks around the side. Ryunoslav smiles when he sees you perched in bed. His eyes drift from your face, down your neck and to your breasts, the skin pricking up under his sharp gaze. You could strike a match and it would erupt into flames.

“What are you doing here, Ryu?” you ask. It comes out more accusatory than you would’ve liked but he just grins, teeth ready to bite any jab you throw.

“I told you I’d come, didn’t I?”

For a raucous man, Tanaka moves stealthily across your floor, kicking off his boots before planting two large hands onto the edge of the mattress. You can feel it dip with his weight as he crawls, veiny forearms caging in your legs, trapping you. He sways side to side, spine rolling like a panther about to pounce. You kick his left hand out so he falls, crashing and rolling to the spot where Daichi laid with a laugh, peering up at you with fervent energy.

“His bed isn’t even cold yet.”

“Ha! He barely slept here, Val.”

“And you will?” Skepticism laces your words, the irritation of last night seeping into your thoughts once more. His smile finally drops.

“Nyet, of course not. You know that.” Tanaka twists around so that he’s cross-legged, facing you fully, eyes searching your own. “I’ll just fuck you.” You scoff.

His hands plant themselves on your thighs, the eyes tattooed on the back staring at the ceiling, observing the heavens. They travel gradually up to where the sheet lays scrunched around your waist, fingers pinching the edges.

“Give you more pleasure than he does before going back to my lonely bed. Without you.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’ll be lonely for much longer, Ryunoslav.”

Tanaka chuckles under his breath, shaking his head as he pulls the duvet down to unveil you before him. His chest rises and falls so fluidly with his deep breaths, a movement so calm, yet he freezes when his eyes rake over your luscious figure.

“How the Boss does not have you under lock and key astounds me.”

Your hand slaps across his face, a fire burning from your palm down to your groin.

“I will not be someone’s pet.”

Lust overcomes Tanaka’s pupils, his lips curling up in ecstasy at your stern tone, his cheek pounding along with his heart.

“No, you will not.”

Then, his mouth captures yours. 

Hot, hungry, the spring in his spine expands so that his chest presses against yours, jaws stretching up. Desperate hands clutch at your neck, the fold of your hips, anything to pull himself tight to your body, anchored to your skin and bed. It’s sinful, even whores refuse to do something so intimate. You feel that heavy tongue drag against your bottom lip, asking your permission to enter. You welcome it, savoring the taste of Ryu’s desire, his burning passion. His hands drift to tug at the firm muscle of your ass, hauling you to kneel over his lap, supporting and kneading it to a rhythm that you’ve come to know so well.

Your fingers clumsily unbutton his pants, slipping under the fabric to feel your undoing. Tanaka moans into your mouth, growing harder, fiercer in his touch with each stroke up the length of his cock. He wastes no time, patience not his strongest virtue. You detach from the kiss with a heavy sigh, forehead pressing to his as you melt over his fingers. Both your hands press into his shoulders, stabilising your vibrating body from how he rolls your clit between his fingers. He’s too clothed, not enough of his skin available for you to stroke and scratch and bite. You claw at the back of his long-sleeved shirt, he rips it off.

With the shirt discarded over his boots, Ryu’s warm hands wrap around your waist, tilting you back until you lay open for him. His pants come off next, flung haphazardly to the floor so that he kneels before you shamelessly, eyes raking down your naked body. By now, he’s committed every curve, every artwork on your skin to memory that he can draw you with his eyes closed. The peony tattoo at the base of your sternum a siren’s call for his mouth to taste. The heat of his body is a furnace, flames licking your skin as he kisses down your chest, inhaling your intoxicating scent.

“Why don’t I finish what I started, huh?” he parrots the words you whispered to Daichi a week ago. Your gut clenches, your cunt tightening to know he heard that. You almost want to beg him to devour you, but that’s not who you are. Your hand strokes over his shorn hair, his eyes closing as your nails rake against his scalp. Savagely, you squeeze his jaw, fingers pursing his lips, the viper tattooed near your wrist ready to strike.

“So snarky. I can think of more important uses for your tongue, Ryunoslav.”

He grins, the round of his cheeks tensing in your clutches before he turns his head to nibble at your thumb, sucking it down.

“As you wish, Valentina.”

Tanaka kisses down your stomach to the apex of your mound, squirming until he nestles between your outstretched legs and his arms wrap themselves under your thighs, an iron grip on your hips. You brace yourself to feel that vacuum, that eternally deep suction that clings onto your soul and merges it with his, but all you can feel are soft exhales. He stares up at you, an indiscernible look on his face.

“Ryu?” you come onto your elbows. The very sight of the man between your legs is enough to make you shiver. He plants a kiss to your thigh.

“You know I will do anything for us, for you.”

“I know.”

“Even fuck a whore once if it means I get to stay with you for just another more day.”

You grit your teeth, knowing it’s true, and although he shouldn’t be saying such intimate things—that you can never truly be together—it’s what you needed to hear. You remain silent, watching him as he lowers his mouth to your seeping skin, licking languidly to taste you on his entire tongue. It’s flat, wet, heavy, pressing into you so solidly you fall back down, eyes closing as you capsize. Tanaka demands whimpers, his name, with his touch. He’s insatiable, greedy to feel you come undone completely, this time with no interruption.

Two fingers test your waters, slipping between the waves of your folds while his tongue drags you under. You know his ocean-grey eyes never stop watching as you writhe under his ministrations. You can barely move, clenching around his skilled hand as though keeping him anchored in place. You want him, need him. The first pulse of your walls spurs him on, stirring the storm in your groin, until you can barely contain your moans for him. Your orgasm batters against the shores of your body, powerful waves washing over you and dissolving all your stress and irritation, leaving you gasping and heavy, weighted down and sluggish.

“Fuck, baby,” Tanaka swears against your skin, still pumping his fingers against sopping skin to feel how you contract around him. The stimulation almost has you in tears and you grab his wrist to pull him away, closer to your lips. You swallow down your tang, the kiss passionate yet lazy as he ruts against your tingling clit, hands wrapped around your head to almost cradle you against him.

“You were very loud,” he chides, but you know he loves it, the danger. “You are lucky no one is in the house tonight.”

“Do you want me to keep quiet, Ryu?” you moan into his mouth, biting his lip against a particularly rough thrust.

“Never,” he grins, sitting back so that he can observe your glassy look, you pout at the sudden chill. There’s a moment of protest, his body too far away, before your eyes roll back and you’re stretched out, overflowing with the feeling of him, your vision black.

Part 4 - Tanaka

Ryunoslav wishes he could lay behind Valentina eternally, watch as she wakes and stretches, but he knows he can’t. He unfurls his lithe chest from her back, and stands to dress before sneaking back to his cabin. The cold air nips at his cheeks, but it would take a snowstorm and him being naked to freeze over the warmth radiating from inside his chest. Under the cover of dark, even at 6:00 am, Tanaka makes it back without being seen, like he always does.

He winces as he shrugs off his coat and scarf, the scrapes on his back from her nails stinging beautifully. His thoughts drift: what she must think when she wakes up in the mornings to find the bed empty, either without him or Daichi, and whether he’ll ever see her under his own covers, laughing while sipping a coffee on a summer morning. Ryu shakes his head to absolve those thoughts, it’s dangerous to linger on dreams for too long.

The box of condoms on his dining table stand out like a sore thumb, and he shoves it into the closest drawer, the eyes on his hands giving him a mocking stare. ‘What would your mother say?’ it blinks at him, pulling his mouth into a scowl. Turning the kettle on, he pulls up Sergei’s number on his phone.

“Khazak, it’s early.” Sergei’s morning gruff is thick, coughing lightly as he clears his throat.

“Dobre utra, Sergei, sorry, I know.”

“What is it you need?” Tanaka can almost picture the cool gaze, the pinched brows beneath silver hair that the bookkeeper has on whenever speaking to the head of security.

“Ukai, has all been fixed?”

“Uka– Ryunoslav, could this not wait until a more reasonable hour? Yes, it’s resolved. The guy wired the remaining amount last night. God knows where he got it from but I don’t care.”

Tanaka opens his mouth to speak, but Sergei cuts him off.

“I swear, call me this early again and I’ll hang you from your ears.”

The Khazak laughs, wishing the old ‘friend’ a good day as he hangs up. That clears up most of Tanaka’s schedule, and he falls onto his bed, groaning when the whistle of the kettle rings loud in the room. It’s too similar to the alarm bells in his mind when he thinks about the call he has to make later.

***

Ryunoslav shivers, peeling off the used condom to tie a knot in it. It wasn’t too bad. With the prostitute's ass in the air, he could almost picture it was her. He watches as she pulls up stockings and a dress, her only layers beneath a thick coat and hat. The prostitute looks over her shoulder with her hand resting on the door, appreciating the view. Tanaka sits on the edge of the bed, naked and bored.

“This was fun. Call me anytime,” she purrs with a wink, pleasantly fucked, before leaving. He grumbles, falling backwards so that air whooshes past his ears as the mattress creaks under his body.

She’s going to kill me, he thinks, picturing Val’s face with the disapproving glare that always seems to rile him up. A part of him wonders if he went through with it purely to piss her off, make her mad with jealousy, just like he can be.

***

Tanaka must’ve dozed off because he wakes to the sound of his front door being pounded, the clock next to it showing quarter to midnight. He swears, scrambling to toss the condom he left on his thigh into the open basket bin and pull on the nearest pair of pants. He has just finished tying the drawstring when the door swings open and Valentina strides in, arms crossed in front of her chest, white flakes of snow on the Hermès scarf wrapped around her hair.

He’s frozen, a deer in headlights, silent at seeing her standing in his doorway, both beautiful and deadly. He watches as analytical eyes scan the single-roomed cabin, finally taking it all in. For some reason, he feels shy, a blush creeping up his neck. He has always wanted her in here, but now that she is, he feels like it’s not good enough.

Tanaka follows her gaze: sweeping from the small kitchen, to the two person table and chair, in the corner are the leather armrests and a coffee table. Directly by Val’s right is a mirror and coat hook, the wooden-heated walls sparsely decorated with a map of old USSR and new Russia, along with a single lily in a simple frame. He sees her stare past him, to the arch that separates his bedroom, analysing the unmade bed. Tendrils of cold sweep by him from the still-open door. She does not move a muscle.

Valentina opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes it, walking to the kitchen counter where a half-finished bottle of vodka sits. Tanaka’s door shuts with a click, and when he turns, she has already pulled out a shot glass. 

Has she been drinking? he thinks, rubbing the goosebumps up his arms, the callouses scraping some still-healing scabs. He gets his answer when she barely winces her swallow.

“Do you want to sit down?” Tanaka asks, approaching carefully, gesturing to the sofa; she’s a cornered viper. Val turnz, leaning against the marble top, coat still wrapped tightly around her body. Her lips purse, and he stills, knowing she’s either trying to put together a sentence or hold back uttering one. But Ryunoslav doesn’t know her to hold back often.

“Did you do it?” 

He didn’t expect the question to flow from her lips so calmly, hushed and smooth like an expert interrogator; the way he would speak. There’s no point in lying.

“Da,” Tanaka steps closer, reaching past Val’s head for a second shot glass. She makes no effort to hand him the bottle. “It’s just sex.” 

He almost recoils from the daggers in her stare, pupils shrinking into slits that can cut through him. I should not have said that, but if he lied, he wonders if she’d be just as furious. Valentina looks down and spots the discarded condom, sighing while twisting open the cap of the bottle to drink straight from the lip, past the point of using a glass.

“I thought of you.”

A faint flicker of relief, but then she laughs, curt and cold.

“I’m so flattered, Ryunoslav, thank you.”

He feels his heart tighten, forehead pounding, with more than guilt.

“Blyat, what the fuck else was I supposed to do?” he snorts, storm brewing in his eyes, fists clenching. His face is so close to hers, he can smell the alcohol on her breath. He can see her searching for answers within his own.

“I don’t know, but,” her eyes close, the small wrinkle between her brow dissolving with an inhale. The exhale has them open, blank, her lips in a neutral line. Somehow, this scares Ryunoslav even more. He feels his heart hammer beneath his ribs, either trying to escape or to jump into her palms. The bottle is no longer in them, but the belt of her coat, pulling it loose so that it unfurls from her chest. He see’s skin, a clavicle, ripe mounds of breasts. The flower tattoo peaks out from the shadow until it disappears and the top of underwear wraps around her waist. She’s not wearing the Family pendant. When the coat drops off her shoulders--the wool scrunching into a thick pile at her feet--he notices she is still wearing boots, but legs bare; she used the underground passage to get to his cabin.

“If you prefer to fuck a shlyukha, you just had to say so.” Valentina says, fingers trailing up the skin of her waist while keeping his gaze. Tanaka can’t respond, doesn’t want to, anything he says is fuel to her wildfire. “I can be a whore.”

She’s raging, the very air around her too thick for Tanaka to breathe easily, and when she takes a step forward, he imitates backward. He’s controlled by her until he collapses into his leather armchair and she towers over him, bare-breasted and deadly.

Valentina’s fingers tug at the knot of the scarf, slipping the silk through her fingers as she regards the man before her, twisting it into a tight coil until ready to spring, like her.

It’s those eyes, she realises. Stormy, grey, like a tumultuous ocean swallowing her body whole, ravaging and cleansing her all at once. She can’t stand to see them now. Tanaka doesn’t protest when she leans over him, unfurling the scarf to tie it around his head, blindfolding him. Ostensibly for control. She knows otherwise that his eyes will make her crumble down, dissolve into their depths.

Tanaka’s heart thumps, pressing against his ribcage furiously enough to shake his chest. Any argument cut off in his throat when he feels Valentina’s lips against it. His body begins to cover in a cold sweat, confused with the hurdling emotions inside: panic, guilt, anger, and underneath it all, arousal.

“Have you even showered yet,” she whispers against his skin, “or is this taste hers?” A hot tongue drags up the side of his neck until it touches the puff of his earlobe, teeth nipping. If Tanaka looks down past the tip of his nose, he can see her palms gripping the arms of the chair, the plush leather folding in. He can see the curve of her shoulder and the tail of the snake as she leans into him. And he can feel the warmth of her skin when she straddles him.

It’s not tight, her ass seated on the edge of his knees, but he feels heat anyway. It rolls off Valentina’s body in waves, washing over him so that he begins to pant. Nails rake up his chest, goosebumps pricking on his forearms which he keeps still, away from reaching out to wrap around her and bring their bodies together.

“Did she touch you like this?” Valentina’s hand wraps around his throat, the other drifting to the tent in Tanaka’s sweatpants. When she stops moving, he realises she expects a response.

“Nyet,” he grunts out, erection twitching beneath her palm, the vein in his neck swelling. 

A brisk exhale fans over his face, then he smells the peppercorn and vanilla of her skin as she lifts from his knees. She must be close, the static between his lips and her stomach electric. He bites his tongue to stop from tasting her skin. When she falls, her hand had shifted his erection from the loose constraints of his pants, free and standing to attention. There’s fire and rain, and Tanaka peers down to make out the black of Valentina’s underwear clinging to her slick folds, nestled against his groin. It provides slight relief, knowing she is aroused like him. 

She begins to roll her hips. On instinct, Tanaka shifts down into a slouch to bring her higher, to feel more friction. His fingers jump where they rest on the chair, fighting not to grab at her, palms sweating. For Valentina, this is easy. Men are so responsive, so easy to lead and dissuade, and fuck. They treat sex as though it is nothing.

It’s sex, Ryunoslav’s words echo in her hazy mind, her hands flying to his shoulders as though to bring her back to her actions. Focus on the movement, it tells her, and she grinds down onto him. She feels as he pants against her neck, her breasts moving to press against his chest so that he can feel all of her at once, reminded of what he missed. The jealousy in her heart pains her, knowing that it’s irrational to feel ownership over a man that is not truly her’s. But she feels it regardless. She wants him completely.

His neck is thick beneath her palm, veins beating steadily in time with the grinding of her hips. The line of her folds wrap around him, dragging up and down his length that when she looks down, she sees it weep. The tightening of his gut tells her even more and she grins almost wickedly.

“Does it feel good, Ryu?” she whispers against him, lips hovering teasingly above his own. Tanaka tries to close the gap. She’s near, yet so far away, unreachable in her anger.

“No, you don’t get to kiss me. Not when I’m your whore.”

He moans then, shamefully turned on by the hard edge of her voice and the soft skin wrapped around him, coaxing something out from within. 

“Val,” he utters her name under his breath, the fog in his mind not clearing as it builds higher, tighter. She can feel the storm brewing. His shoulders tense, forearms hovering as though-

“Do you want to touch me?” she bites at his ear, one of his most sensitive features. It takes Tanaka everything to hold back, his hips thrusting up desperately.

“Yes. God, yes.”

“What’s stopping you?”

Valentina watches as the gold, browns and pinks of her scarf wrinkle with his frown.

“You never said I could.”

She falters for a moment, taken aback by the worship and strain in his voice. This is why she covered his eyes, she never knew she had to gag him as well. Some of the ice in her heart begins to melt, dripping down her chest like the sweat on Ryunoslav’s forehead.

“Touch me.”

His hands are on her instantly. With her back under his calloused palms, he can feel every movement of her waist, her hips. He strokes up, her body memerised so thoroughly he can paint a replica of her in his mind. With the eyes tattooed on the back of his hands, he sees her. It was the last push he needed, the rain clouds in his mind bursting as he spills a storm over his abdomen, finding clarity. 

It’s wet, warm and cold simultaneously. He feels Valentina’s forehead fall to his shoulder, her spine shaking. There’s a sniff, the smallest of tears leaking into the dips of his muscled shoulders. With one hand, he presses her tightly, his ejaculation spreading messily between their bodies, the other rips the scarf from his eyes so he can drink in the sight of her, his nose nuzzled into her hair.

“Val...” he mumbles against her skin, fingers combing through the hair at her nape, lips finding contact with her neck, then temple. “Look at me, pazolvste.”

And when she does, the world stops. He tries to read the swirl of emotions in her eyes. Is it exhaustion? Arousal? Defeat? All three? Tanaka brushes sweaty strands from her neck, forehead, smoothing down the hair. Valentina glances at his lips, or her eyes drop, either way, with the next inhale, their lips meet.

Part 5 - Valentina

Tanaka tastes different. Tangy and bitter, the kind that makes you want to tear away, only to constantly come back for another sip, addicted. You’re sticky, the sweat from his chest and the spill of his seed spreading against your stomach, screaming at you to separate from him. Everything is telling you to stop.

But you can’t

And you never want to. His tongue swipes across the seam of your lips, and you happily oblige, too weary from the rollercoaster of emotions that had ripped through you to fight for dominance. Tanaka, however, doesn’t seem to mind, your tongues intertwining so seamlessly, you briefly wonder if you’ll ever separate them again.

He pulls apart to breathe, chest still heaving from his orgasm and your mind games. Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, you realise what you’ve done, how full of blind rage and hurt you were. Tanaka registers the panic in your eyes, the way your mouth opens to say,

“I’m sorry.”

You’re suddenly smaller, eyes downcast to stare at his chest, tracing the outline of the Georgian cross tattooed over his heart, the eight point star on each shoulder beneath his collarbones, reminding you that you’re in a world of thieves. That you yourself are one, and you crossed a boundary tonight that you’ve never crossed before. In his residence. He lifts your chin with a steady finger, forcing you to stare into still, open waters.

“It’s okay.”

But it’s not, you’re not okay. Tanaka must’ve sensed the growing unease as you shift on his lap, knees still pressed tightly to his hips, his softened dick lazing against your groin.

“I would’ve stopped you if I didn’t want it,” his voice is a hushed whisper, washing over you.

“I should not have come here tonight.”

“I’m happy you did, Gadyuka.”

For some reason, you believe him, the tides in his eyes pulling you closer so that once again your lips melt into his and your heart drums in your throat. Ryunoslav unzips your boots, letting them drop unceremoniously to the floor. His hands find purchase beneath your rear, and he stands, lifting you so easily as he carries you through a small door and into the bathroom.

It smells like him: salty, humid, yet crisp, like cold mist when the seasons change. You reluctantly break apart when your feet touch the cool tile, and you look around while Ryu draws a bath. There’s no mirror over the sink--instead on the tiled wall opposite the shower--just a shelf with his electric razor, toothbrush and some creams. The thought that you’d like to shave his head flits across your mind, but you shake it out, turning to watch him fill a simple wooden bathtub with steaming water.

“Are you going to wash me like a child?” you ask, eyebrows raising to show your amusement. He chuckles, his eyes matching your teasing tone, the tension of before dissolving with the mist in the air.

“Nyet, unless you want me to,” he muses, eyes drifting across the splattered cotton against your skin. “You are dirty.”

You lick your teeth, taking in how he’s seated on the edge, sweatpants still haphazardly down his legs to show a hint of the tattoos and scars on the tops of his thighs, “so are you.”

He holds his arms out and you move to stand between his knees, warm hands trailing up your hamstrings, over the cups of your cheeks and peeling down your soiled black thong. You feel… calm, the rage and guilt subsiding to leave an empty stillness in its place, in your gut, where he rests his forehead and your fingers scrape his scalp.

You bathe first, Tanaka’s rough hands scraping away grime, before you switch and run your hands over his corded muscles. The moment is too intimate to speak, both of you barely even breathing as he wraps a towel around his waist and pulls a too long t-shirt over your head. It’s only when you’re out of the confines of the bathroom that he breaks the silence. 

“You’ll have to destroy the shirt when you leave,” Ryu observes, tugging at the shoulder seam so that the neckline centers on your body instead of dropping over one shoulder.

“Do you want me to leave?” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest, fingers drumming in a quick beat against your forearms.

“Never.”

Shrugging, you turn on your heel and stride to the messy bed, ignoring the way your stomach flips as it remembers who was the last woman to touch it--that it wasn’t you--and climb onto the mattress. For the first time, you see Tanaka completely taken by surprise. He’s close to asking you ‘why?’ but thinks against it, hurtling after you to pull you into his arms, against his chest.

This is unchartered waters, the bed a dinghy and in his room are endless possibilities. But that’s where it starts and ends. You drag your fingers lazily up his forearm, over a few scars, tracing the bouquet of lilies drawn in thick black lines that stand off his skin; prison tattoos seldom heal flat.

“What does this mean?” you stare up at him, curious as you’ve never had much time to talk with him before, to delve deeper past your lust for each other. Ryunoslav clears his throat.

“It’s for my home,” he mumbles, nose moving to your hair, his eyes clouding over as he watches your fingers. “And my mother.”

The way he explains the beauty of the wild lilies in his home village of Kazakhstan, the bouquet his mother would pluck and keep on their table, sends shivers down your spine. Why would he ever have run away? You learn he has a sister, Saeko, who left with him and fell into the life of the thieves before him, and instead, he went to prison.

In this little bubble, you feel inexplicably warm, cosy, like the world has fallen away. You tell him about your own mother, how her eyes were incredibly warm and the colour of amber, but she never smiled. About how you grew up in Georgia surrounded by powerful men and strived to be just as important one day. Ryunoslav smiled at that, kissing your wrist where the fangs of the snake bit into.

He tells you about the years he spent in and out of juvenile prison in Moscow, unfurling the duvet to explain that each cathedral dome tattooed upon his leg meant time served. He had four. The rose on his left bicep meant he turned 18 in prison.

“The Boss found me a month after,” he recalls, eyes far away, “I’m forever thankful. I was very sick from the tattoo and I would have died if he didn’t take me away.”

Daichi, a part of you whispers. With the thought of your husband, you tense up, shifting until you’re sitting with your hand pressed to Tanaka’s beating heart.

“Ryunoslav,” you call, looking past his head and into the grain of the wood. “What are we going to do?”

“Mm?”

Your eyes snap to his, a cold sweat tickling your spine. You’ve crossed lines tonight, and not by a little. You’ve run so far past it, you can’t even see it if you turn back.

“He’ll know.”

Tanaka straightens up too, attentive to your words but eyes calm with a lazy smile.

“He won’t.”

“He will. Ryunoslav, I can’t keep this a secret now.”

Beneath your palm, you can feel his heartbeat, slow, while your own pounds in your ears.

“You have to. He’ll kill us.”

You stay silent, mulling over the sincerity in Tanaka’s statement. He says it nonchalantly, like it’s the only fact that matters. You want to tell him that you love him. You don’t. Instead, you lay your head back to his chest to listen to that steady, strong drum beneath his ribs. After a few seconds, you inhale deeply.

“I think Daichi is having an affair.”

“I don’t want to talk about him.” Tanaka says instantly, arms wrapping so tightly around you, as if you’ll vanish if he can’t feel you.

“Ryu-”

“Valentina, please. God knows we never get to be alone like this.” That brash, harsh tone you’re used to finally edges it’s way back into his voice. It should scare you, instead you huddle closer to him while he continues. “Even if he’s having an affair, aren’t we doing the same? Let us just be in this moment.”

Tanaka tucks you beneath his chin, the heartbeat in his jaw syncing with yours against his chest. You murmur a ‘fine’, mind still reeling from the evening's events and the intoxication of his lips.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep, but you know he didn’t at all. Ryunoslav shakes you awake, whispering that you have to go, that Daichi gets back in the late afternoon. When the coat is wrapped around you and your fingers hover over the door, you look at him as he frowns at you.

“We should not see each other for a few days,” he states. Although his voice is calm, his chest vibrates with nerves. You know it’s the last thing he wants. You agree anyway, with a slight nod of your head.

***

NEXT CHAPTER

Thank you for reading.

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[blinder-secrets]

In The Leaves

tommy x reader, 1,850 words

a bit nsfw, mostly power play and lusting

The house is quiet when you get home, shut off, and dark, and empty empty empty. You dawdle in the entry way. Drip your coat off, leave your bag by the hat stand. If Tommy’s in he’s sleeping, or hiding, or locked up in the office with his head in the whiskey. You unlace your boots and push them under the dresser, though he hates when you do that. There’s places for shoes, he says, put them away.

‘Tom?’

You call his name quietly, around the open door to his office. There’s no light, no man. He’s in bed, then. For once he’s beaten you to it.  

You go upstairs, zigzagging on the wide staircase because you can, because it’s late and your time is still your own to play with. It isn’t often that you take nights for yourself. No Tommy, no business. Free to do as you please. You’d gone to Vera’s first, then to the dancehall, then to Polly’s house in that little village, with the pretty parks and the bridges. You’d made your driver wait in the car until you were bored, and you’d paid him handsomely for it. That was part of the novelty too; money from your purse, orders in your voice, followed, not questioned. You see why Tommy craves it.

‘I should go home,’ you’d told Pol, ‘he hates when I’m away.’

‘No, love, he just hates not knowing where.’

‘Oh,’ you’d said. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think that’s it at all.’

When you reach the top, your stocking snags on a splintered floorboard. You pull it twice, and then it’s free again, but there’s a rip from your heel to your ankle. They were new; you’d put them on straight from the packet.

‘[Y/n]?’ His voice comes from the bedroom, low and curling around the hallway. ‘That you?’

‘Yes, Tom,’ you answer. ‘I’ve ripped my tights on the stairs.’

You follow your voice back to him, chase it through until you’re in the doorway, and he’s in the bed, ignoring you like you’d said nothing at all. You were right. Not sleeping, but hiding. He’s sitting against the headboard, chest bare, with the covers to his waist. He looks young, boyish. There’s note-paper in his hands and two more sheets of it on his lap.

‘Where’ve you been?’ he asks, without looking from his reading.

You slouch into the doorframe. ‘Am I in trouble?’

His eyes flick to you. It’s so quick, it may have just been the light on his glasses. ‘If you want to be,’ he says.

‘I was at Poll’s house.’

‘Drinking?’

‘Of sorts.’ The tear in your stocking is growing, you lift your foot to feel your heel through the hole. ‘She read my leaves,’ you say.

He sighs, sets the paper down, and picks up the next. ‘Did she?’

Your foot hits the floor with a thump. ‘Don’t you want to know what she saw?’

No, he thinks. No, I don’t care, he thinks. No, I’m sitting and reading and not looking at you, not even once, because I’m Tommy, and I’m bored of everything that isn’t myself.

You watch for a reaction. A clue that you’re right, that he is thinking all that, but he’s just still. His eyes follow the lines slowly. He clears his throat once, and then flips the page over to read the back.

‘It involved the two of us,’ you add, ‘the pictures in the leaves.’

‘Hm?’

Sighing, you cross the room and climb onto the bed on your knees.

‘You’re no fun, Tommy Shelby.’ Not when you want him to be. Not when it costs his time.

You crawl over to him, then turn onto your back and put your head on his thigh. You set your cheek against the covers so you can watch him, so he can find you at the bottom of the page, so he looks at you without meaning to. ‘What’re you reading that’s so important?’ you ask.

‘Letters,’ he answers, dropping the word into your gaze.

‘From who?’

‘Important people, love.’

‘Can’t I know?’ You touch his elbow, running your fingers in circles around the ridges of his skin. ‘I write your letters for you, sometimes.’

The paper lowers enough that your hand becomes trapped between his arm and the pillow behind him. ‘You asked for the night off, didn’t you?’

From work. Not from conversation, not from him. ‘I suppose,’ you grumble. Your bottom lip juts out and you let it sit there. Watch me pout, Tommy, watch me sulk like a child.

He sighs. Then he stacks the letter with the others and puts them all, abandoned, on the bedside table. ‘Alright,’ he says, once he’s looking down at you again. ‘What did Polly say,’ he groans, settling into the bed, ‘about your tea?’

You pull your hand free and turn your head to the ceiling. Your arms cross over your chest. It doesn’t matter now, it isn’t as interesting. ‘I’ve forgotten. Something about changing responsibility.’

‘Responsibilities?’ His hand goes to your face, his index finger trailing the line of your nose, across your lips and over your chin, down, down until it’s resting in the hollow of your throat. ‘Yours or mine?’ he asks.

‘Ours.’

He hums, the noise is deep in his chest, tumbling lower and under your skull. ‘What else?’

Suddenly, you’re shy. Nervous to tell him. What Polly had seen had excited you, filled you up with possibility and wonder, left you curious. Wanting. Tommy’s scrutiny would kill that, you’re sure. He’d flay the ideas and leave you to gather the scraps. ‘Nothing important,’ you tell him. ‘She thinks I should let go more. Let myself be.’

‘You should.’ His hand flattens over your collarbone. It’s either mercy, or his interest peaking and withering between you, because he changes subject like the conversation’s over. ‘You ripped your stockings?’ he asks, question already answered in his tone.

You look back to him, smiling. ‘So, you were listening.’

His eyebrows raise, head tilting as if to say, maybe. Maybe he was. Maybe he’s seen the ladder running up your calf.

‘Will you buy me a new pair?’ you ask.

‘If you want.’

‘Fancy ones? French?’

He nods.

‘You’ll give me anything, won’t you?’ Anything with a price tag, anything material. If it was within reason, he’d say yes, he’d have it on your dresser in a ribbon by the morning. You loop your fingers around his wrist. ‘Anything but attention,’ you muse. ‘That, I have to work for.’

You watch him blink, watch him incline his head and wet his lips. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

No, not most.

‘You like working for it,’ he adds.

You snort. ‘Not always.’

Sometimes it’s nice to start things, sometimes you like to pull the want from behind his bored eyes. To make him need you, to make him melt beneath, and give way, craving, falling to the tide. Other times, it feels like a chore. Another responsibility you hadn’t asked for.

‘I shouldn’t have to do it all the time,’ you say, quieter than planned.

‘You have my attention now.’

‘Because I took it,’ you say.

‘No,’ he corrects. 'Because I gave it.’

He hold’s your gaze for a moment. Something slips between you, a new tension that twitches under your ribs, scattering your heartbeat. It bubbles and gathers in your chest, forces your breaths to become quick and short. You’re sure he notices it. Sure he’s planned for it. He looks down at you, lay against his lap, like he’s waiting for the nerves to form; for anticipation to fizz your senses.

His hand slides up until its curving around your neck, thumb and fingers bracketing your throat. It stills there, baited, cold against your skin. ‘Is it enough?’ he asks. ‘Have you had enough, hm?’

You swallow; it runs under his palm, sinking into your gut. ‘No, not yet.’  

He squeezes once, pulling lightly enough to get you to comply, and then you’re sitting up for him. Up and towards his chest, with his hand on your throat and your fingers scooped over his shoulders.

‘You don’t want to start things,’ he says, ‘not always?’

Your head shakes by itself.

‘Words, love.’

‘No,’ you answer.

‘Done making decisions, eh?’ His hand twists to hold the back of your neck, fingers splayed and straying into the base of your hair. ‘Tired of taking charge?’

‘Yes, Tom.’

He nods, the gesture is so slight it could have been nothing. ‘Take my glasses off,’ he says.

You do. You pull them from his face and set them on top of the papers, his gaze unmoving as you do so. The room’s quiet, but your head’s swelling with noise, your blood pumping loud enough to convince your eardrums that it’s in there. Filling your skull. Strong enough to dizzy you. When you straighten in front of him, his hands are on your waist, firmly, like he knows you need it.

Then he leans forward, pushing you backwards until you’re beneath him. Your arms are pulled upwards, flat on the bed, crossed at the wrists. He holds them there with one hand.

‘Have to let yourself be,’ he says by your ear. ‘You don’t want control, do you?’

You want to answer him. You want to tell him that this is what you’d meant, this is how it should be. Not always, but sometimes. A change of responsibility like the leaves said. When you open your mouth, all that pours out is a sweetened moan. It rides your breath over his shoulder and into the air.

‘No,’ you sigh. Not tonight. You don’t want control, you want this, you want this and him and attention until it’s flooding you. Until it’s too much.

Head lowered, he sinks kisses into your neck. Drags teeth and tongue down the line of your throat ’til you’re mewling. You lift up against him, back curved and eager, but he pushes back with his hips. Forces you down, subdued. Into the mattress and wanting.

‘Tommy,’ you whine.

He shushes you. ‘Leave them there,’ he says, as he pulls his hand from your wrists.

He goes upright, backwards and away from you, sitting on his heels like he’s praying. The sheet lies twisted around his knees. You wish he’d move it, you want bare skin against bare skin.

‘What shall I do with you?’ he asks himself. ‘Ay? How shall I have you?’

You’re putty waiting beneath his fingers. You’re honey, dripping, cloying, holding shape but slowly losing. His thumb finds the band of your stocking, pulls it taut against the clip that holds it there. Anything. Do anything. You’re his, you’re melting. You’re light pouring through the gaps and waiting, waiting to burst. Elastic snaps against your thigh. He smiles.

‘I like having you like this,’ he says.

Like you’re leaves, swirled and left in the cup. Wanting to be read, to be understood, to be laid out and fulfilled.

‘Like you’re mine,’ he finishes.

‘I am,’ you tell him. ‘I am, Tommy, I am.’

[megahwn]

Smitten

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x female reader

Genre: arranged marriage!au, strangers to lovers

Word Count: 16,902

Rating: 18+

Warnings: alcohol mentions/consumption; menstruation mention; description of a panic attack; explicit language; biting/marking; fondling over clothes; a sort-of handjob; a single piercing; vaginal fingering; finger sucking; unprotected vaginal intercourse; almost simultaneous orgasms; creampie

Summary: You live in a world where loving another is criminal. Partners are chosen by your elders to produce the best offspring and to help the economy thrive. Living in this world, you feel broken. You feel broken because you have accidentally fallen for your new husband, Jeon Jungkook.

A/N: Part of BTS Writers’ Corner’s Amor Fabula Project. Thank u to @joopiterjoon @kitsutaes @spicykoreantatertots @staerrylights​ for beta-reading parts of this fic for me, I appreciate you all!

The elders are relatively mysterious to you. You don’t know how many of them there are, what they do with their time, what they look like. All you really know about them is how powerful they are. They are the entity that decides which people will marry in order to produce the healthiest offspring and to keep the economy strong. Most people accept their pairing and then live their lives married to someone they don’t know. Others, however few there may be, reject their pairing and go out looking for true love on their own.

~~~

You and Jungkook tumble through the door of your new apartment, exhausted from the day’s events but giddy from the wine. Today had gone much more smoothly than you had anticipated it would. The kiss at the altar was far from awkward, your families seemed to get along well, and your conversation with Jungkook at your sweetheart table left nothing to be desired (thank you, white zinfandel). It was almost as if your wedding was based on something more than genetics and finances. Almost.

In all honesty, you want nothing more in this moment than to get out of this obnoxious outfit, get into some sweats and keep binging This Is Us. While today went as ideally as it could have, it won't hurt to get lost in the Pearsons' love story for a few hours instead of having to face your non-love story as soon as you arrive home from your own wedding.

It won't hurt. Not one bit.

You are already out of one shoe and hobbling down the hallway to your shared bedroom when you realize that it is, in fact, a shared bedroom, and you can't just throw all your clothes everywhere on your quest to get naked and comfortable. Your eyes immediately begin darting around the almost-familiar space for a spot to use to go through your nightly routine without Jungkook seeing... well, any of it. As capable as you are of being outgoing when the situation demands it, you are, by nature, a pretty shy person, and you don’t yet feel ready to let someone else be aware of your bedtime habits. Even if that someone is your new husband.

While you’re in the middle of scouring the room for a suitable place to hide, you hear the distinct sound of someone’s throat clearing a few feet behind you. You whip around with wide eyes, not realizing you had stopped in the doorway and blocked the only route into the bedroom. You take in the sight now before you and your eyes, if possible, grow even wider.

Jungkook looks good. His cheeks are still a little rosy from the alcohol, and his hair is swept off his forehead and parted on one side. His tie is loosened and the top few buttons of his dress shirt are undone. He managed to shed his suit jacket somewhere between the front door and the bedroom, and his shirt sleeves are now rolled up his forearms. There is an obvious vein running from his hand up his arm and under his sleeve. He is fiddling with the wedding band on his other hand. While he does look good, he also looks nervous.

Damn him.

Before you even have the chance to begin lusting after Jungkook, even for a moment, anxious thoughts begin flooding your brain in powerful waves. Why does he look nervous? Did you do something to upset him in the time it took to get from the apartment threshold to this spot? You probably did and now he hates you and you’re going to have to share an apartment and a bed with someone who can’t stand you and you’re going to –

“Is something wrong?” Jungkook asks. “Is it the Iron Man poster? The Cooky plushie? I can get rid of them if you want. Man, I knew I shouldn’t have brought them here with me. God, this is embarrassing.” You notice he sounds slightly panicked.

Wait, what? You manage to get out of your own head for a second to focus on what Jungkook is saying. He’s embarrassed. Why is he embarrassed?

You turn back around to look into the bedroom once more, and your eyes immediately find the poster and the plushie he mentioned. Instead of saying anything, you walk towards the bed as well as you can in your dress, and you pick up the plushie from Jungkook’s side of the mattress. You look at it closely and then you rotate once more to look at Jungkook, who looks positively terrified. You consider teasing him, but decide against it almost immediately, as you think it might actually kill him.

You choose to walk back over to the doorway instead, holding the plushie as you move. Jungkook looks like he wants to back away, but he seems rooted to the spot. You take a breath and hope that what you’re about to say doesn’t ruin the day you’ve had with him and make everything (even more) awkward between you.

“Do you have any of the others or just Cooky?”

Jungkook’s eyes go as wide as you felt yours did earlier. You immediately think you’ve said the wrong thing, but then he smiles, showing off his bunny-like teeth.

“You know about the others?” he says shyly, referring to the rest of the popular plushie brand. He is still turning his wedding ring around on his finger, but not as intensely as he had been before. You take that as a good sign.

“Yeah, of course I do,” you respond without missing a beat. A smile creeps up onto your face as well. “I actually have Koya packed away in one of these boxes somewhere.” You gesture to the boxes you have yet to unpack, laying in the living room unopened and sort of sad-looking compared to all of the stuff Jungkook has already placed around the apartment.

Jungkook’s smile grows at your words. He lets go of his wedding ring and flexes his hands at his sides in excitement. You try not to stare as he steps closer to you, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He looks like he’s trying to hold back how happy he really is to have learned this information about you. You barely register his emotions, though, as you’re now intently focused on his proximity to you. He smells mild, like soap. It’s nice.

“Do you really have Koya?” Jungkook practically whispers at you. You hold back a giggle and respond with a soft, “Yes. I wouldn’t lie about something like that.” The truth is that you wouldn’t lie about anything, but you figure now isn’t really the time to be sharing such things. Now is the time for talking about plushies.

Jungkook seems to debate with himself for a moment, and you wait patiently for him to come to a decision, whatever it is. You take the moment to look at his face more closely while he’s looking away from you. His skin is beautiful, milky. His eyebrows fit his face nicely, with just the right amount of arch to them. His eyes are a deep brown, and he has a small scar underneath his left one. You have the urge to reach out and touch it, but you hold yourself back by holding tighter to the Cooky plushie in your hands. You don’t want to interrupt his thought process. Or worse, freak him out and end whatever moment you might be having.

You don’t get the chance to study the bottom half of his face because he begins speaking again, although he does so without making eye contact. He seems to be looking at your lips instead when he says, “Can I see him?”

You take a moment to recall what you had been talking about, and upon remembering you light up and respond with a nod. You begin walking into the living room before you remember that you are still in your wedding dress and it’s beginning to get uncomfortable. You stop moving and tilt your head back with a sigh before saying, “Can I actually get this dress off first? It’s starting to dig into my ribs.”

Jungkook looks like he doesn’t understand why you just asked him for permission to change your clothes. He responds with a confused-sounding “Yes?” and steps out of the way so you can make your way back to the bedroom once more. You make it inside, toss Cooky onto the bed, and begin rummaging through your dresser drawers before finding a suitable t-shirt and the most comfortable pair of sweatpants you own. You then head straight for the bathroom when you see Jungkook looking through his own dresser, presumably to do the same.

You make it into the bathroom, close the door behind you, and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You drop the clothes onto the floor next to you and turn to look at yourself in the mirror. Your makeup held up well throughout the day, and you realize you need to take it off. You search the countertop and the cabinet behind you for makeup remover but find none. You suppose it’s actually a good thing that Jungkook wants to see your Koya plushie after all, as it will motivate you to unpack the rest of your things. Maybe he’ll help you.

You push that thought aside as soon as you think it, and you kick off your remaining heel (how were you walking around with one shoe on for so long?). You flex your feet to get some feeling back in them, and then you begin to remove your dress.

Or, at least, you attempt to begin removing your dress.

The intricate ties in the back of the garment combined with the restricting bodice don’t allow you to move your arms very far behind you, and you soon realize that the dress is not going to come off without some help. You think about how the only person who can possibly assist you in this situation is just outside the door, but for some reason you are unwilling to remove that barrier and ask for his help.

You end up spending a good fifteen minutes in the bathroom alone, silently struggling to undo the knots you have managed to make behind you. It’s only when you hear an apprehensive knock on the door that you let out a little squeak, then clear your throat and respond, “Yeah?”

You hear Jungkook’s muffled voice behind the door. “Hey, I don’t want to rush you or anything, but I really have to pee.”

You would chuckle if you weren’t in such a predicament. You go over your options one more time before deciding that you really do need Jungkook’s help if you ever want to breathe properly again. You slowly turn toward the door and open it, revealing a concerned-looking Jungkook behind it. He is now wearing boxers and what is possibly the most form-fitting shirt you have ever seen another human wear in your entire life. You can see his biceps and his abs through the shirt, and his thick thighs are on full display. You remind yourself not to drool.

Jungkook breaks the silence by asking, “Aren’t you supposed to be changing?”

You sheepishly nod and then turn around to reveal the absolute mess you have made of your bodice ties. You hear a quiet chuckle behind you and then you feel hands at your back. They’re firm but gentle in their movements behind you. Jungkook is helping you get your bodice undone and you didn’t even have to ask him. Your heart hurts a little. You ignore it.

“Thank you,” you breathe out, so quietly you’re sure Jungkook didn’t hear you say it. But then you hear him mumble out a “No big deal,” and you remember that this is an arrangement that the elders chose for you, and that you didn’t have a say in. Jungkook’s just being nice because he’s a good person, not because he cares about you. He doesn’t even know you. Your heart hurts a little louder this time.

Jungkook gets the bodice ties undone and you practically rip the thing off of you and take in a huge breath. You sigh out and reach for the zipper on the back of the dress without thinking, but it turns out you can’t undo that by yourself either. You let your hands fall awkwardly to your sides before letting out another sigh and saying, “So, um... I still need help.”

This time, Jungkook’s hands reach your back much more slowly than they did before. You wonder why. It’s only when the zipper is down your back and all the random buttons are undone that you realize why he’s being so hesitant – you’re basically half-naked in front of this guy and you’ve never done anything more intimate than kiss each other in front of a bunch of people one time a couple hours ago. You hold the dress to your front and turn around to face Jungkook and thank him for his help, but something stops you.

His eyes are screwed shut.

This time you actually do laugh out loud. It startles him and he opens his eyes. Cute.

“What were you doing?” you ask jovially. You’re pretty sure you already know the answer, but you want to make him squirm.

“Uh...” Jungkook starts. His eyes then wander down the front of your body and snap back up just as quickly, as if he suddenly remembered you could see him now. “I was, uh, keeping my eyes closed in case you... you know...”

“In case I what?” you tease, taking half a step closer to him. He doesn’t back away.

“In case you didn’t want me to see you... like that.” Jungkook’s cheeks had been getting lighter since you arrived home, but now the redness has returned, maybe even intensified. You decide to put him out of his misery.

“Thank you, I appreciate that. Even though we are married.” You’re not sure why you add that last part, seeing as you were just as nervous as Jungkook only moments ago. Maybe seeing him flustered makes you feel a little less alone, and a little more likely to joke around the way you would with someone you know well.

Jungkook opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but then closes it again. He settles on saying, “Right,” and then he backs out of the bathroom to let you finish changing.

You eventually emerge from the bathroom feeling better than you have all day, and you see Jungkook sitting patiently at the foot of the bed, legs crossed, waiting for you. You smile at him while gesturing to the bathroom behind you and saying, “All yours. I’ll be out there waiting for you.”

Jungkook’s face lights up at your words, like he had been thinking you might change your mind about unpacking with him. Impossible. He gets up from the bed and goes into the bathroom quickly.

You soon hear the telltale sounds of the toilet flushing and the faucet running, and then Jungkook is back in the living room, gingerly approaching you as if you were a wild animal or something fragile that he didn’t want to break. You both plop to the ground and you reach for the box nearest to you.

“You didn’t label them?” Jungkook asks incredulously. “How are you supposed to know what anything is?”

“I just kind of wing it,” you respond casually, to which Jungkook shrugs and says, “Okay, fair.”

Once you have the box in front of you, you open it and begin searching through it for your Koya. It turns out that Koya is not in the first box, or the second, or the third... or the fourth. By this point you’re getting distracted by all the things you’re unboxing and by telling Jungkook about all the things you’re unboxing.

He doesn’t seem to mind, though. On the contrary, he seems to be just as invested in your unpacking as you are. He does end up helping you place things around the apartment like you hoped he would.

It feels like something real partners would do.

You try not to dwell on it, but the thought persists as you start opening the fifth box. Your Koya sits right on top of the mess of odds and ends you packed from your old bedroom. You smile and remove it from the box, lifting it up just enough for Jungkook to see it properly. You turn to him to see his reaction, but don’t expect the one you get.

Jungkook is smiling again, his bunny teeth poking through his lips cutely, but his eyes are shining. Instead of letting the panic overtake you once more and make you think you’ve somehow offended him, you simply say, “Hey. What is it?”

Jungkook looks up from the plushie to your eyes, then dabs at his own with the backs of his hands before responding. You wait for him like you did before.

When he finally speaks, he says a little shakily, “I’m sorry, I just... didn’t really expect this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t expect you to really have him. I kind of thought you were just being nice to me.”

You resist the urge to lean over and pull him into a tight hug. You settle for responding with, “I told you I wouldn’t lie.”

Jungkook is quick to shake his head and say, “I know, and I’m sorry. I should have believed you. It’s just... we don’t really know each other yet, you know?”

You stiffen a little at his words, but then force yourself to relax. Right. You had honestly forgotten about that. While you’re a little hurt, you suppose you have to allow him that skepticism. You would be skeptical, too, if the roles were reversed.

“It’s okay, I’m not upset. Are you okay?”

Jungkook pauses for a moment. He seems to like to think before he speaks, as if he wants to make sure he says the right thing the first time. You can relate.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he says slowly. “I’m just... happy.”

You beam at him and give him your Koya to hold while you unpack the rest of the box. The others can wait until tomorrow.

You both eventually head to bed, completely drained from the wedding and your respective emotions. Jungkook is still holding Koya when he climbs under the covers, so you pick up his Cooky and hold it to you as well. That’s how you fall asleep – silently, each holding a piece of the other.

~~~

“Would it be weird if our friends met each other?”

You look up from your bowl of Corn Pops, surprised by Jungkook’s sudden question. Would it be weird? You’ve been married for over a month already, but other than at your wedding reception, you haven’t ever really interacted with any of Jungkook’s friends. Maybe, you think, it’s time to blur the lines between you a bit more by having both sets of friends congregate in one place again. The prospect alone excites you a bit, as it will not only give you the opportunity to get to know Jungkook’s people a little bit better, but hopefully Jungkook himself, as well.

Within the last month or so of your marriage, your initial intrigue with Jungkook has developed into a full-blown crush. You hadn’t expected to develop feelings for Jungkook, but he’s so damn perfect that you can’t help it.

Besides the fact that he looks like he was sculpted by the gods themselves, he’s just about the most selfless and considerate person you’ve ever met. He always asks if he can join you on the couch while you’re watching television. (The first time he did it, you had told him he didn’t need to ask because it’s his apartment, too. He still does it.) He also knows you get hot when you sleep, so he turns the overhead fan on in your bedroom, even though he gets cold at night. (When you had asked him why he had been wearing layers to bed, he had just blushed a light pink and said it was no big deal.)

It might be a big deal to you. 

You go for nonchalance when you say, “Um… I mean, I guess not. Since we’re going to be together for the foreseeable future, I suppose it would happen eventually anyway.” You’re already completely sold on the idea and would probably be sad if it didn’t happen, so you give yourself a mental high-five for not sounding desperate at any point during your response.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too, “Jungkook says, apparently unaware of the mental marathon you just subjected yourself to. “What if we had a game night?”

You perk up even more at Jungkook’s mention of games. You’ve always been able to bond with others over a good board game and a glass of wine or two. You suppose a game night would be a good way to get to know Jungkook’s friends, and to have him get to know yours.

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. I like it,” you reply with a grin.

Jungkook’s bunny teeth make an appearance as he smiles back at you. “Okay, let’s do it.”

That weekend, you receive six separate knocks at your door.

Yoongi, your best friend from college, arrives first, a gummy smile on his face and a bottle of sweet red in hand. You pull him into a hug before he can even cross the threshold, and he practically trips through your entryway when you pull him across it.

“Hey,” you choke out, not realizing how close to tears you are just from having Yoongi near after a while. As you hug your friend, you realize you haven’t seen him since your wedding, what with his hectic work schedule and your new living situation. It used to be easy to meet up whenever you wanted back in college, but these days you have to make plans to see each other. It makes you sad whenever you think about it. You suppose you’re also emotional because he’s been a constant in your life for several years now, and knowing he’s still here for you even though your life has changed so dramatically is a big comfort for you.

“Hey,” he repeats back to you, bringing one hand up to pat the back of your head gently as you rest it in the crook of his neck. He’s not one for much physical affection but he knows that you are, so he always accepts your hugs. It makes you appreciate him all the more.

“Okay, I’m good,” you say after a bit, finally letting Yoongi go, snatching the bottle from his hands and moving to put it on ice just so you have something to do. He doesn’t even protest, just lets you take it from him. He really is a great best friend.

“Um,” you call out from your place in the living room, “Jungkook, you remember Yoongi, right?”

You turn around in time to see Jungkook and Yoongi shaking hands and exchanging greetings. Seeing two of your worlds coming together so visibly makes you feel warm inside.

Next to make an appearance is Jungkook’s best man, Namjoon. He’s taller than Jungkook, and he’s wearing round glasses and a black turtleneck sweater. He bows his head politely upon seeing you, and then he gives Jungkook one of those man hugs that you don’t understand. When they part, Jungkook continues looking up at Namjoon with something akin to stars in his eyes. He must really admire the guy.

“Good to see you again,” Namjoon says just as politely as he had nodded at you earlier. You try to hold back a giggle at his formality. Maybe he’ll loosen up with some wine like he seemed to at your wedding.

“It’s good to see you again, too,” you reply similarly. One thing you know about Namjoon is that he tends to be polite when he’s nervous, so you mimic his greeting in an attempt to assuage any anxiety he might be experiencing. Based on the way he smiles at you, you think your efforts are successful.

You and Jungkook lead Namjoon to the living room, where Yoongi is already sitting comfortably with a full glass in hand. Namjoon sits down just as politely as he speaks, but before you have the chance to introduce the two, Yoongi suddenly asks him, “Do I know you from somewhere? I meant to ask you at the wedding but never got the chance.”

Namjoon pauses pouring himself a glass, seeming a little taken aback by Yoongi’s directness. Still, he says, “Um, I’m not sure. What do you do for work?”

Soon after Namjoon and Yoongi begin trying to figure out how they might know each other, your old neighbor Seokjin shows up with an entire roast chicken in hand, which you don’t remember asking him to bring but appreciate all the same. He gives you the best side hug he can with one arm full, and then you lead him to the kitchen so he can put the bird down.

“So,” he starts once you reach the kitchen, no tact in his voice whatsoever. “How are things going? Are they going? Are you two in love yet?" he asks outright, fluttering his eyelashes and drawing out the ‘o’ in ‘love’.

You hit his arm lightly while giving him your best expression of offense, and he seems to snap out of it. After sticking out his tongue at you, he begins looking around in your cabinets and drawers for the things he needs to serve the chicken.

He whips back around to face you, sharp knife in hand and unadulterated glee on his face, when you quietly say, “Nothing’s happened, but you already know I like him. I told you, like, last week.” You can feel your cheeks blazing at the admission you never thought you’d make out loud. Meanwhile, Seokjin has put the knife down on the counter (thankfully) and is now jumping up and down in place, flapping his hands, and making a noise similar to a squeal.

You want to hit him again, but you suppose he has a right to be excited for you. He sort of took you under his wing when you were neighbors, treating you to meals and babysitting your plants any time you were away. He’s also the only one who knows your deepest secret - that you want to fall in love and be loved in return.

It had just sort of slipped out one day, You both had had some wine and were talking about life when you suddenly confessed to wanting real, honest love rather than a lonely arranged partnership. You just couldn’t keep it to yourself anymore. Seokjin, in turn, had confessed that he liked spending time with you more than with his assigned wife. You both may have shed a few tears at your predicaments.

Instead of resorting to physical violence twice in the span of thirty seconds, you give Seokjin your best attempt at a withering stare. He stops jumping and puts his hands up in defeat, muttering out, “Fine, fine,” which appeases you greatly. Before you can leave the kitchen, however, he gives you a mischievous smile and tacks on, “Just so you know, though, I’m rooting for you two.”

You hit him again.

While Seokjin continues fiddling around in the kitchen and the other guys are mingling (it turns out that Yoongi and Namjoon both make music and know some of the same people), your favorite coworker Hoseok comes bounding through the door and almost knocks you over with the force of his hug. He’s still vibrating with energy when he lets go of you, and his soft, heart-shaped smile makes you feel more at ease than you have been so far tonight.

“I’ve missed you!” he practically shouts as he looks at you fondly, still holding onto your shoulders. “Work hasn’t been the same without you there.”

You know he’s referring to the sixty days that new couples are required to spend away from work ‘getting to know each other’ after first getting married, which is just a nice way to say you’re meant to spend that time making babies. While the thought of having children (and making children) with Jungkook is extremely appealing to you, that’s all it is right now. Just a thought. You’re not even sure Jungkook is totally comfortable sharing a bed with you yet.

“Just a few more weeks and I’ll be back!” you practically shout back at him. Hoseok’s energy has always been infectious to the point that you sometimes end up mirroring his seemingly limitless joy. It’s always made work much more bearable for you. Thinking about it and having Hoseok here in front of you now makes you realize how much you really do miss your job.

Just as Hoseok joins the others in the living room and begins picking chicken off of Seokjin’s plate, there is another knock at the door. Before you can move to answer it, however, Jungkook urges you to sit in the living room while he answers it instead. You wonder how Jungkook can possibly know that his best friend is behind the door, but sure enough, he opens it and there stands Taehyung. His entire outfit says ‘artist,’ from the beret sitting crookedly atop his head to the brown corduroy pants adorning his long legs. Jungkook gives Taehyung one of the most sincere hugs you’ve ever seen him give another person, and when they part they move toward each other once more to briefly touch foreheads. It’s a sweet gesture, one that you decide is fitting of someone like Jungkook.

Once the two men completely separate, Taehyung looks at you with shining eyes and immediately moves toward you for a hug. You’re surprised by the gesture, but you accept it anyway. Before he pulls away from you, Taehyung whispers into your ear, “Jungkook told me you like hugs, so I hope this is okay.”

Your eyes widen a bit at this information. Jungkook talks to his friends about the things you like? How did he even know that about you? Did you tell him and forget about it? Was he just able to figure that out about you by himself? Either way, you find yourself nodding at Taehyung as you two end your hug. He gives you a boxy smile in return, shoulders scrunched up to his ears. You decide then and there that you like Taehyung already.

The last to arrive is one of Jungkook’s childhood friends, Jimin. He looks a little frazzled, with wild eyes peeking out from behind his designer sunglasses and silvery-grey hair standing on end. (You soon realize his hair looks like that because he constantly runs his hands through it.) You try not to eavesdrop as Jimin greets Jungkook at the door, but you swear you hear Jimin say something about hoping Taehyung might not be here. Before you can wonder what he means, however, you hear Jungkook chuckle and respond with something that sounds like “It’s no big deal, you’ll be fine.”

Jungkook leads Jimin into the living room, where the rest of you are talking loudly amongst yourselves, various open bottles of wine and plates of roast chicken littering the coffee table. Taehyung looks up from his drink as the two enter the room, and he positively beams at Jimin. He pats the open space next to him on your big lounge chair, and after a moment of hesitation, Jimin smiles back and makes his way over to that spot. The two begin murmuring to each other, and finally your attention is pulled away from them when Jungkook plops down next to you on the couch and pats your knee gently. You bring your foot up under your other leg and rest your knee on Jungkook’s thigh. He keeps his hand on you.

It’s comforting to have him there, touching you. You didn’t realize it before this moment, but you were pretty nervous about having tonight go well. Having Jungkook next to you, wanting the same thing as you, makes you feel like you might not be alone in your other desires, either.

His touch comforts you to the point that you even miss the butterflies in your stomach.

Your curiosity about Jimin’s words gets the better of you, so you lean over and whisper to Jungkook, “What’s up with those two?” while gesturing across the room as subtly as you can.

Jungkook peers over at you with an unreadable face and whispers back, “I’ll tell you later.”

You don’t push him, and you move your questions to the back of your mind for after everyone leaves.

You pour yourself a glass of wine and sit back against the couch, careful to not give Jungkook a reason to take his hand off of you just yet. You turn to Seokjin and Hoseok, only to find that they’re in the middle of a heated debate about whether barbeque or garlic fried chicken is better. (How could you do this to me? And after all the meals I’ve cooked for you!” Seokjin cried when you had sided with Hoseok in the barbeque camp. You clinked glasses with Hoseok in solidarity while Seokjin continued to grumble without any real malice behind it.)

You then find yourself distracted by Yoongi and Namjoon animatedly discussing digital audio workstations, which you only know anything about because Yoongi used to have you sit in his room in college and listen to him excitedly talk about the newest software he had bought with the money he earned from delivering pizzas. You personally think that MixPad is better than FocusRite, but you like watching them talk it out themselves rather than offering your own two cents. From what you can tell, Namjoon seems to be really knowledgeable about the subject as a whole. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Yoongi look at another person so intensely.

Once you lose track of what Yoongi and Namjoon are saying, you turn your head once again to find that Jimin and Taehyung are happily cuddling in your big chair, giant smiles plastered on both of their faces.

“How did you two meet?” you ask, hoping that’s not too invasive of a question.

Taehyung tears his eyes away from Jimin long enough to look at you, still looking giddy. “We met through Jungkook, actually. They were friends when they were kids and I met Jungkook when we were teenagers, and when it turned out that Jimin and I were going to be in the same year at the same college, Jungkook basically forced us to get to know each other so we could all be friends.”

You barely have time to say, “Aw, that’s sweet,” before Taehyung is back to looking at Jimin again. You don’t blame him. You turn to Jungkook instead.

“That was really cool of you to do,” you say to him while giving him a little nudge. “Bringing them together like that.”

You can tell that Jungkook is trying not to smile into his glass as he takes a sip. His ears are red, though, giving away how pleased he is with your compliment. “Thanks,” he mumbles into his wine. He gives your leg a little squeeze, and you both turn back to your guests.

After a little while of drinking, catching up with your old friends, and getting to know your new ones (you were right, Namjoon did loosen up after having some wine), you break out the board games. Soon enough, though, you discover that the majority of the people you’re playing with are a bunch of cheaters.

You catch Taehyung shoving Clue cards up his sleeve on more than one occasion, Hoseok doesn’t include all of the epidemic cards in the deck during your game of Pandemic, Seokjin keeps adding extra trains to his part of the board during Ticket to Ride, Namjoon and Jimin don’t call each other out for giving incorrect clues during Taboo, and Yoongi quits right in the middle of Secret Hitler because he’s ‘tired of being a liberal every time.’ The only one playing the games honestly with you is Jungkook, and that makes you happier than you think it should.

You eventually threaten the whole room, wine-tipsy as they are, with permanent exile from your apartment if they cheat at the next game, to which you receive grumbles of agreement that they will play correctly from now on. With a satisfied smile, you begin handing out the cards. A few riveting rounds of Sushi Go later, everyone seems to have paired off.

Yoongi and Namjoon are back to talking about music, and have even exchanged numbers with the promise that they’ll meet up sometime to work on something together. Hoseok and Seokjin have engaged each other in a pun war of sorts, trying to one-up the other with their best jokes about chickens. Taehyung and Jimin are giggling quietly at each other, still sitting together in your big chair. Their legs are tangled up, and they haven’t taken their eyes off each other since the last game ended. It’s sweet.

While you are looking around happily at your friends, you feel the same hand on your knee that comforted you earlier. This time, though, with your nervousness having dissipated, you focus on his hand more than you did before. This time, you easily recognize the butterflies that always seem to accompany Jungkook’s touch on your skin. Just for today, you decide to bask in his warmth and allow the butterflies to flourish inside you.

Just for today.

~~~

It’s past midnight when everyone eventually leaves. You can feel the exhaustion in your bones, but you’re happier than you’ve been in a while. Everyone seemed to have a good time together, you were able to see some of your closest friends, and you were paired up with Jungkook for most of the games. Additionally, you were able to see Jungkook interact with his friends in a way that you had never seen before tonight. You feel like you’ve gotten to know him more just from witnessing him be with the people he cares about. It makes you want to have even more game nights.

You’re bringing dishes from the living room to the kitchen for Jungkook to wash when you remember you had wanted to ask him about his two friends. You place the few wine glasses you’re holding down gently on the countertop next to the sink, then you bring it up.

“Are you okay talking about Jimin and Taehyung?” you ask tentatively from behind Jungkook. “You seemed kind of concerned about them earlier.”

Jungkook stops washing the dish he’s holding and sighs audibly, letting his shoulders drop and his head fall back. “Yeah,” he says anyway, and waves you toward the sink so he can see you while he talks. You hop up onto the counter next to him and swing your legs out in front of you absentmindedly while he continues to clean the plate in front of him.

“So,” Jungkook starts, “Jimin is going to get his pairing from the elders soon.”

You hum to yourself in thought. Even though you had only really just met Jimin officially, you could tell that he and Taehyung had something between them. From the way they smiled shyly at each other on their shared seat to the way they played the games together throughout the evening, it was clear that there were feelings other than ones of friendship present there. How would Jimin’s pairing affect the dynamic between them?

“But he and Taehyung…” you voice your thoughts about the two out loud, but trail off.

Jungkook has a sort of grave look on his face. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him look like that. The corners of his mouth are downturned and his eyes have little life in them when he says, “Yeah, I know. Jimin is going to get his pairing but he doesn’t know if he’ll accept it or not. Because the thing is that Taehyung rejected his own pairing.”

Your eyes practically bulge out of your head at that, but you don’t say anything. You want Jungkook to keep talking. This is the most interesting story you’ve heard in weeks.

“Yeah, that’s what I did, too,” Jungkook says, referring to your wide eyes. “I’d never met anyone who had rejected their pairing before Taehyung did it. He seemed so sure about it, too. Then, get this, he told me the reason he rejected his pairing was because he’s in love with Jimin. So, naturally, I ask him if Jimin feels the same way, and he just goes, ‘I have no idea.’ No idea! He rebelled against the entire system and yet he had no idea how Jimin felt about him.”

Realization hits you in that moment, so you ask, “Was that why Jimin said he was hoping Taehyung wouldn’t be here tonight? Because he feels pressured to reject his pairing for Taehyung?”

Jungkook is nodding before you even finish your question. “Yeah, that’s why. It turned out that Jimin does also have feelings for Taehyung, but Jimin is way less fearless than Taehyung is. He doesn’t know what will happen if he rejects his pairing. He doesn’t want to lose his family or the life he has right now. That’s why he was nervous about Taehyung being here tonight, because he wants to make that decision on his own, and not with any outside influence. But at the same time, Taehyung already did all that, and Jimin doesn’t want it to be for nothing.”

You wait for Jungkook to finish his speech before making so much as a sound. It seems like he really needed to get this out, like it had been weighing on him heavily. He’s never really confided in you about… well, anything. You just know this is a step in the right direction. (You might not be sure what the direction is, exactly, but you still feel good about it.) 

What you want to say in response to Jungkook’s words is, “If they’re in love, there shouldn’t be a decision to make.” But you know it’s more complicated than that. You have no idea what it’s like for people who rebel against the elders’ decisions. While Taehyung seemed happy and carefree all throughout the evening, you don’t know anything about what his life is like when he leaves the safe space of your apartment. With that in mind, all you can bring yourself to say is, “That’s a big decision to make.”

Jungkook nods again, then goes back to washing the dish in his hands. You continue sitting on the counter, thinking. Though your own greatest dream is to be in love, you didn’t even reject your pairing to try to find it. You figure the two must be quite different, wishing for love and actually experiencing it. If love is strong enough to make people go against the elders, what else are people in love capable of doing?

You’re snapped out of your reverie when Jungkook calls your name.

“Huh?” you say distractedly.

Jungkook moves away from the sink and comes to stand in front of you, coming to a stop between your legs, still dangling from the counter. As soon as he stops moving, your heart stops beating from his proximity. He still smells like soap, the way he did when he helped you out of your wedding dress. You never knew the smell of soap could be so intoxicating. He’s so close, you can even see flecks of gold in his chocolate eyes that you’ve never noticed before, like pieces of treasure just waiting to be found.

You’re not sure why he’s so close to you, but you remind yourself to be logical. He’s just concerned about how quiet you’ve become. Or you have something on your face that he’s going to remove. Yeah, that’s it.

“Are you okay?” he asks, confirming your suspicions about his concern for you. You nod at him, smiling as he rests his hands on the counter beside your thighs. He’s so close to you, and you briefly hope that he can’t hear how wildly your heart is beating in your chest. You could kiss him right now without a problem. You’re barely able to focus on your conversation with him when the only things in your field of vision are his soft, wine-stained lips and the adorable mole underneath them.

Yeah. You definitely want to kiss him.

“You sure?” he presses. You nod again, worried about your ability to speak properly in this moment. You then yawn without warning.

“Yeah, I’m just tired,” you say, as if your yawn needed explaining.

“Okay,” he says through his own yawn. “Want to go to bed?”

There are a lot of things you want, most of which involve having Jungkook’s mouth on yours right this very second. Thoughts of the elders, marriage, pairings, love and rebellion still fly around in your head, but none of them outweigh your desire to kiss your husband.

Instead of voicing any of those thoughts, however, you just sigh and say, “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go to bed.”

~~~

Nothing could have prepared you for the onslaught of pain and discomfort you are currently experiencing. You are presently lying on the bathroom floor after heaving over the toilet for about the twelfth time. Your body is burning from the inside out with fever, your chills have you shivering uncontrollably, and to top it all off you’ve just started your period as well. So, in addition to the regular aches and pains that come with being sick, you have cramps that you know will only get worse, your mood is going to take a dive, and you’re more than likely going to ruin at least one pair of underwear this week. Fantastic.

You had gone to bed the night before already feeling under the weather, and you had just called out of work before you told Jungkook about it, in case he didn’t feel comfortable sharing a bed with a potentially sick person. You certainly hadn’t expected him to give up the entire bed for you so you could sleep comfortably. When you had protested, he had said he wanted you to be able to sleep for as long as you needed, and he didn’t want to accidentally wake you up while he was getting ready for work the next morning. He even took all his necessities out of the bedroom and said he could just get ready at the gym instead of using your ensuite bathroom. How thoughtful.

Now that you think about it, as you lean away from the toilet and try to breathe normally for longer than two minutes at a time, you missed getting to see Jungkook before he went to work today. While it is true that he always wakes you up when he’s getting ready, you’ve come to find that you might like that part of your day with him the most.

Each morning, you get to stay in bed and be sleepy while you watch Jungkook move deftly around your bedroom, trying to slick his hair back properly or button the buttons on his shirt cuffs. (You love when he wears dress shirts because you usually have to help him with those exact buttons. He always smiles at you fondly while you do it, appreciative of your willingness to assist him. You, in turn, think it’s sweet that he looks to you for help when he struggles, even though it is with something small like shirt buttons. It makes you smile back at him every time.)

Additionally, you always end up talking about what your respective days will look like at work or the new episode of Survivor you watched together the night before. You discuss what you want to have for dinner, talk about whether or not you’ll see any friends this weekend, or play a game of Would You Rather?

Last week you had a pretty intense debate about which fictional characters you thought would survive a zombie apocalypse. (While you went into it thinking the cast of The Walking Dead would stand the best chance, you ended up agreeing with Jungkook’s choice of the Archer cast in the end, seeing as the title character had literally died and been brought back to life over the course of one episode.)

Through these mornings spent together, you’ve been able to see each other at your groggiest and crankiest, and it feels so domestic. It feels natural.

You imagine a couple in love would do the same.

It’s a thought you’ve been having about a lot of seemingly mundane things lately - the way you and Jungkook share a blanket while you watch badly reviewed horror movies, the way he always gives you some of his dessert because he knows you have a serious sweet tooth, the way you both end up using each other’s shampoo when you run out of your own.

You used to try to shove the thoughts down to where even you couldn’t reach them, but recently your growing feelings for Jungkook have been making those same thoughts of happy couples bubble up to the surface of your consciousness. The thoughts make you happy, and if you’re honest, so does Jungkook. You’ve developed a kind of friendship with him that you cherish, even if it came about in an unorthodox way. While your marriage isn’t based on love like you think marriages should be, you still make a good pair.

After downing some DayQuil and ibuprofen, you miraculously make it to the living room somehow and you lay down gingerly on the couch. You decide to turn on some Jeopardy! reruns to distract yourself from your abundant pain. You text Jungkook to let him know how you feel and to ask him to bring home some more pain meds when he gets off of work tonight. You then snuggle deeper into your blanket burrito and try to rest your tired eyes while you listen to Alex Trebek calmly reading clues to his contestants. Full of medication and practically swathed in your blanket like a baby, you eventually fall asleep.

You wake up some time later to a throbbing headache and the sounds of Alex Trebek on your television replaced with the sounds of someone cooking in your kitchen. You check your phone to find that it is only 12:03pm and you immediately shoot up from your place on the couch, only to fall right back down when a new wave of nausea hits you. You choke it back enough to weakly say, “Hello?” and hope that there isn’t a murderer making something delicious in your kitchen before killing you.

You hear a noncommittal noise from over the back of the couch, and you open your eyes (when had you closed them?) to find Jungkook towering over you, chewing something thoughtfully. Before you can scold him for almost making you have a panic attack while you’re already sick, he walks around to your side of the couch and sits down carefully, then lifts a spoon from somewhere and brings it to your mouth, making you go cross-eyed to see it and asking you very seriously, “Does this taste okay?”

You can’t believe your ears. He didn’t even say hello, he just shoved a spoonful of something in your face and asked you to taste it. Why did he do that? Why does he look so... contemplative while he eats? Does he always have his brows knit together and his mouth turned into a serious-looking frown like that while he chews? Why haven’t you ever noticed before? You think you might vomit again.

Your disbelief and hesitance to try whatever is in that spoon must show on your face, because Jungkook removes the utensil from your personal space and follows his original question up with a much more timid, “Is everything okay?”

“I, uh...” you start. Is everything okay? There isn’t a murderer in your house after all, which is a huge plus, but it’s only noon and Jungkook is here instead of at work, and he’s cooking. What is he doing here? Did something happen at work? Did he get fired? Why can’t you ever turn off your brain? The thoughts of Jungkook’s employment status swim through your head and make you dizzier than you already are from the fever.

“What are you making? It smells really good,” you finish, voice hoarse. You haven’t spoken a single word yet today, partly because you’ve been sleeping and partly because the effort it takes for you to speak in your sickened state is simply too much for you to handle. You figure it’ll be worth it this one time, though, just to make Jungkook look less nervous. You don’t understand why he still looks so nervous around you sometimes.

A look of relief washes over Jungkook’s face and he visibly relaxes. He hops off the couch to go back into the kitchen and continue stirring the pot of whatever he’s making. It smells like... chicken noodle soup? You’re not quite sure, but it smells delicious. Your stomach growls without warning.

“I’m making you soup!” Jungkook says cheerily from his place at the stove. He doesn’t elaborate, so you use up most of the strength you have left to get off the couch and waddle gracelessly to the kitchen in your blanket burrito. You slowly take your place at the kitchen table and lay your head down on it to try to ease some of your lightheadedness.

“But –“ you stop to take in a breath and let your stomach settle. “But why are you here? Why aren’t you at work?”

Jungkook stops stirring the pot of soup (it’s definitely chicken noodle) and stands up a bit straighter. He has his back to you, and you can see a faint blush creeping up from under his collar. He puts his free hand behind him and scratches at his neck, a habit you’ve come to learn he turns to when he doesn’t know what to say. It’s cute. Your heart might flutter a little whenever he does it.

He mumbles something you can’t discern, so you say, “Huh? Sorry, I can’t hear well when I’m sick like this.”

Jungkook quickly turns around to face you, his cheeks and ears just as red as his neck. He’s looking anywhere but at you, and he’s fiddling with his wedding band.

“They said in sickness and in health, right? The vows, I mean. They said in sickness and in health, and you’re sick, so... I’m here.”

Your heart is definitely fluttering now, and you don’t try to stop it. Where did this come from? He’s been sweet to you since you first met him, but he’s never directly referenced your wedding vows before as a reason for his demeanor towards you. You didn’t think your vows meant that much to him.

Oh, wait.

Maybe they don’t.

The butterflies inside you die just as soon as they had come to life. You keep forgetting that this marriage only exists on paper. Jungkook may care about you, but not in the way you hope he does. He was forced into this just as much as you were. He must feel a sense of duty and obligation toward you because you’re married and because you’re friends now.

But still... he didn’t have to come home in the middle of the day. That was his choice. And why did he turn so red before he mentioned your vows? If this was about duty and obligation, you’re sure he would be able to keep his cool around you and not get so flustered.

You smile despite yourself, and you lift your head off the table just as Jungkook brings two steaming bowls of soup over and sits down next to you. Before you dig in, though, Jungkook suddenly perks up and moves to stand.

“Where are you going?” you ask as you take your first bite. You were right, it is chicken noodle soup, and it’s delicious. There are carrots and celery in it (just the way you like it), the noodles are cooked perfectly, and the chicken practically melts in your mouth. The soup tastes like your mom’s. When did you ever tell Jungkook about your mom’s recipe?

Jungkook doesn’t answer you, just walks out of sight toward the front door. You hear the crinkling sound of a plastic bag, and then he reappears at the table as fast as he had left.

“I didn’t know what meds you wanted, so I just got… a bunch of them,” he says, pouring an obscene amount of pill bottles onto the table. There are blue bottles, pink bottles, tiny bottles, bottles so wide you’re sure you couldn’t wrap your hand around them if you tried. You almost spit out your soup with a laugh, and a sheepish grin makes its way onto Jungkook’s face.

“Thank you,” you say sincerely. “Why are you getting these out all of a sudden?” You honestly can’t believe he bought you so many different kinds of pills. You must have not specified which pills you needed when you texted him earlier this morning. The fact that he didn’t want to disturb you to ask you which ones you wanted almost makes you cry with affection.

“Well, you were sleeping for a while, and I figured you woke up because the ones you took before wore off. Was I right?” Jungkook’s embarrassed smile has been replaced by a look that is much more self-assured. You can’t decide which look you like more on him.

You smile cheekily back at him and reply, “Yeah, you’re right.” You sift through the pill bottles until you find the right ones, you knock them back with your water (“You need fluids!” Jungkook practically yelled at you in concern when you complained that you wanted a soda instead), and you finish off your soup with vigor, not realizing how hungry you had actually been before eating.

Before you can move to get up and bring your bowl to the sink, Jungkook beats you to it, swiftly gathering your dishes together and carrying them over to the opposite side of the kitchen. His shirt sleeves are rolled up in the same way they were on your wedding night, and you can’t help but stare at the ever-present vein that runs up his arm. You think about how painfully shy he was when you first met, and how he still is sometimes. You also think about how he has slowly come out of his protective shell since you’ve been living together, even if he does still act skittish around you sometimes. From every angle, inside and out, Jungkook is beautiful.

“I could have done that,” you say, just to get your mind off of how much Jungkook has come to mean to you in the past months. You might even venture to say he’s become one of your best friends.

Jungkook turns around and leans against the countertop, brows knit together and mouth turned downward slightly. He’s thinking.

“You haven’t stood up in a little while,” he says finally. “Are you sure you could have?”

You immediately scoot your chair away from the table to prove it to him, only to realize that, no, you probably could not have brought your own dishes to the sink. You whine at your current state and Jungkook comes over to help you out of your chair and back to what, by now, is surely a germ-infested couch. However, instead of moving away from you as soon as you’re laying down again, Jungkook sits down right next to your feet, making himself at home on top of the part of your blanket that doesn’t cover you. His closeness electrifies you, even when you feel nothing but pain. You think he might be made of magic.

He reaches for the remote on the coffee table and says, as he turns on the television, “So we’re watching Jeopardy! reruns, right? Or do you want something different now?”

His tone is so gentle when he speaks to you, even more so than it usually is. You barely register what he says because you’re so focused on his lips when he speaks. You think that maybe this relationship is more than married people who are friends, more than duty and obligation. Maybe there is something else there after all.

You feel yourself blushing at the thought, but Jungkook doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy looking through the options on Netflix to perceive your inner turmoil for himself. You choose to simply watch him as he browses and finally makes a selection. You spend the next two hours immersed in the newest season of Big Mouth, but every now and then you steal a glance across the couch at Jungkook.

Most of the time, he’s looking back at you.

~~~

Six months into your marriage, you realize you are in a predicament.

You’ve tried to distract yourself with work, with friends, with anything, but it’s all been in vain. With some effort, you’ve finally come to the conclusion that nothing makes you happier than Jungkook.

Jungkook, who was so painfully shy and insecure on your wedding day that he almost cried when you showed him your Koya plushie.

Jungkook, who wanted your friends to get closer to his and organized a game night to make it happen.

Jungkook, who brought home an entire pharmacy and made your mom’s chicken noodle soup for you when you were sick.

Jungkook, who is perfect for you.

You are in a predicament, and your predicament is this: you have fallen, absolutely and irreversibly, in love with your husband.

And you know it’s only going to get worse.

You’re currently on your way back home from seeing a movie with Jungkook, running at full speed toward your apartment building to avoid being soaked by the rain that’s suddenly coming down in buckets. After slipping once or twice on the blacktop, you make it inside your building and head immediately for the elevator, excited to change out of your newly wet clothes and get in bed for the night.

You make it into the elevator and, with some effort, push the button for the seventh floor. You don’t realize how much you actually ran until you’ve stopped moving completely and are waiting for the elevator to arrive at your floor. You’re slightly hunched over and breathing heavily, and you look over to see that Jungkook is similarly affected by your sprint.

With a small chuckle, you stand up straight once more and quip, “For someone who goes to the gym so often, you sure look tired from that little run.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes at you but can’t hide his smile when he says, “One, that was a run with no warm-up! I always warm up first because I hate cardio. And two, you don’t look so g--”

His surely witty response is cut off by the elevator suddenly going dark and ceasing its upward movement. The unexpected stoppage causes you to lurch forward, crashing into Jungkook with a yelp and causing you both to tumble to the floor with a loud thud. You don’t even have time to freak out about basically laying on top of Jungkook on the floor of this elevator because you’re too busy freaking out about the possibility that the elevator itself will fall to the basement and kill you both.

You wait for a few moments, straining your ears to see if you can pick up any sound, any indication that the elevator is going to drop. When you hear nothing but silence, you turn your attention to the body underneath you, which is starting to squirm slightly. You quickly scramble off of Jungkook with a mumbled apology and get back to your feet, then begin to search your pockets for your phone so you can use its flashlight. Once you find your phone and turn on the flashlight, you begin looking around the elevator for the panel of buttons so you can hopefully get to your destination and leave your tiny prison.

While Jungkook is struggling to his feet with a groan, you find the panel and push the button for the seventh floor, but nothing happens. You try again. Nothing. You try the button to open the doors. Nothing. You try the button for the lobby. Nothing. You try all the remaining buttons, including the panic button. Nothing.

You’re trapped in the elevator.

Panic begins to overtake you as you realize what’s happening. Your breath starts coming in short, quick pants that you can’t control. Your entire body feels rigid, like you could break in half if someone so much as touched you. Your vision is blurry and unfocused; you might be seeing double. You’re unsure. It doesn’t help that your only light source is a phone flashlight. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, the sound trying to claw its way out of you and into the small space the elevator provides. The same thought keeps cycling through your mind, leaving room for nothing else. I can’t get out.

Panic attacks used to be a daily occurrence for you years ago (for reasons you would rather not discuss), but these days you only have one every few months, which is a great improvement if you do say so yourself. You’ve learned how to avoid them when possible and, when you do have one, how to get through them.

This is one of those times when you need to get through it.

You know one of the only ways for you to overcome a panic attack is for you to talk it out with someone, but the only person in this space with you is Jungkook, and until now you have avoided letting him be aware of this part of you, since being vulnerable around him is still difficult for you. You don’t want him to think any less of you or to think you’re being dramatic. You’re not sure how you would cope if Jungkook thought those things about you, so you haven’t ever given him the chance.

You consider trying to ignore the anxiety bubbling inside you, but you know that will only make it worse for you and will likely send you into a full-on meltdown, which you desperately want to avoid having in front of your husband. With that in mind, you take in a shaky breath to try to calm your nerves a bit before you speak. Even so, you can’t help how small you sound when you say, “Um, hey, Jungkook?”

Jungkook, who is looking at the elevator buttons exasperatedly with his own flashlight, mutters out a “Hm?”

“Um, would you mind turning your flashlight off for a second?” you ask while turning your own off.

Jungkook is still looking at the buttons. “Huh? Why?” he says distractedly.

A tear slips from your eye and down your cheek as you turn away from him, crouching to the floor to hold yourself. Your hands feel slightly numb, and your brain is screaming a million different things at you. You understand none of them.

“Because, um, I don’t want you to see me, um, cry right now.”

Not even a full second goes by before the elevator is once again cloaked in darkness. While you’re thankful and relieved that he listened to you, you’re unable to stop the tiny sob that escapes your lips. You can hear Jungkook take in a breath as he opens his mouth to speak. You’re prepared for the worst when he says, “What do you need from me?”

You cover your mouth in an attempt to muffle your cries. You didn’t think it was possible for Jungkook to be any more perfect than you already thought he was. He’s good at proving you wrong about that.

Jungkook must hear your weeping anyway, though, because he continues, tentatively asking, “Wait, did I say the wrong thing?” He keeps speaking after that, seemingly more to himself than to you, saying, “Dammit, I really suck at this.”

You stop your quiet bawling long enough to emphatically say, “No! No, you didn’t say the wrong thing at all. You said exactly what I needed to hear. Thank you.”

“I did? I mean, okay, so what should I do?” Jungkook asks, still sounding unsure.

“This. Keep doing this. Talking to me, I mean. I need to get my mind off of what’s happening. Talk about anything, and get me to answer you,” you say through your tears. Your voice is already steadier when you speak, and the million thoughts in your brain seem to have silenced themselves. You feel clearer.

Jungkook makes a sound of realization at your words, then does exactly as you asked.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Orange.”

“What time do you usually wake up in the morning?”

“Um, around 8:00.”

“Okay, uh… oh, since you can’t see, what are three things that you can feel right now?”

You’re taken aback for a moment, as that’s a question that people who know you well have asked you during panic attacks. After a beat of silence, you answer, “Um, I can feel my phone in my hand. I can feel my hair getting the back of my shirt wet. And I can feel you.”

“Cool. Wait, what?” Jungkook says, sounding confused. “What do you mean, me?”

For just a moment, you’re glad you’re in the dark, because you’re surely blushing right now. “I mean that I can feel your presence next to me, your warmth. Like, even when you’re not speaking, I can tell that you’re there. Does that make sense?”

You hear feet shuffling on the carpeted floor, and then Jungkook speaks. “I, uh… I think so, yeah. I can feel, um… I can feel you too,” he finishes, sounding more certain than he did when he started speaking. You wonder if he’s just saying that for your benefit, or if he really can feel you. You hope it’s the latter.

Still feeling shaky, you ask Jungkook, “Can you tell me a story? Any story, I don’t care. I just like listening to you talk.” You close your eyes, even though you can’t see Jungkook at the moment. You feel like you need an extra layer of protection from the confession you just made to him. If he picks up on the confession, though, he doesn’t mention it. You’re thankful.

“Oh, okay, um… do you want to hear the stolen underwear story or the drunk karaoke story?” He asks the question quickly, as if those are the two stories he whips out at parties without a problem.

Both of those options sound extremely ridiculous to you, but you find yourself smiling slightly when you answer, “The underwear one.”

You hear a small snicker in the darkness. That alone is somehow enough to help you feel a little less panicked. Then Jungkook starts speaking.

“So basically, I went to this summer camp when I was like thirteen, and I had to share a bunk with maybe six or seven other guys. The camp itself was great. It lasted most of the summer, and it’s how I met Taehyung. Anyway, somehow I had managed to lose about half of the underwear I had brought with me over the course of the summer, and I honestly thought it was just me being an idiot. So we got to the end of our time there and, since we all knew each other so well, we had like a roast session slash complain-about-your-campmates session.”

The story itself is pretty amusing, but what’s hilarious is how Jungkook is devolving into a fit of giggles while telling it. His voice is coming from somewhere at your level, telling you that he sat down at some point in the middle of his story. You’re glad that he came down to the floor to be near you, but you don’t say anything about it. You just listen as he continues, voice soothing your frazzled nerves.

“So I get up there and I’m like, ‘Yo, guys, whoever stole all my underwear better watch out,’ even though I thought I had just lost them myself. So after I go up there, Taehyung gets on the stage and he looks really apologetic. I’m wondering why, because he had told me what he was going to say before we got up there. So he gets up there, and he looks right at me, and he just goes, ‘Jungkook, I’m sorry for stealing your underwear.’”

Now it’s your turn to giggle. You never would have pegged Taehyung for an underwear thief. Just listening to Jungkook’s story and his laughter is calming you down further from your panic. Even though you may not be out of the woods yet, you appreciate Jungkook’s efforts to help you more than you can say.

Jungkook’s laughter dies down after a bit, and a comfortable silence falls over the tiny space you’re occupying. Soon enough, though, you hear the sound of a throat clearing, and then his voice asks, “How are you doing now?”

You sniff slightly before answering, “A little better. I really appreciate that you listened to me instead of just trying to fix the problem. Most people would have just tried to call maintenance first instead of helping me. So thank you.”

You hear the telltale sign of Jungkook scratching at the back of his neck. He doesn't know what to say. You're too panicked out to worry about whether you've made him uncomfortable, and even if you had the energy to wonder about it, you wouldn't need to do so for long anyway, because he does end up speaking.

"Um, you're welcome. But to be honest, I don't feel like I did much. This was all you."

At his statement, you find yourself groping through the dark to find him where he sits. You're not sure why he thinks he didn’t have a hand in you calming down, but you’re suddenly very determined to set him straight. It matters to you that he put in work to help you feel better, and he should know that.

Once you manage to touch his shoulder, he yelps in surprise and you chuckle. You feel your way down his arms until you reach his hands, warm despite the icy rain outside, and you squeeze them tightly.

"Please believe me when I say this," you state as assertively as you can. "The reason I can talk to you normally right now has nothing to do with me. I owe that to you. You were everything I needed to get through that. Thank you."

You can't believe you're being so up-front with Jungkook right now. Perhaps it's the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. Regardless of the reason, though, you find that you don't regret anything you've said to him in this elevator. If you had the option to take back your words about how to calm you down or about how you like listening to Jungkook speak, you wouldn’t. It all felt right.

“You’re welcome,” Jungkook says after a pause. “And thank you, too. You know, for… letting me help you. Thank you for trusting me.”

You let out a breath and squeeze his hands again. “Is it okay if I hug you?” you ask before you can stop yourself. While you would consider the two of you to be close at this point, you’ve never hugged each other before. Now feels like the opportune time for it to finally happen and for you to become closer physically, just as you did metaphorically through the words you shared while trapped here together.

Jungkook seems to give his answer the same amount of thought that you gave your question, because he immediately says, “Yes. Yes, definitely.” He sounds slightly breathless when he says it.

You let go of his hands and feel for his shoulders again. Once you find them, you pull Jungkook into a gentle hug, made only slightly awkward by your sitting positions. Your head rests in the crook of Jungkook’s neck, and you breathe out a sigh. His hands settle on the small of your back, thumbs moving up and down the material of your shirt reassuringly.

You can’t believe you’ve never hugged this man before now. You fit together perfectly, even when you’re both sitting. You wonder what it would be like to hug while standing, or to cuddle while laying down. You hope this is the first of many hugs with Jungkook.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Jungkook’s voice, quiet and calm in your ear. “Not to be an ass, but would this be an okay time to call maintenance?”

You huff out a laugh into his neck and mumble an agreement, then begin to disentangle yourself from him. 

You watch Jungkook as he looks up and calls the apartment complex’s maintenance number. You then slowly get back to your feet, turn your flashlight back on, and make your way back to the button panel. You press each button again, one by one. No luck. With a sigh, you turn back to Jungkook, who has just finished his call.

“What did they say?” you ask, sounding tired to your own ears. You feel tired, too.

Jungkook looks at you with a kind of grimace on his face. “The guy can come reset the breaker or whatever, but he’s already dealing with a flooded bathtub in another building, so he doesn’t think he’ll be able to come over here for a while.”

“Oh,” you say, “okay. What should we do?” You have to tell yourself that there is no use panicking a second time. Luckily, your rational side wins this battle with your emotions.

“Wait, you’re not upset?” Jungkook asks, sounding a bit disbelieving.

“Not really,” you reply. “I already kind of tired myself out. And besides, you’re here. So I’ll be okay.”

You swear you can see Jungkook blush.

~~~

“Never have I ever…” You chew on your lip as you try to think of something else that you have never done. “Oh! Never have I ever broken a bone.”

Jungkook lets out a chuckle and puts a finger down. He only has one out of five left up.

It’s been over two hours since you first entered the elevator. Over two hours since the thing stopped functioning properly, leaving you and Jungkook stuck together in its tiny space. Maintenance still hasn’t shown up to fix it, meaning that the two of you have had to find ways to occupy yourselves. You’ve turned your flashlights back on and settled your phones against the elevator walls for some visibility, and you’ve been playing games since then.

“Okay, my go,” Jungkook says, bouncing a little where he sits. He scrunches his face up in thought, looking to the ceiling. He’s so cute like this, you think. You want to reach out and hug him again, just to feel his strong arms around you. But you don’t. For right now, just looking at him is enough.

He suddenly looks down from the ceiling and right at you, a glint in his eyes. You wonder what he’s going to say that has him giving you that look. It’s like he wants to know all your secrets. After today, you’d be more than willing to give them to him.

“Never have I ever been in love.”

Just as your heart promptly begins to break at his words, you notice movement from the corner of your eye. You look to his hand and find that he put his last finger down.

Just as soon as you begin to register that, yes, Jungkook has indeed been in love with at least one person in his life, you hear a chuckle that sounds almost forlorn. You move your eyes back to Jungkook’s face to find that he’s practically grimacing, and you give him a questioning look.

“Just me, huh?” Jungkook asks quietly, sadly.

“What do you mean?” you breathe out.

“You didn’t put a finger down,” he says as he points in your general direction. You peer down at your hand and realize that he’s right. Without looking up to see how he’ll react, you put one of your fingers down. You hear a small gasp and you glance up, meeting Jungkook’s wide eyes.

“Not just you,” you say softly, a sad smile on your face.

Jungkook seems to perk up a little at your words, but you can tell that he’s nervous now. He’s fiddling with his wedding band like he always does when he’s nervous. What does he have to be nervous about?

“Wait,” you say when Jungkook doesn’t speak up. “Why did you say something that you have done?”

In the dim lighting of your dying phones, it looks like Jungkook is blushing again. He scratches the back of his neck and then, without looking directly at you, says, “I wanted to know if you had.”

You can’t quite believe what you’re hearing. Is he trying to say what you think he is? You search Jungkook’s face until he focuses back on you, somewhat wistfully.

“Why does it matter if I have?” You can’t help but let hope bloom inside you as you await his next words. 

Jungkook lets out a sigh, closes his eyes, opens them again. He regards you with a determined look, then he finally speaks.

“Because then there might be a chance that you love me back.”

There is absolutely a chance, you think to yourself. You want to scream it from the rooftops, but instead you remain still in stunned silence. This is everything you’ve ever wanted, finally coming true. You’ve never desired anything as much as you desire to be loved, and now it’s finally happening. You know you need to speak soon, or you’ll risk making Jungkook think that you do not return his affections. Oh, how wrong he would be.

But, how will you tell him?

You glance down at your lap and see that you are still holding a finger up, even though you’ve already won the game. It gives you an idea. You hold up your last remaining finger and briefly look at Jungkook, who appears as though he might pass out from your silence. You would usually be amused by his expression of nervousness, but right now you’re too nervous about what you’re going to do next.

“Never have I ever kissed Jeon Jungkook,” you say quietly, putting your finger down. Before Jungkook even has the time to react to your statement, you’re crawling forward to where he sits, taking his face gently in both of your hands, and slotting your lips together.

You feel Jungkook sigh into your mouth and wrap his hands around your waist, just as he did when he hugged you earlier. You’ve never experienced a kiss like this one. It electrifies your very being from the inside out, while also being soft, gentle, sweet. Jungkook’s lips are like velvet, and he tastes like the Skittles you shared in the movie theater earlier tonight.

Wanting to be closer to him, you move to straddle Jungkook where he sits, pressing your chests together and moving your hands around to the back of his head. He responds eagerly, tightening his hold around your back without ever removing his mouth from yours. You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and he shivers slightly, so you continue your ministrations as his hands begin to fall lower.

Just when you think Jungkook is going to grab at your ass, the elevator’s lights come on and the thing roars to life, beginning to ascend once more. You take your lips off of Jungkook’s and he follows you with a whine, not wanting to stop despite the current circumstances. You giggle and place one final peck to his already kiss-bitten lips before climbing off of him and standing up. You help Jungkook to his feet, grab both of your phones from the floor, and turn off their flashlights before turning towards the elevator door, feeling lighter than air.

As the elevator continues to move, you see Jungkook out of the corner of your eye and you stifle a laugh. He’s pouting. Feeling brave after his confession and your kiss, you turn to him with a coy smile and say, “You can keep kissing me, you know.”

Jungkook’s face morphs from sullen into elated in an instant, and just like that he’s crowding into your space to kiss you again. He puts his hands on the sides of your head this time, moving his thumbs gently across your cheeks as he slips his tongue into your mouth.

As the elevator finally comes to a halt on your floor and the door opens, Jungkook doesn’t let up, continuing to kiss you fervently. He simply moves backwards out of the elevator and takes you with him. You smile into the kiss, euphoric over the fact that he wants you so much that he can’t stop kissing you while you walk the few feet from the elevator to your own door.

You delicately push Jungkook away from you so you can see the door behind him, but he is undeterred. He moves so that he stands behind you instead, pressing kisses to the back of your head, the part of your jaw that he can reach, the top of your neck. Now it’s your turn to shiver, as he has found your weak spot. You love few things more than neck kisses.

It takes most of the strength you possess to not let your knees buckle while Jungkook’s mouth is on your neck, but you manage to get your key into the lock and open the door to your apartment. You’ve barely gotten past the threshold and kicked off your shoes when Jungkook spins you around and kisses you hungrily, as if he’ll die if he doesn’t. You think you might die yourself.

You begin to back up until you find yourself against the wall of your entryway, Jungkook pinning you to the spot with his kisses. You put your hands back into his hair and he lets out a quiet moan into your mouth, bringing his hands down and around you to squeeze your ass. You never thought a sound could be so sexy. You decide you want to hear it every day.

Jungkook lets his mouth wander back over your jaw and down your neck. He finds your pulse point with ease and begins to suck, making you moan out loud. Jungkook freezes for a moment, as if surprised by what you’ve done. You notice quickly and use your hand to push Jungkook’s head back into your neck, whispering out a breathless, “Please don’t stop.”

You can feel Jungkook smile into your neck and then he gets back to work, littering your neck and collarbone with tiny purple marks. You can also feel a hardness at your belly, straining against Jungkook’s pants. You snake one of your hands down his chest and hook a couple of fingers underneath his waistband. You can feel Jungkook’s stomach tense up at your actions, so you pause, lick your lips and throatily ask, “Is this okay?”

Jungkook takes his mouth off of you just long enough to say, “God, yes.”

You don’t hesitate to move your hand further into Jungkook’s pants, past his coarse hair and right around the base of his cock. He hisses at the contact, moving one of his hands off of your ass to the front of your joggers. He begins massaging your aching center through your clothes and you sigh, your legs widening of their own accord.

You continue to move your hand over Jungkook’s cock as best you can while he’s still dressed. You don’t expect either of you to get off like this, but it’s still hot knowing that you couldn’t even get to a bed before you had each other.

Speaking of a bed, though...

“Jungkook. Bed. Now,” you practically choke out.

At your plea, Jungkook backs away from you just to pick you up and wrap your legs around his waist, carrying you easily to your bedroom. Once there, he proceeds to climb onto the bed with you still in his hold and lean forward slowly, laying you down as if in reverence. Once you’re splayed out beneath him, he takes a moment to gaze at you from above. He must like what he sees, because he gives you one of his big, bunny-like smiles before he’s back to kissing you.

You soon become impatient, however, wanting to close the distance between you both and rid your bodies of their clothes. You tap Jungkook lightly on the shoulder, and he backs away from your face to look at you. You’ve never seen someone look so beautiful.

Jungkook’s hair is in complete disarray from you putting your hands through it, his eyes are absolutely blown out, and his lips are raw and red from your kissing. He’s panting heavily and gazing at you with a look that you can’t describe as anything other than adoration.

You forget how to talk for a moment, so you just pout and tug at the hem of his shirt. He gets the picture, sitting back on his heels and peeling the offending article off of himself. You watch him from between the pillows, eyes darkening as you take in his toned form. You decide that Jungkook really was sculpted by the gods.

Despite Jungkook having an intensely hot body, he puts his arms in front of his chest. He sounds extremely shy when he says, “You too?”

You nod happily and sit up on the bed, urging Jungkook to rid you of your shirt himself. Once he does, you can feel his eyes roaming across the expanse of skin that he has already covered in love bites, then downward to the rest of your newly exposed flesh. He licks his lips.

You don’t bother trying to get him to undo your bra for you. Wanting to avoid the hassle, you reach behind you and unclasp it with one hand, letting it fall from your shoulders. Jungkook drinks you in, from the birthmark on your left breast to your pierced right nipple. If his gaze were capable of getting darker, you think it just did.

“Can I see the rest of you?” Jungkook asks, only sounding a little less shy than he did a moment ago. He’s toying with the cuff of your joggers when he says it.

“Yes,” you say unhesitatingly, lifting your hips from the bed to begin taking your pants off. Jungkook helps you along, pulling at the legs until he has the garment bunched in his hands along with your lace underwear. He practically swoons at the sight of you laid bare on your bed. You thought you might be self-conscious under his stare, but you’re not. All you can feel is wanted.

“Your turn,” you say, toeing at Jungkook’s jeans. He kneels up to begin unbuttoning them, but you scoot forward and place your hand over his before he can.

“I want to do it,” you say, peering up at him with soft eyes. He gulps, then moves his hands to give you access. You take the button into your hands and pop it open, then slowly, tortuously pull down his zipper. You manage to accidentally torture yourself during the process, so you waste no time tugging the jeans down over Jungkook’s firm ass along with his boxer briefs, letting his cock free from its confines. You didn’t think it was possible for a cock to be beautiful before this moment, but you do now.

He’s longer than you expected him to be, and not exactly thick, but there is a prominent vein running up the underside of him, and it reminds you of the vein on his hand and arm. Your pussy flutters at the thought of him being inside you. You want him inside you right now.

Jungkook manages to rid himself of his jeans and underwear completely before he’s hovering back over you, looking like he can’t decide what to do next. The thought of him being overwhelmed by you turns you on immensely, and you pull him down into a bruising kiss. He reciprocates with something that you can’t describe as anything but pure zeal, as he immediately takes your tongue into his mouth and meets it with his own. The taste of him is intoxicating, fruity and dulcet, the only thing you want to taste for the rest of your life.

Jungkook comes down to the bed and lays next to you, tangling your legs together and letting his free hand wander over your body exploratively. He tentatively cups your breast in his hand and squeezes, then rubs at your pierced nipple until it becomes a stiff peak. He then continues downward, palming at your soft stomach and your fleshy hip, until he reaches your mound. He moves his hand through curls damp with arousal, making you sigh wantonly into his kiss and squeeze at his bicep. You want him to hurry, but he’s taking his time with you.

He begins to rut against you lightly as his hand dips down between your soaked folds. You’re positive he’s going so slowly on purpose, because he chuckles when you begin to whine and circle your hips to try to get him to speed up.

“You’re so impatient,” he teases lightly, dancing his fingers along your inner lips, so close to your entrance you can practically taste it.

“Uh huh,” you manage to get out. You’re hot, sweaty and trembling under his touch, and he’s barely done anything to you yet. You’d let him do anything he wanted.

Jungkook smiles down at you, then nuzzles your cheek with his nose before planting a chaste kiss there. “I’m sorry, babe. It’s just that I’ve… kind of dreamt about this, and I want it to be perfect. Like you.”

You turn to face him, tears suddenly pricking your eyes, and he’s gazing down at you, cheeks aflame and eyes swimming with affection. You think this might be the best moment of your life.

You swallow and whisper, “You can’t just say things like that and not expect me to cry.”

He nuzzles into you again, still smiling. “I love you so much,” he whispers back. Then he sinks two fingers into you.

The intrusion has you sighing loudly, closing your eyes, and arching your back from the bed, hands attempting to find purchase in the flannel sheets underneath you. You do your best not to squirm as Jungkook deftly moves his fingers inside your wet walls, all while beginning to leave open-mouthed kisses down the unbitten side of your neck. The combined sensations have you whimpering, already too fucked out to speak. Jungkook seems to be similarly affected, as he continues to rut against your hip, though more quickly now. You try to wriggle your hand in between your bodies to touch him, but he suddenly halts his movement against your side when he realizes what you’re attempting to do.

“What is it?” you ask, amazed that you’re even able to talk with how well he’s finger-fucking you. Jungkook doesn’t speak right away, so you bring your hand to the back of his head and pull on the hairs at his nape. It seems to ground him.

“I, uh… I don’t want you to touch me.” Jungkook says like it pains him. He’s out of breath from moving inside you. Or maybe just from getting to be with you.

“Why not?” you say, curious but nonjudgmental.

Jungkook sighs, letting his head fall to the crook of your neck, where he mumbles, “If you touch me now I think I’ll come too fast.”

You can’t help but coo at how cute he is, and you continue to pull at the hairs at his nape. He doesn’t move from that spot for a few moments, but he continues to fuck you open tenderly with his fingers. You take his silence as an opportunity.

“Do you want to fuck me?” you ask sweetly, putting as much emotion as possible into every word. You want Jungkook to know you mean it.

You hear him suck in a breath, and then you feel him nod against your neck. You push his hand away from your center only to bring it to your mouth, where you gently suck your arousal from his digits. You feel his head turn towards your face, so you can only assume that he’s watching you do it. You move your tongue over his fingers as you continue, feeling powerful and just as desired as when he had you pinned against the wall earlier.

When you finish licking Jungkook clean of your wetness, you let go of his hand. You expect him to start moving around so he can fuck you, but instead he brings his hand back to your face, where he thumbs at your cheek like he did in the elevator. He’s just looking at you longingly, lovingly. You can’t get enough of that look.

“Jungkook,” you say, your breath coming back to you. “I love you. Please fuck me.”

Jungkook pauses the movement of his thumb. “That’s the first time you’ve said it back.” He sounds choked up when he speaks.

You realize that he’s right. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” You punctuate each admission with a kiss to the crown of his head.

You hear a small sniffle before Jungkook moves his head out of your space and ducks it so you can’t see him clearly. You lift your hand to his chin and bring it forward so you can see his face. He’s wearing a small smile, lip trembling a bit. His eyes are shining.

“How do you want me?” you say softly, overwhelmed with love.

Jungkook clears his throat. “Um… can we do it like this? I want to, um, see you. I want to see you.”

You smile brightly up at him and nod, moving your hand away from his face so you can situate yourself underneath your husband. You bring him down to you for a passionate kiss while opening your legs to fit his hips between yours.

Jungkook reaches down between you, positioning his cock at your entrance. He continues to kiss you slowly, purposefully, as he inches himself inside. Your hands find purchase on his strong shoulders, and he swallows your moan with his lips as he bottoms out within your quivering walls.

He doesn’t move right away, allowing you a moment to adjust. Another thing to love about this man. When you’re ready, you squeeze his shoulders and he takes the cue to pull back. Then he snaps his hips forward, and you see nothing but stars.

As Jungkook thrusts into you, he drops his head back down into the crook of your neck and bites down on your pulse point again. You can’t help but cry out, your body thrumming with pleasure and a bit of pain. Jungkook only moves faster, cupping your breast with the hand not holding him up.

“I think I might come,” he confesses into your neck. You clench at the thought of him painting your walls white.

“Come whenever you want to,” you sigh back at him. You were already getting there just from being fingered, but you’re dangerously close to the precipice right now.

Jungkook lets out a huff. “You first,” he says petulantly, then moves his hand from your breast down to the apex of your thighs, where he begins rubbing your clit mercilessly.

His attention to your clit, his cock pounding into you, and his obvious desire to put you before himself all combine together to send you careening off the edge. You feel the pressure that had been building in your lower belly finally release, causing something white-hot to move outward from your very core to the tips of your fingers and toes. You call out his name as he follows you closely behind, shuddering as he comes inside you and continuing to fuck you through both of your orgasms.

After you both begin to come down and Jungkook pulls out of you, he immediately snuggles back into your side, placing his head in the crook of your neck once more and throwing his free hand over your waist, tugging you in close.

“This is my new favorite spot,” he expresses quietly, voice already thick with sleep.

You yawn, bringing your hand back to his nape and absentmindedly beginning to pull at the hair there. After all your daydreaming, you can safely say that this is your new favorite spot as well.

“I love you,” you manage to get out before you and your husband both drift off - silently, each holding a piece of the other.

[hongism]

mists of celeste ➻ 34

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, smut ➻ Word Count: 6.7k ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

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✧✧✧ act five ➻ part one

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“Wooyoung.” The voice is soft on your ears, and you revel in the peace it provides while you can, mind bringing the comforting image of San’s feline features without hesitation. Merely the sound of his voice fills your chest with warmth. It’s something that blossoms and spreads throughout your whole body as you begin to slip into consciousness. “Wooyoung, get up. They brought us some food.”

Wooyoung.

A hand clamps down hard on your shoulder. Your eyes open against your will, fluttering lashes that reveal a dimly lit scenery around you. The same scene you saw before with it’s cold, metal walls and rattling chains that rupture with noise every time someone shifts a muscle. It hits at that moment. This is not your body, you are not seeing with your own eyes or hearing with your own ears; you are merely looking through a piece of foggy glass and watching this dream – if it can even be called that – unfold with no control. At first, you had a sliver of control over the body and you moved on your own, but now it’s like you are merely a ghost inhabiting Wooyoung’s body alongside his consciousness.

That lack of control is terrifying, to say the least. Seeing things happen and not being able to help or do anything at all. You felt this fear once before, when you were trapped in prison and watching your team unravel and come apart because of your actions. Now, you are witnessing the repercussions of your identity in a whole new light.

San’s sharp features fill your vision. A hand reaches up between your bodies and cups the man’s cheek, turning his head left and right as your eyes flit over his face in search of something.

“Bruises are worse today.” It’s Wooyoung who speaks, soft and mellifluous tone falling from what should be your lips but isn’t. The entire situation is a bit baffling because you can’t reconcile where your consciousness ends and Wooyoung’s begins.

“I’m fine. They brought us some water. You should use it to clean your cuts before they get infected.”

Wooyoung waves the Spectre’s concern off and shakes his head.

“I’m fine. My knee is the only thing still bothering me. Once they take the chains off I’ll be able to set it properly. Ribs okay today?”

“Peachy,” San murmurs, hand coming up to rub at the mentioned spot subconsciously. “I’ve broken plenty before. This is no different.”

“Except you haven’t had proper treatment. I don’t even know if it’s a stable or transverse or oblique fracture… could even be comminuted for all we know.” Wooyoung lifts a shaky hand to his hand and combs through the charcoal-colored strands with no direct purpose. “I-I don’t know – I don’t know how to treat broken ribs. Yunho didn’t – I never asked him h-how to and I—”

“It’s fine, Wooyoung. I won’t die from a broken rib.”

“And if one of the bone shards is lodged in your lung? Think you can survive a hole there? Just… j-just let me know if anything changes. I don’t know what I can do if you start coughing up blood but I’ll figure something out.”

San is silent for a moment. His gaze shifts to the dirtied floor where thick iron chains weave crude patterns over the tiles. They cling to his wrists and ankles, a bit too loose but not enough for him to slip out of them. Wooyoung bears the same kind along with Mingi off in the corner. The Spectre seems to debate something for a moment before he glances up at the ceiling for a half-second, then he pulls closer to Wooyoung to mutter in his ear.

“They’ve been watching us for days. If we can break the cameras then I can use my abilities to—”

“To what, San?” Wooyoung interrupts. He shakes his head ever so slightly and heaves a deep sigh before speaking again, this time quieter than before. “The second a camera feed goes dead, they’ll send someone here to investigate. Mingi is too weak and injured to fight, you can hardly move or stand up straight with that rib, and what am I going to do? I can’t fight as well at you two, and I certainly can’t defend all of us, not with these chains and not on my own. Besides, the collars you and Mingi have are specially tailored to your class. They’ll restrict your usage of your abilities and you’ll only get hurt worse if you try using them.”

“But we – we have to get back to the others. We don’t know what they did with them or if they were taken too. They could have taken Y/N a-and Yunho and Yeosang. And who knows what happened with Hongjoong in the arena or if Seonghwa and Jongho found him?”

“I’m sure they’re okay.” Wooyoung’s tone remains noncommittal, but there’s something about the way he speaks the words with enough certainty to imply that he knows something San doesn’t. San rubs at the skin under his shackles. His wristband must have been taken because it’s nowhere in sight, and you can only assume that they did the same with Mingi’s as well. “We need to wait for a better opportunity. See where they’re taking us and why. We’ll find the others when we can, but right now… let’s get through this together.”

“Fine, but at least clean the cuts on your arms while you can. Who knows when they’ll bring fresh water by again.”

“Give it to Mingi. His injuries are the worst.” San inhales sharply. His lips part to no doubt deny Wooyoung’s request, but the shorter man levels him with a small shake of his head. “Please, San. I need you to trust me when I say that I will be fine.” Wooyoung glances over to another corner where said Berserker sits with shoulders slumped and head hung. You can’t tell whether he is awake or not, but that doesn’t seem to be important because San manages a hesitant nod then goes to approach the man.

Wooyoung watches San’s back as he walks. It’s careful, calculating, almost vigilant and the moment he decides San is at a far enough distance, he whips around to face the corner. Eyes glare holes into the seam of the wall and floor.

“I know you’re there, Y/N,” he whispers, and if you weren’t practically in his body, you would struggle to hear the words. You can’t even properly panic at his direct acknowledgment of whatever this is — he knows you’re there, whether it’s seeing through his eyes or pushing your subconsciousness alongside his. “I don’t – I don’t have time to explain. They’re transporting us to a different facility today. I think they’re going to separate the three of us into different cells. One of the guards mentioned putting Mingi in a steel cage on his own. I’ll try my best to convince them that we should stay together. I…” Wooyoung pauses, lips darting over his dry and cracked lips. “If they separate us, I w-would be able to explain this better but – listen, Y/N. I know this must be confusing and disorienting for you, but I need you to do two things for me when you wake up. First—”

“Wooyoung!”

Wooyoung cuts his thought short with a sharp hiss and a quickly exhaled curse.

“His fever is getting worse.”

“Fuck,” Wooyoung mutters, turning back around and rushing over to where San kneels beside Mingi’s hunched form. He brings a hand to Mingi’s forehead, brushing the damp hair there back so he can have better access, and even you can feel the heat emanating from the Berserker’s skin. Wooyoung withdraws his hand quickly and reaches down for the hem of his shirt. “Get the water for me, I need to make a rag of some sort to put on his head.”

Wooyoung yanks at his shirt, ripping it along one of the side seams and tearing all the way to the other side of his waist. San moves behind him in a rush to get the water as Wooyoung bunches up the wad of torn clothing.

“Mingi, can you hear me?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you mention the fever earlier?”

“Didn’t wanna worry you both.”

“Ah, Mingi…” Wooyoung sighs. San comes up on his side and delivers a glass of water into one of Wooyoung’s waiting hands. “I need you to lie down flat on your back. We’ll put this on your forehead for now, and I’ll look over your stomach again, okay?” Wooyoung dunks his makeshift rag into the cup, soaking it thoroughly while San reaches forward to tug Mingi’s shirt up to his sternum. The moment Wooyoung’s eyes flit over to glance at the newly-exposed skin, you are overwhelmed by the urge to vomit.

Right beside Mingi’s left hip, nestled close to the band of his pants and almost as long as a small blade, lies a broad cut. The skin around it is swollen and angry, holding a yellowish tint to it that you can see in the lowlight of the room. It is wide open, and the stretch of Mingi’s taut skin does nothing to keep the wound sealed shut. You don’t need to be a doctor to realize exactly how bad the cut is. San and Wooyoung exchange a nervous glance, and the worry in San’s eyes is so palpable and thick that it nearly chokes you. Wooyoung’s hands tremble as he eases Mingi onto his back. Water splashes over the floor, and Wooyoung nearly drops the rag in his efforts to calmly place it over Mingi’s damp forehead.

“Woo—”

“I know! I know it’s bad! Okay? L-Let me think this through.” Wooyoung sits back on his heels, tongue swiping over his lower lip. “Mingi needs rest right now. We can’t do anything without supplies a-and we need to just hope that they won’t let him die.”

“And if they don’t care?” San questions. He clamps a hand down hard on Wooyoung’s shoulder and pulls the man to face him head-on. “We don’t even know why they took us, let alone what they plan to do with us!”

“Yeah, well, quit looking at me like I have all the answers! If they wanted us dead, they would have killed us by now. There’s no way they would go through all this trouble to just let us die before we even get to our destination.” San’s hand falls away from Wooyoung as the Spectre sits back as well, eyes glued to Mingi’s reclining form. “It’s the middle of the night, San. I’m sure they’re planning something for the morning if they’re giving us food this late so let’s hold out a little while longer. Get some rest, I’ll watch over Mingi for a bit and make sure he can sleep okay.”

San pulls further away from Wooyoung at that, relenting in his arguments to return to his corner of the all too small room, and Wooyoung watches him go with lips pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t stop staring at the man until San is curled into the corner with his eyes shut. A sigh passes through Wooyoung’s lips as he turns back to Mingi, one hand stretching out to smooth down the Berserker’s hair.

“You comfortable, Mingi?” He asks. Several seconds pass in silence, and the only sounds that can be heard in the room are the steady and raspy breaths falling from the Berserker’s lips. “Hm, I’ll take that as a yes.” Wooyoung lets a couple more minutes go by without saying a word or making a sound, and it’s only when he seems confident that both San and Mingi are asleep that he speaks again. “Y/N, when you wake up, tell Seonghwa that the moon is shining over cold waters. I know it sounds weird, but he’ll know what it means. A-And Yeosang. Please tell him that I’m okay and he doesn’t need to worry. Then give him the same message as Seonghwa, okay? He’ll… he knows what’s going on b-between us, this whole connection, all of it. He can explain it to you for me. I would – I would do it but I can’t risk Mingi or San overhearing this. It’s already risky enough like this. I’m gonna send you back now before one of them starts asking questions.”

Something cold blossoms in your chest, like someone is trying to claw their way out of you and rip you apart from the inside out.

“Look after Yeosang while I’m gone, Y/N. I won���t forgive myself if something happens to him and I’m not there.” That’s the last thing you manage to hear before shadowy tendrils snake across your vision and bring you back into pitch-black darkness.

You wake up with a start, jerking back into full consciousness in your own body, and you jolt upwards into a sitting position. Everything burns and aches. Sweat beads your brow, slick down your back as well even though the room is cold. Of course it’s only a dream, a weird premonition that plagues you every time you lie down to sleep at night. It has been three days since that day in the arena, the one where three of the crew were stolen away from under your noses, and these dreams have become incessant in their persistence. This one was a first though: the first time Wooyoung has ever acknowledged your presence and spoken to you the way he did, and no matter how much you try to rack your brain, you still cannot get it to make even an ounce of sense.

The right side of the bed remains cold to the touch. It’s a familiarity, yet at the same time, it burns a hole deep in your chest which will linger for hours on end. Seonghwa hasn’t left Hongjoong’s bedside in days. He refuses to look you in the eye when you two are in each other’s presence. You can’t pretend that you don’t understand why because it’s blatantly obvious given that it started the day you met with Jisung and had that emotionally-charged conversation afterward. Yeosang won’t leave the room he’s staying in, and Jongho stays with him for hours on end just to try to ease some of his broken emotional state. Yunho is the only person who tries to maintain a sense of normalcy, but even so, he can’t do much. You have yet to hear a true apology fall from his lips, and until he gives you that much, you are content to greet him with a cold shoulder as petty as it might sound.

As for Jisung, you haven’t heard anyone breathe a word about him in days. You are positive that Seonghwa is going to meet him during the day at some point because the man will disappear for one or two hours then visit Yeosang for the same amount of time before returning to his incessant vigil at Hongjoong’s bedside.

You positively despise everything about the situation you all have been thrust into, and at the forefront of it all are these damn dreams. It almost seems as though the universe is trying to punish you for being the reason why the others were taken – San and Wooyoung, more specifically – because why else would you see through Wooyoung’s eyes and see the direct results of your mistakes. Even a cold shoulder doesn’t do anything to ease your worries, and thus you push your way into the room across the hall with a new sense of determination. You don’t stop until you reach your intended destination, lingering beside Seonghwa’s shoulder where he kneels at the side of Hongjoong’s cot. He shifts his chin to the slightest degree as he look at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Did you sleep okay?”

You aren’t sure what your plan was when you decided to come to Seonghwa. You haven’t thought about what you want to say or should say, but it seems a bit odd to lead with something like ‘every time I go to sleep I wake up in Wooyoung’s body and see through his eyes’ so you can’t very well start with that. The issue is that you don’t even know where to start with this conversation or what to say.

“Um…” You trail off, thought dying in the back of your throat. Seonghwa twists to look at you more directly now.

“Y/N?”

“T-The moon—” you cut yourself short, tongue darting out to wet your lips. “The moon is shining over cold waters?”

It doesn’t process right away. The man blinks back at you with confusion shining in his bright and round eyes, and you are ready to backtrack and tell him not to worry about it. Then, Seonghwa’s expression goes flat, color drains from his features, and his mouth falls agape. He jerks his head forward to stare at Hongjoong’s unconscious body, eyes darting all over the place, while you can do nothing except stand there and wait.

“Who – how do you… god, hold on.” Seonghwa squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that it hurts to look at. He brings a hand up to rub at the spot between his eyes, lips barely moving a centimeter when he speaks next. “Where did you hear that?”

“Wooyoung asked me to tell you that,” you whisper back. It’s utterly illogical since the two of you are alone in the room and Hongjoong isn’t awake, but you’re afraid to speak any louder than that, like you’re divulging a secret for just the two of you to hear.

“Wooyoung. When did he—”

“Last night.” Seonghwa lifts his chin.

“How?”

“I-I don’t know how to – to explain it. He told me to deliver that message to you and to Yeosang as well.”

“That… that explains why I couldn’t find you last night,” Seonghwa murmurs the words under his breath, and you’re almost certain that he isn’t intending them to be for your ears until he jerks his head to look you in the eye. “Daichi knew where you were but said he couldn’t tell me.”

Ah, so he was in the Dreamscape last night. Waiting and looking for you. While you were off inhabiting Wooyoung’s body and living in his consciousness. Then does he not know?

“You mean you didn’t – you weren’t there?” You inquire, tone a lot less confident all of a sudden.

“Where, Y/N?” Seonghwa pushes himself to his feet and stands at his full height, looming over you a little bit as he moves to stand in front of you. “What exactly did you see last night?”

“What is Wooyoung?” You ask rather than answering his question. Seonghwa tilts his head to the side a bit and looks off to the wall behind you. He inhales sharply, tongue dragging over the front of his teeth, and his hesitance tells you all you need to know. “Seonghwa.”

“We need to go to Yeosang,” Seonghwa says after several deep breaths of silence. He reaches down to grab your wrist, fingers nearly closing around your skin when you yank your arm back in defiance.

“You’re just – no! Why can’t you tell me what he is?”

“I don’t even know what you saw last night or what you mean by he told you to deliver a message. It is impossible for that to happen. Even if he is a — it’s impossible.”

“Is he a Si—”

A hand clamps hard over your mouth, Seonghwa’s other hand flying up to cradle the back of your neck as you jerk backward, and you blink at the man in utter shock. He doesn’t look back at you, however; his eyes are glued on Hongjoong’s reclining form, eyes so wide that you think they could bulge out of his head. He watches the steady rise and fall of Hongjoong’s chest go undisturbed for two, five, fifteen seconds before letting his hand drop back to his side.

“Not here,” he hisses under his breath, and for the first time, you hear him speak directly to you with a certain sense of vehemence in his tone. “Y/N, please.” You manage a small nod, unsure of what else there is for you to say, and Seonghwa takes hold of your hand again, this time letting his fingers slip through yours. You don’t know what comes over you in that moment; perhaps it is simply a leftover sense of bitterness that bubbles deep in your gut.

“Yet if this is what you truly want… if you have a chance to rest peacefully at last with someone you love, who am I to deprive you of that? That is all I could ever want for you.”

You tug your hand out of Seonghwa’s grasp, pulling it close to your chest as you turn around and head back towards the door. Turning around now would be a mistake; you can’t bring yourself to think about the expression of pain that surely crosses his features.

“I’m sorry. I would do anything for you, but I cannot force you to stay. That is the one thing I cannot bring myself to do.”

There is so much left unsaid between you two right now, so much you want to say but can’t, and you know that it will probably be the way for quite some time. You would rather run from this than face it head-on and look Seonghwa in the eye to tell him that you need him to make you stay because the guilt that eats away at your gut won’t let you stay otherwise. You don’t stop to see whether Seonghwa is following you, but you don’t really need to because you can hear the soft shuffling of his footsteps trailing after you as you step out of the room and into the hall. The air around you is too stiff and quiet. The silence brings the starkly haunting image of the cell San, Mingi, and Wooyoung are trapped in to mind.

You wait beside the door as Seonghwa knocks on the wood and calls out softly to Yeosang inside. When it cracks open, you expect to see the blond standing in the doorway; rather, it’s red eyes and dark hair that greet you, and you make brief eye contact with Jongho before he redirects his focus to Seonghwa.

“Need me to step out?”

“Yeah, you can go downstairs and eat with Yunho. He should still be down there.”

Jongho nods twice then glances back over his shoulder. He says nothing more as he steps out of the room and replaces Seonghwa’s spot in the hallway. You’re about to follow the lieutenant in when Jongho lands a hand on your arm, squeezing tightly at your forearm and pulling your focus towards him for a moment.

“How are you holding up?”

“…Could be better,” you murmur back.

“We’ll get them back soon.” Jongho sounds so confident, and you can hardly feed into that confidence yourself thanks to the turmoil rushing through your mind without cease.

“Yeah, I’m sure we will,” you lie, pressing a smile onto your lips if only to reassure the Berserker. Whether he believes you or not remains to be seen. He steps away and continues on down the hall, however, so you can escape his scrutiny for the time being and follow Seonghwa into Yeosang’s room.

The first thing to hit you is the darkness of the room. All the lights are turned off save for a lamp beside the bed and the soft morning light filtering in through the window. Yeosang sits in front of the fogged glass with his back to the door, illuminated by the pale light. In this atmosphere, you can truly see his princely features and it makes perfect sense how he could have been a prince in the past with the sharp angles of his jaw, even slope of his nose, blond hair falling in soft waves around his head and resting flat against the back of his neck. If you didn’t know how cruel he could be, you would dare to say he looks almost angelic with the sun’s rays hitting his hair and reflecting off it in soft halos.

“Yeosang,” Seonghwa starts, tone hovering above a whisper.

“More plans from the double agent today?” Double agent? You don’t realize what he means by that until Seonghwa clears his throat and drops his chin to his chest. Jisung.

“No, there’s something else we need to discuss.” Seonghwa shifts to look at you, and it’s only after he gives you a small nod that you realize what he wants. It’s on you to bring up the topic of Wooyoung, to deliver the message he gave you, and to start this conversation. Yeosang swivels in his seat as slowly as possible. You choke on air when he looks directly at you, not even bothering to spare Seonghwa an ounce of his attention once he notices you are in the room as well.

“Wooyoung asked me to tell you th-that he’s okay and you d-don’t need to worry,” you whisper. It’s hard to meet Yeosang’s intense stare, and you regret it when you do because of the sheer lack of emotion in his dark eyes.

“Wooyoung asked you to tell me that. Right.” Accusatory, cold, disbelieving. How the fuck are you supposed to get this man to believe what you witnessed with some weird string of words that he’s supposed to know the meaning of? “Do you take me to be an idiot, Y/N? Why the hell would I ever believe something as ridiculous and inconceivable as that? Don’t tell me you believe her, Seonghwa.”

“You should just — the moon is shining over cold waters,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut to hide your frustration.

“Where did you hear that?” There’s a shift, wood scraping hard against wood, and all of a sudden, you’re forced to open your eyes because the man is in your face with hands clenched so hard around your biceps that you can feel the bruises forming already.

“Yeosang,” Seonghwa warns. He takes a step closer to the two of you.

“Where the fuck did you hear that?” Yeosang demands, louder this time as he presses so close to you that his breath cascades over your face.

“Wooyoung told me to tell you that,” you spit back. You shrug his hands off you with a quick jerk of your shoulders, stepping back a bit to put some distance between your bodies. “Because for some fucking reason, I can’t go to sleep at night without waking up in his fucking body and seeing through his eyes with zero control or ability to do anything for myself like I’m some backseat driver in his consciousness while I watch him spend hours trapped in a cell with San and Mingi until he either falls asleep or ‘decides to send me back’, whatever the fuck that means!”

“What?” Seonghwa exhales, head whipping so hard you could get whiplash just from watching him. “Y/N, what did you say? I thought — you mean you didn’t go to the Dre— you didn’t see him there?” You’re acutely aware of the way Yeosang’s eyes flit from Seonghwa’s body to yours, cold and calculating as ever, but something in his features expresses a pre-existing knowledge, like he knows exactly what Seonghwa is talking about with needing an explanation. It sends shockwaves of panic through your body. You can’t stand the way he’s staring at you; it feels too much like he is picking you apart piece by piece.

“W-What? What the fuck are you saying?”

“Oh, cut the damn act, Y/N. I know what you are.”

Both you and Seonghwa reel on Yeosang, and your vision spins with the haste at which you move. He huffs out a laugh, lips twisting at one corner as he grins at you with a sense of cruelty to his gaze.

“If you’re going to pretend to be something, you ought to do a better job, especially seeing as I’m the only true Elitist on the crew. I don’t know who you thought you were fooling, but even if Wooyoung hadn’t told me what you are, I would have known regardless.”

“W-Wooyoung? Wooyoung told you what I am?” You stammer, eyes as wide as saucers. “How did he know?” Your eyes go directly to Seonghwa, and you search for answers in the man, or at least some indication that he was the one to tell Wooyoung about your identity but he shakes his head. Given the shock on his features as well, you’re inclined to believe that he truly had nothing to do with Wooyoung knowing.

“Did he not tell you anything? Not even about the meaning of that phrase he gave you? How typical of him to get sidetracked.” Some of the hostility slips away from Yeosang’s tone at the mention of Wooyoung in such a way, and he shakes his head a bit.

“He said he couldn’t explain because Mingi and San could overhear. But I still don’t understand what’s going on or why this is happening. Why didn’t this happen with the two of us?” You direct the question to Seonghwa, hoping for some sort of answers from the man given his previous knowledge about Sirens, but what you get instead is disappointment and confusion.

“I’ve never even heard of such a thing happening, never read about it, or seen any sort of legend talking about this type of connection,” Seonghwa says through a sigh. “Yes, Wooyoung is a Siren just as we are, and while I had my suspicions about your identity as one, he is the one who came to me and confirmed it because… because he had a dream of sitting in a black lake with a red moon and seeing your reflection in the water instead of his. I didn’t know what it meant back then, and I don’t know now.”

“W-When?” You can’t recall a time when Wooyoung was ever in your body or if you even realized that he was there.

“Right after you came onto the ship. In the first four days you were hiding in that box, Wooyoung came to me saying that he saw a girl’s face in the water, and when I asked him to describe her features, I instantly knew it was the one who I ran into outside the airlock. You.”

“And you two were just — you weren’t going to tell me that this was happening? Or that Wooyoung knew all this time?”

“Seonghwa and I are the only two people who know about Wooyoung’s identity. It’s been that way for six years. Not even Hongjoong knows, and that’s exactly how we intended for it to be. You would never have known if not for this connection between the two of you.” Yeosang blinks between the two of you. He folds his arms over his chest, letting one hand rest under his chin. He says nothing more than that but you can clearly see that there is more on his mind than merely that.

“Then what about the meaning of the phrase? You said it had a meaning, Yeosang.”

“The moon is shining over cold waters. Wooyoung’s moniker is Tsukio, meaning moon. Your moniker is Umiko, is it not? Child of the sea? We came up with it as a failsafe in this sort of situation, where if Wooyoung was in danger and you happened to inhabit his consciousness, then he would give you the code to deliver back to us. Seonghwa would tell you his identity as a Siren, and I would do my best to explain whatever I could in Wooyoung’s absence. There is nothing he does not tell me, even down to matters like this.”

“I don’t understand why Seonghwa doesn’t have this ability as well though.”

“As I told you, Y/N, all Sirens are different. They interact in different ways, and they all have different abilities. Yeosang and I haven’t stopped looking for answers or trying to find even the slightest bit of information about this. Given what Wooyoung has told us, we have only come to one conclusion. You are the sea, and Wooyoung is the moon. No matter where you are in the universe, the seas are always influenced by the moon and tied to the moon in some way. Tell me, Y/N, have you ever seen Wooyoung in your dreams before this?” Seonghwa pauses to let you process and answer the question. His eyes search yours for any sort of response, but you can’t come up with one right away.

“H-Help! Someone – someone help!” You cry out, voice croaking like a frog, and your throat burns from the effort. One of the chained prisoners in front of you turns at the sound of your voice. Dark charcoal hair flutters in the still air as he whips around to face you, eyes wide and curious as they land on you. All the air leaves your lungs. Your heart constricts painfully in your chest, and you choke on nothing as his face comes into focus.

Wooyoung.

A cloaked man steps in front of you and effectively blocks your line of sight before you can examine the sight further.

Wooyoung.

A searing pain blossoms over your cheek, and it takes a moment for you to process that the person has just punched you.

Wooyoung.

Another blow comes down on your head. You feel your body go down before your mind catches up, and you enter a harsh freefall. Your chains clatter as you tumble to the ground.

“Y/N!”

“You have,” Yeosang states, arms falling limply by his sides. You’re about to agree when another memory hits you out of the blue, something you haven’t seen in a long time, all the way back from when you had the surgery on your arm and when Wooyoung plugged an anesthesia shot in your neck.

The dream is beginning to fade, darkness swirling into one large mass, but before the serenity around you can disappear entirely, you catch sight of something new. Amongst everything that is familiar and known, this is completely foreign. A new figure, shorter than Daichi for certain, but also bearing dark hair. He stands off at the other side of the lake, near the shore like Daichi had been, but his back is facing you. He bears garbs like yours, white and flowing despite the lack of a breeze.

“Twice. After the surgery on my arm and after the m-mission to get the serums.”

“You merely saw him? Not through his eyes?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“And now this is the first time you’ve seen through his eyes.”

“No. It started the first time I went to sleep after what happened at the arena.”

“And you waited four days to say anything?” Yeosang scoffs, face contorting into a scowl in an instant.

“He didn’t speak to me until today! Without that damn phrase, you would have called me insane and not told me anything.” Yeosang opens his mouth to retort, but you jab a finger at his face before he can. “Don’t try to tell me I’m wrong.”

“I think…” Seonghwa trails off, puffing his cheeks full of air and exhaling deeply. “I think Y/N and I need to speak with Daichi about this. It sounds like this connection – whatever it is between the two of you – it sounds like it’s something that is triggered when the other is in danger. Wooyoung inhabited your body when you were dying in the boxes in the cargo hold.”

“He had control though,” Yeosang cuts in.

“He had control over me?”

“Over your body, yes. He told me that he climbed out of the box in the middle of the night and left a blood trail leading to the box. He knew San would be on the first shift to do inventory in the morning, he knew San would have mercy and not be able to kill you, and he knew that San would be able to pick up on the blood trail leading to your box.”

“He…” He saved my life. Your throat closes in on itself. Wooyoung is the only reason San found you in that box. You probably would have died the next day if not for him.

“She was physically incapable of doing even the bare minimum at that time. But you said you have no control over Wooyoung’s body?”

Two shaky hands dart up to your neck, clasping around something terribly cold and metal. It’s a collar of sorts, and it refuses to budge even a centimeter as you try to yank at it. A finger slips under the ridge of the metal. You brush over the cold skin there only to find a blossoming scar across your neck, one that spreads no matter how far you move your hand along the collar. You jerk your hand out from under it with a growing feeling of disgust churning in your stomach.

“I h-had control the first time. But for less than a minute. Like once W-Wooyoung was fully conscious again, he took control.”

“I need time and my notes back on the ship,” Yeosang mutters. “Y/N, I’ll need you to come visit and tell me everything that has been happening in these dreams, along with all the things that started happening when you first came aboard. Once we’re back on the ship, of course.”

“Well, that will be coming sooner than expected.” You and Yeosang glance over at Seonghwa at the same time, eyes wide with unspoken questions. “We’re going back to the ship this afternoon. Yunho plans to transport Hongjoong back with Jongho’s help. He’ll make the rest of his recovery there, but we need to get moving. Jis–our double agent finally figured out where they’re taking the others. Geofflan system, planet Dorado.”

“Seonghwa, that’s—”

“Yes, I know, Yeosang,” Seonghwa interrupts. His lips twist into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and no matter what way you look at the grin, you only see sadness in it. “We would inevitably have to go there at some point. I can’t keep running forever, can I?”

Dorado? Why does this feel familiar?

You peer at the side of Seonghwa’s head in silence, mulling over the words and racking your brain for that sliver of a memory about Dorado.

“Maybe Hongjoong found a lead on Dorado, and that’s where we’re heading next. Seonghwa might be tense because of that.”

“What’s so important about Dorado?”

Jongho’s eyes find yours and suddenly grow wide. He shakes his head a few times, but the nervous gleam that dances across his eyes doesn’t escape your notice.

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

✧✧✧ a/n: hehe 👁👁🍿 jk um what is there to say about this except hi hello! new act! act five! lots of exposition for this part, i’m sorry about that, there’s a lot to explain and thus it takes a lot of time to explain it, but this is only the first layer of explanation so aidjfoidsjfio strap in!!

taglist: @faeriewoobin​​ @sugarrimajins​​ @atinyinwonderland​​ @2504-life @lil7bluedragon​ @sparklychangbin​​ @jeong-uwu​​ @jeonartemis​​ @anothershorthuman​​ @xxbluestrifexx​​​ @haotheheckk​​ @noonawriter​​ @lostscenarios​​ @nlost21​​ @mirror-juliet​​ @okokokok123-45​ @purple-aeon​ @theoinkypiglet​ @toothlessshiber​ @atinyarmyx1​ @simpforhyunjin​ @hwangwoosan​ @vampire-jimin​ @softyubi​ @drumboydowoon​ @chatsgotmytongue​ @just-a-starfruit​ @babydolljo​ @scintillating-souls​ @khjssss @felixity​ @rawrrainn​ @hewwo-from-the-other-side​ @hangsxng​

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

[scaryscarecrows]

I'd Crawl on Broken Glass to be the One That Laughs Last

Gotham’s gone straight to Hell in a handbasket. Scarecrow’s dead, which is no loss, but Bruce is missing, Arkham blew up for reasons unknown, and the Arkham Knight’s Militia is still in control. Oh, sure, there’s a fair chunk of them in lockup, but they’ve been getting steadily more riled as the days wear on (three days since the Asylum, their boss has to be dead, who’s in charge now?), and the tanks are still running patrols, the bombs are still in the road, and there are checkpoints and watchtowers everywhere.

Jim thinks they’re waiting for something. There’s been no assault, not like he thought there might be. The street thugs and any uncaptured Rogues are still allowed to run wild, though the watchtowers have been spotted taking shots at something big flying around out there. Honestly, they’re even leaving the police alone, for the most part...but they will still shoot at the cars if they get too close. It’s like they’re on babysitting duty or something until the Knight gets back. It’s unsettling.

He’s out doing a little exploration-he doubts they’ve killed Batman, or they’d be gone, but Bruce still isn’t around-when something drops onto the roof of his car. He hits the brakes, tires screeching, and narrowly avoids sliding into a tank crossing the road.

Breathe.

Jim has no time to go for his gun before the driver’s side door gets ripped open by what Jim can only describe as the Hulk. The man outside is only a little smaller than Bane*. There’s a rocket launcher on his back and Jim’s sure he’s not the one that landed on the car, because the car would be a pancake.

He’s proven right a second later when the polar opposite of the giant jumps down. That said, this guy might be tiny, but he moves like he knows half a dozen ways to kill you. The cherry on the disaster sundae? Both of them are wearing army fatigues.

Militia. Shit.

“Boys,” he says, already planning on how to get that rocket launcher from the big one, “don’t be stupid.”

The little one doesn’t say anything. The big one laughs and before Jim can move, he’s been pulled out of the car.

“Boss wants to see ya.”

So they have a boss. Who. Who is it? One of their own? Riddler? Penguin? Goddamn Deathstroke? Who is his new problem?

“No.”

“Sorry.” The man does sound mostly sorry. “Not really askin’. C’mon.”

Jim tries to slam his elbow into the man’s collarbone. He doesn’t even really get to move before the little guy grabs his arm and wrenches it behind his back. Not hard enough to dislocate it, but hard enough to be a warning.

“We don’t want to have to hurt you, Commissioner,” the big man says. “We’re just picking you up.”

“Go to Hell.”

A gun presses against his back. Fine. He’ll go. But he won’t like it.

* * *

He’s disarmed, bundled into an APC, and blindfolded. After way too many sharp turns and double-backs, he’s...somewhere in the underside of the city. He’s thinking over near Drescher.

Wherever it is, he’s pulled out of the APC, taken inside somewhere, and handed off to new hands. When the blindfold comes off, his kidnappers are nowhere to be seen.

The men in charge of him now (and only for now, give him time…) are less...unnerving...than the other two. One is wearing the white uniform of a medic, and the other is having a snack. Cashews? Cashews.

The medic is a man on a mission. Jim doesn’t even manage to get out a, ‘you’ll be sorry’ before the man’s turning on his heel, jaw working furiously, and snapping, “Come on.”

“Where are we going.”

“Boss wants to see you, won’t listen to reason. This way.”

He stalks off and the snacker chuckles.

“Cashew?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” They follow the medic down a crumbling hallway. “They didn’t scare you too much, did they?”

“What’s with the good-cop-bad-cop routine?” he demands. “Is your friend up there gonna come back and threaten to carve my face off?”

The man just laughs.

“Probably, but he does that to everyone.”

“Sometime today!”

Huh.

Jim thinks they might be in the old mall. Scarecrow had been driving that way when something had happened, and, well, if Jim were going to have an evil base of operations, this would be a good one. Lot of ways in and out, nobody ever comes down here anymore-too dangerous-and it’s big, big enough to hold tanks and soldiers and whatever else these boys have. When they round a corner, he sees a familiar logo and decides that yes, that’s where they are. Hm.

They round another corner and end up in the back of the building. Jim’s not sure what this was, but there’s a corridor lined with doors. The medic stops in front of one and turns, hands clasped behind his back.

“Twenty minutes and no more,” he snarls at Jim. “You’re lucky you get that many minutes. You try anything, you might live to regret it. Might. You tire him out, out you go, I don’t care if it’s been two minutes. Don’t touch shit, don’t knock shit down, don’t--”

“I think he’s got the picture,” his other escort soothes. “Don’t terrorize him.”

“Humph. With the amount of work I had to put in to keep his dumb ass alive, I’m entitled to terrorize people.”

“Still.”

“And I’ll tell you something else. You lay a finger, one solitary finger on him, you so much as breathe too hard--”

“There won’t be anything left to bury,” the other man says, smiles with all his teeth. “Here you go, Commissioner.”

“Twenty. Minutes.”

And then he’s shoved into a room with--and good God, how--the Arkham Knight.

The Knight is lying in bed. He looks the worse for wear, but Jim can’t quite muster up pity for him. This...this is his fault. Gotham, Bruce, Barbara…

He swallows down the rage. Not because it’s the right thing to do, but because the Knight’s not alone. Jim supposes they wouldn’t just leave him unattended, not with those injuries, but still.

The Knight doesn’t seem to notice Jim. He’s certainly not looking at him. He’s looking at the laptop the other man has. Right now, at this exact second, he looks like a sick kid, wan and tired, eyes fluttering like he’s fighting to stay awake. But he’s not. Robin or not, he’s...the Knight’s not that boy anymore. Robin wouldn’t have done this, any of this. Robin’s dead.

“Sir.” The other man here isn’t wearing a uniform, he’s wearing jeans and a raggedy flannel that hangs open over some sort of band shirt. But his bearing is still that of a soldier’s, and the rifle leaning against the wall by his chair is top-of-the-line. “Gordon’s here.”

“Hrm?”

“Remember? You wanted to see him.” The Knight blinks a few times, heavy and confused, and tries to lever himself up before his companion reaches over to pin his shoulder. “Don’t do that.”

More confused silence. Now that he’s moved his head, Jim can see his pupils are blown wide. That’s not a surprise. He’s pretty sure he was in Arkham when it came down, and he hadn’t looked well before that.

Serves him right, he thinks, remembering the cuts on Barbara’s cheeks and chin. Serves the bastard right.

He keeps his mouth shut. The laptop has been closed and set aside, and the rifle is now in its owner’s lap. It’s casual enough, but the threat’s there all the same: you’ll go through me to get to him.

He wonders, a bit, what drives these men. He doesn’t really care, but he wonders a little all the same. Even the ones in the cells have been resolute that ‘the boss’ will get them out, that he’s got everything in hand, just you wait and see.

...in their defense, Jim had thought he had to be dead, and yet here he is. So.

“S’right,” the Knight finally breathes. He sounds terrible, and Jim suddenly matches the purple swelling on his throat to handprints. That scares him. Not out of pity or sympathy, but because what little he’s seen of the man says he can handle himself. Whoever did that… “S’right.”

“You up for it?”

He’d better be. Jim was kidnapped off the street for this.

“Yes.” Good. “Glad to see you’re unharmed.”

No thanks to you, Jim doesn’t snap, resolutely ignores the memory of the Knight holding up his hands and telling Scarecrow, voice painfully earnest, to take him and let Jim and his men and Robin leave in one piece. He settles for a curt nod, can’t quite muster up a, wish I could say the same.

The Knight pulls in a painful-sounding breath and drops his head to the side.

“Bring up the footage for Commissioner Gordon, would you?”

“Yessir.” The laptop returns, balanced delicately over the rifle. Jim doesn’t know if he wants to know what’s going on. “Hang on...give it a sec to load…”

The Knight moves and visibly bites back a wince, but the new angle means that Jim can see the full extent of the bruising on his neck.

“There we go--you okay, boss?”

“Ribs,” he breathes. “They don’t like it when people zipline into them.”

What.

“Need me to call--”

“No.” He swallows hard and beckons Jim closer. “M’fine. Just sore. And stiff.” He clears his throat, grimacing. “You worry too much.”

“I worry exactly the right amount.”

“M’just not used to being still this long--”

“Deal,” his friend says sharply. The Knight just grins, but that annoys the other guy. “Did you miss the flatline bit?”

“Technically?”

“I--never mind.” He makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “Never mind...okay, all set.”

He turns the laptop around and Jim hesitates before perching on the very edge of the bed. Nothing terrible happens to him.

“This is footage from my helmet. How it kept going after that level of trauma, I’ll never know, but my IT department managed to recover it remotely.”

The footage picks up in a dark area, abandoned sewer network or something, probably, and it’s glitchy and stuttery.

Bruce has been caught on camera before, but not like this. This is...savage, animalistic. He comes out of nowhere, dodging gunfire and seemingly oblivious to the shouts of surprise, and moves in via a flying kick to the camera itself, which goes white and static-y for a second. A few of them come up behind him and suffer backhands and powerful kicks for their troubles, and then Bruce fills up the frame, shoulders positioned like he’s got his arms out and...and...

He looks at the Knight, looks at the bruises around his neck, and looks back at the screen in time to see Bruce going down and being dragged backwards.

“He do this to you?”

The look the man gives him is so reminiscent of the little boy Jim remembers that it makes his head spin. It screams, I know you’re not really that stupid...right?

“Well, I didn’t do it to myself.”

“--okay, sir, I’m just gonna…”

The helmet moves and Jim spots the medic from earlier before it gets set on the ground, facing Bruce. Bruce is chained to a pipe, seemingly unconscious.

“Don’t talk, just nod. Can you breathe okay?”

There’s an obvious cut--they don’t want to share it all, apparently--and then Bruce stirs and starts...giggling. Jim knows that giggle.

“What the hell.”

The Knight shudders and burrows under his blankets.

“It’s complicated. We’re reasonably sure he’s been eliminated, or at the very least contained, but--” A hand moves, presumably indicating himself. “I made it out. He might have, too.”

His friend closes his laptop and sets it aside.

“We’ve got teams sweeping Arkham’s grounds to the best of our ability,” he says. “Unfortunately, we are not a rescue team and as such are not fully equipped to handle the more unstable areas. That said, given the police department’s...track record...we would very much prefer that your men stay out of our way until we either find the individual formerly known as the Batman, or definitively confirm his demise. We’re hoping that at the very least, any injuries he may have sustained slowed him down, but we can’t prove that, given the lack of video footage for the incident.”

“It’s our understanding that Batman has, at least for the time being, lost his fight against the effects of J.” The Knight swallows. “Of Joker’s blood. I attempted to contain him--”

“Contain, my ass,” his friend grumbles. The Knight ignores him.

“I attempted to contain him,” he says again, “via...ah…”

“He blew up the goddamn asylum with himself and Batman inside,” comes the sharp interjection. “In case you managed to miss that.”

Jim had not managed to miss that, thank you very much.

“I noticed,” he says dryly. The Knight huffs a painful-sounding laugh and falls silent.

There’s. There’s a lot Jim wants to say. The Knight was Robin, and Joker killed him (and made sure they all knew it, that tape, good God, he’d sent it to everyone and Jim remembers Dove bursting into tears when she tried to tell him), but he’s not dead now, and look at what he’s done.

Much as he’d like to demand answers--or at least bring half of that up--he won’t. He doubts the man with the laptop will react well; now that he really looks, the man’s tense, clearly poised to move if he has to.

Jim can probably take him. He absolutely can’t take the others that will come at the commotion.

There’s a small dinging sound, and silence, and then an urgent, “Sir. Sir.”

“Hrm?”

“We got something.”

The Knight blinks a few times before half-surging up and demanding, “Let’s go, let’s go, then, help me up--”

“Chair or Trent?”

“Neither--”

“Chair or Trent.”

“Chair,” he grumbles after a second. “But I can walk on my own--”

“Yeah, but if the doc sees you, he’ll be mad. Here it is.”

Jim moves, semi-prepared to offer to help but not really wanting to, but they must have a system, because the Knight’s in the chair with a blanket in short order.

“I feel like a cheap Bond villain,” he’s complaining now. “One that rolls down a ramp into an electrified pool or something.”

“Maybe next time, you’ll consider your life choices, sir.”

“They weren’t supposed to come back to haunt me!”

“I know, sir.”

“Christ...what do we have.”

Should he…? Sure, apparently.

What a day. He needs a drink. A good strong one.

“My understanding is it’s better seen than explained, sir. No body, I don’t think.”

“Fantastic...the bastard’ll survive anything.”

Jim privately thinks the same applies to him, but he doesn’t share that thought. He doubts it will go over well.

The computer room isn’t crammed full of people. There’s one guy on the monitors and another one-one of the ones from before, actually, the one with the cashews-lounging in a chair next to him, drinking a Coke.

“What’s going on, you said something turned up--” He doesn’t quite hide a shiver, but when the other people in the room zero in on him, he shakes his head and insists, “M’fine.”

“Boss, I can link this to a laptop if you’re s’posed to be in bed--”

“M’fine. Pull up the footage.”

“You’re not gonna like it,” monitor-guy says, spinning around and wheeling over to make room. “Looks like he got out, same as you.”

“Seriously?”

“Would I joke when it mattered, sir? Here, look. See this?” He makes the screen bigger. “That look familiar to you?”

It certainly looks familiar to Jim. Bruce’s cowl is difficult to mistake, and there it is, crumpled in the rubble. It’s singed, and one of the ears is broken, but it is Bruce’s cowl.

“Damn,” the Knight breathes, and...Jim doesn’t like admitting it, not after tonight, but...he looks so young. A scared little boy, that’s all. “That’s not good.”

“What do we do, sir?”

“We don’t even know for sure if he’s out.” The Knight’s friend leans over the chair to get a better look at the monitor. “Maybe he tried getting out and died, we don’t--”

“I made it out,” the Knight says quietly.

There’s a wave of annoyed grumbling that includes at least one, ‘self-sacrificing dumbass’ and a, ‘in spite of your best efforts’. Jim has to wonder about that one. He can’t muster up that much sympathy, but he does wonder.

The Knight just sighs and adjusts his blanket around his shoulders.

“Fair. Anyways, seeing as I found a way out, it’s not unlikely that he’s done the same, barring the. The possibility of an instant death. I suspect we wound up in a pocket, though, so.”

“You didn’t notice anything on your way out?” Jim demands. “Was he right with you?”

“I was--”

“Concussed and bleeding to death,” a new voice snaps. “And in no shape to be walking, let alone note-taking. What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

“Briefing the--”

“Literally anybody else can do that.” The angry voice belongs to the medic from before. “You don’t seem to understand what ‘flatline’ means, sir, or maybe you’ve just got a death wish, but tough fucking titty, said the kitty, you’re not dying on my watch. Say bye-bye to the commissioner, you’re going back to bed and staying there or on God, I’ll put you in a coma and keep you there until you don’t have so much as a bruise. Do I make myself clear?”

Jim expects argument. None of the Robins ever let Batman boss them around to that extent, and he knows damn well that if he’d backtalked his superiors like that, he’d be in, frankly, deep shit. But the Knight just sighs.

“He’s been here long enough, anyway.” Long enough for what? “Keep your men out of our way, Commissioner. No offense, but Batman existed for a reason. You can’t handle him.”

Jim bristles.

“Can’t handle--”

“You know it’s true,” he snaps, and straightens up, turns to the man with the cashews. “Call everyone back.” All of a sudden that’s no longer a little boy playing Soldiers. That’s the man that crippled Gotham within hours. “I want everyone off the streets and back at base, now. Do not engage under any circumstances.”

“Yessir.”

“Get into the street cameras,” he continues. “If a rat comes out of a sewer, I want to see it. I want whatever drones we have left out and searching, but leave the car alone. That hasn’t worked so far and I’m not losing more--”

He must breathe wrong, because he suddenly starts coughing, harsh, violent whoops from down in his chest.

“Get him back to bed,” the medic orders once the coughs cease. “Or he’ll be Snow White and believe you me, nobody is getting in here to kiss him awake.”

“Jones--”

“We can handle this, sir. We’ll let you know if something comes up.”

“But--”

“You trained us for this, remember? We’re professionals.”

The Knight falls silent, one hand still pressed against his ribs, and finally melts back into his chair.

“Fine,” he says at last. “Bye, commish.”

He doesn’t recognize the men that take him back. The streets are empty, though, barring the patrolling drones, and they make it back to the GCPD unscathed.

Unfortunately, Jim returns to, quite frankly, a disaster. The officers on duty are tied up, and the militia cells are empty. Not a man left. He’s just freeing Cash when the broadcast screen crackles and the Knight appears on it, face serious.

“I mean it, Commissioner,” he says. “Keep out of the way, or I’ll put you in a cell instead.”

“You--”

“Tell Bullock hey for me, would ya?” He leans forward. “Stay safe.”

Click.

THE END

*I’m figuring Bane is bigger than the Giant Mooks because his boss fight consists of you jumping on him to slash his Venom tubes AND because he can and will run you over, while Giant Mooks of any affiliation are not rideable and don’t run.

[blush-and-books]

high school au, luke pining for julie, friendship on the cusp of something more?, dahlias

ahh got carried away with this one too would you look at that. this is another combo drabble -- @ the anon who sent the request “high school au, fluff, confession, the chain on luke’s jeans.” this one doesn’t have a precise confession, but... I think you’ll still enjoy it. both of you, hopefully!! thank you guys so much for the amazing requests.

Luke would buy Julie flowers for a wide variety of reasons. 

Their friends thought it was almost ridiculous how often Luke would show up at school or band practice or even Julie’s house with a bouquet of dahlias with some reason behind it that wasn’t the fact that he was in love with her and giving her flowers was his romantic love language. 

(Yes, we all know his primary love language is touch, but he will hug a stranger he met on the street, so it carries significantly less weight.)

He knows that dahlias are her favorite flower, and he knows how important it is that there are always dahlias in the house to keep the spirit of her mom around in a symbolic way. Wherever there are dahlias, there is Rose -- and Luke understood that almost better than any of their friends. 

Which is why he would come up with excuses to give Julie flowers all of the time. 

The night of a show? Flowers. Her birthday? Flowers. A good grade on a test, she’s having a bad week, or just him noticing that the current bouquet is dying? Flowers.

You get the picture.

On the anniversary of her mom’s passing, the dark date falls on a school day. Julie doesn’t show, which is expected from their friend group -- and when she ignores text messages, they all assume she’s taking the day to herself. 

In hopes of making her smile, Luke drops by the store on the way back from school and picks up a bouquet to bring by the Molina household before heading home. 

(Or sticking around to hang out with Julie. He would painfully prefer the second option, but also is well aware that this is a day that she needs to be alone.)

Ray Molina wears a grim smile when he sees Luke on the other side of the threshold. 

“You’re sweet, mijo. I would let you go say hi, but she woke up sick, and she could barely stand. We were going to go visit her mom today, but we want to make sure she’s there so we are postponing it for a few days. She’s pretty upset.”

Hearing that she’s sick, and likely very depressed, only makes Luke more tempted to respectfully push past her father and run up to her room to comfort her. 

“Oh,” he says instead, shoulders slumping. He holds out the bouquet of dahlias. “Okay, well, can you give these to her for me? I’m sure she’s been having a rough day, and-”

A handful of distinct thumps cut him off, and both him and Ray turn to look at the source of the sound: The staircase, where Julie is stumbling step by step, wrapped up in a blanket. 

“Julie!” 

Without hesitation, Luke crosses the threshold and darts into the house to check on Julie, alongside Ray. She’s hardly standing, and her eyes are almost fully shut as she clutches the blanket and murmurs to herself in Spanish. 

“Papa, estoy lista,” she hums into the air as they grip her arms and try to get her to sit down. “¿Por que Luke está aqui? No quiero le verme así este.” 

Luckily, Luke’s known her long enough to be able to make out what she’s saying, and finds himself running his hand over her forehead -- God, she’s burning up -- and over her hair. 

“Traje unas flores para ti. Sentarte, por favor, y no preocuparte por tu apariencia. Eres siempre hermosa.”

His Spanish is definitely average, but he knows enough to talk her down to the floor and get her resting against him as Ray looks between them with wide eyes. Luke feels himself blushing and his skin is so warm that he wonders if it could pass for a fever of his own. While her dad clearly wants to have a conversation later that Luke had been dreading  -- even though they were literally friends -- there is more focus on getting Julie back up to her room. 

“I’ll carry her back up,” Ray decides, grunting as he stands. He leans back down to tap on his daughter’s shoulders and coax her off of Luke, but she only presses farther into the boy; clutching onto his arm for dear life. Both Luke and Ray know that this means. 

“I’ll get her upstairs.” Ray nods at Luke, staring down at his daughter in the guitarist’s arms, wondering how the two of them happened right before his eyes and how Luke could never conceive how Julie adores him.

“Gracias, mijo.”

Julie is already close to his side, so all it takes is a strategic shift for him to be able to slip his right arm under her legs and tighten his arm around her back. “Okay, mi mariposita enferma, let’s get you back to bed.”

“Quiero ver a mi mamá,” she mumbles lucidly into his neck. Luke feels his heart throb under his ribs, because he knows how hard this is for her, and he just wants to make everything better for her even though no one has that kind of power. 

(Except for Julie herself. She can always make everything better for him.)

“Yo se,” he whispers back, almost at the top of the stairs. “Te traería si yo pudiera te traer.”

She doesn’t say any more, but she presses herself even closer and he worries that she may be on the verge of tears. Refusing to look down at her for fear his heart will shatter, he gently slips through her bedroom door and lays her on the mattress; pulling the covers back over her in an instant because she started shivering the second he put her down. 

She murmurs “quiero mi mama” a handful of times, and Ray brings up a cup of steaming tea, and Luke finds himself sitting on the edge of her bed trying to get her to drink some of it. 

Eventually, she gives in, grumbling more Spanish that was so quick and quiet and run together that Luke couldn’t even attempt to decipher it. 

“You should probably go home, mijo,” Ray says after a few moments. “Go take a shower and pop some Vitamin C. I didn’t mean to put you at risk.”

“No, Sir, it’s okay. I needed to make sure Julie was alright.” Gazing down at the half-asleep girl who is curled in bed with a mountain of blankets and a teddy bear pressed into her chest, Luke remembers the bouquet downstairs. “Do you mind if I put the flowers in a vase before I go?”

Who would Ray be to deny him that?

With a head nod towards the door, he gives the teenager a small grin. “Go for it, mijo. You know where the vases are by now.”

He does. And he makes quick work of a nice light pink one, tucking the bundle inside after filling it with water. After scribbling down a note on a nearby piece of paper, he is skipping every other step as he rushes up the stairs. He finds Ray hovering by the doorway, keeping watch over Julie.

The vase is positioned on her nightstand, with the note tucked under the base. Luke tries to stay as quiet as possible, because he doesn’t know if she’s asleep or awake when-

There’s an insistent pull against the chain on his jeans. 

Julie has reached out from under the covers and hooked two fingers around it to keep him close. Without opening her eyes, a small smile forms on her face: “Gracias para las flores.” And if Luke listens even closer: “Te amo.”

Julie’s dad is six feet away, but Luke forgets all about that when he unlatches her hand from the chain and presses her palm against his lips. 

“Cualquier cosa para ti, mariposa.” Quietly, murmured against her palm like a promise, “te amo.”

Her grin impossibly widens, which is the most emotion she’s shown the whole time he’s been there. It makes his chest ache a little that he managed to make her smile, even a little bit, even in this state. 

He would do just about anything to keep her smiling. 

--

The next morning is a Saturday, so he sleeps in, and plans to go over to see Julie again. He doesn’t have to wonder long if she’s still in the same state, because he wakes up to a text from her on his phone: Dad says you were killing the Spanish game yesterday. Bravo. 

And BTW, thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.

And once again, Julie is the one making him smile.

TRANSLATIONS (not my four years of Spanish finally popping in):

- Papa, estoy lista. ¿Por que Luke está aqui? No quiero le verme así este = Dad, I’m ready... Why is Luke here? I don’t want him to see me like this.

- Traje unas flores para ti. Sentarte, por favor, y no preocuparte por tu apariencia. Eres siempre hermosa. = I brought flowers for you, Sit down, please, and don’t worry about your appearance. You’re always beautiful.

- mi mariposita enferma = my little sick butterfly

- quiero ver a mi mama = i want to see my mom

- yo se, te traería si yo pudiera te traer =  I know, I would bring you if I could bring you

- gracias para las flores, te amo = thank you for the flowers, I love you.

- cualquier cosa para ti, mariposa. te amo = anything for you, butterfly. i love you.

[yikesharringrove]

Not sure if you’re still taking prompts but can you maybe write something about Billy and Steve and the 5 love languages please? Thank you!

1. Giving and Receiving Gifts

Steve just stared at the box.

He had found it in his mother’s closet, obviously placed in there by a maid.

His birthday was next week, and his parents were giving him a record player.

The same one they had given him last Christmas.

Steve figures his father’s assistant picked it out. He’s had four since Christmas.

He sighed at the box. Maybe he could sell the record player, maybe he could buy himself something with the money.

He knows he’ll end up giving it to Dustin, or maybe Will.

-

There was a carton of cigarettes on the kitchen table.

Unopened Marlboro reds. Next to a plate of pancakes. Susan’s yearly peace offering.

Billy slid into the table quietly.

“Thank you, Dad.”

Neil just hummed.

2. Physical Touch

Steve sighed as he sank into the crisp sheets.

His parents’ bed was huge, far larger than two people needed.

He had sprayed his mother’s perfume on one of the pillows, curled up in their silk sheets.

If he pretended hard enough, he could imagine being held.

Someone caring for him enough to touch him, run fingers through his hair, pet down his back.

He set up one of the down feather pillows behind him, felt like someone was there.

-

Billy spat into the sink.

His tooth had chipped, but hadn’t come out completely.

His lip was split and he could feel the bruises forming on his back.

He rinsed the blood out of his mouth, cataloging dark fingerprints on his wrist.

He should head to the quarry, be alone for a little bit.

He pushed out of the bathroom, nearly colliding into Max on his way to the door.

She reached for his wrist, the one already marked by another hand.

Billy dodged out of the way, kept going to his car.

3. Acts of Service

“Look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency-”

“Hey, don’t sweat it. You know I never mind driving him.”

Mrs. Henderson sighed in relief.

“Thank you, Sweetheart. You’re a life saver.”

It was true though, he really didn’t mind driving Dustin around. Gave him something to do. Helping felt good, made him forget about things for a little while.

-

He had only been in Max’s room once before.

It had been to yell at her about stealing his Walkman.

It hadn’t changed since then, still just as cluttered, still as California beachy as before.

He placed the skateboard on the unmade bed.

He noticed her wheels were getting torn up on the shitty roads, installed new ones for her.

It was as close to an apology as he could get.

4. Quality time

Steve’s house was empty.

And he hated it.

No matter how loud he turned on the television, no matter how much music he played, or how many lights he turned on, it was still an empty house, with no one but a sad lonely boy rattling away inside.

-

Billy doesn’t like sitting in silence.

He guesses Susan doesn’t either, as she shakily tries to fill the dinner table with a poor anecdote from her day.

Billy smiles where he should, and eats quickly, but not too wuickly, and compliments Susan’s cooking, and only leaves the table when his father dismisses him.

He retreats to his room, listening to music to drown out whatever game Neil’s watching in the next room.

5. Words of Affirmation

“You’re not stupid.”

Billy’s brows were furrowed.

“Yeah, I am. But it’s okay though I’m-”

“No, you’re not.” He said it with an air of finality. “Your mind just works different. But you’re really smart.” Steve smiled weakly. “I mean it. You’ve got this creative brain, always thinking outside the box. You have a knack for detail other people miss. You’re smart”

It was the first time anyone ever told him that.

Fitting, as he’d had a lot of firsts with Billy already.

-

“You’re not a monster.”

Steve’s voice had an air of authority. His eyes were wide.

“Steve, I, I hurt-I killed so many-”

“You weren’t you, though. You were, were possessed. You couldn’t have stood a chance against that thing.”

“I should’ve fought it sooner.”

“It took all your energy to fight it off. And you did, in the end. You saved us all. You’re not a monster. You’re a hero.” Billy’s nose twitched. “You’re selfless, and brave, and a fucking hero.”

4. Quality Time

Steve’s house wasn’t empty.

And he loved it.

Billy seemed to take up every room, fill the space with snide remarks about the decor in Steve’s house, or laugh loudly at family portraits.

He had put music on in the living room, and turned on lights as he looked through his house.

Steve felt warm, and for once, for fucking once, he didn’t feel lonely.

-

Billy likes the quarry, although he would never say that to another human being.

It’s quiet there, and if he closes his eyes, he can pretend the water lapping at the rocky shore is the ocean, that he never left California.

But then he looked to his left, and smiled at the sight.

Steve was always pretty, but something about moonlight made him ethereal.

He was quiet, looking out over the water.

Billy liked that Steve knows when to let the moment sit, when quiet is okay.

3. Acts of Service

“Noticed your breaks were starting to whine, so I changed your break pads. Ended up doing the oil and wiper fluid, too.”

Steve stared at the car.

“You didn’t have to do all that.”

“Good for pt.” Billy’s hands were working much better, he had more articulation these days.

And rebuilding things, fixing things, it made him feel better than any talk session ever had.

It was nice seeing Billy like this, a little closer to his new self.

It made Steve’s stomach flip over.

-

“I finished unpacking your stuff while you were out applying places. I don’t know how you like things organized, so you’ll probably want to redo it I just thought-” Steve was rambling away, all nervous.

“Thanks, Stevie. I appreciate it.” Steve’s face went red.

They had moved into a two-bedroom apartment in the shitty part of town. Billy’s window opened onto a dingy parking lot, while Steve’s showed the gas station below.

“I was just finished, thought I would move your along, too.”

He tamped down the way his gut rolled, the way his heart pounded against his ribs at Steve’s slight flush.

2. Physical Touch

“Do you, uh, do you think I could sleep in here?”

Steve felt like he was going to throw up his heart, hands still shaking from his nightmare.

“‘Course.” Billy’s voice was gruff in the darkness, but he held up the side of his blanket.

Steve slipped underneath it with him.

He was still breathing too fast, stiff as a board on Billy’s bed.

“It’s okay.” And then Billy’s arm was around him, and his back was against a warm, solid chest, and it was all too easy to melt into the touch, maybe let a few tears fall.

Billy was warm, and grounding.

And Steve felt a tiny bit better.

-

Billy tossed himself down onto the couch.

It was two small for how both of them sprawled across it at once, their bodies pressed together.

Steve wiggled his way out from under Billy, leaning against his side, legs tucked up under his hips.

“Long day?”

Billy never replied.

He turned his head to look at Steve, and he was so close, his breath fanning over Billy’s cheeks, dark eyes nearly going cross eyes as they dropped down to look at his lips.

His hair was soft as Billy sank a hand into it, guiding their kiss.

It was a long time coming, the soft brush of their lips.

Steve pressed his body closer to Billy, who let out a desperate whine.

Steve’s hands were soft and warm, one cupping his cheek, one gripping his wrist.

They took shaky breaths after parting, still close enough to feel the other’s breath, neither boy wanting to break their soft little bubble.

They kissed all night.

1. Giving and Receiving Gifts

“Happy birthday, you pain in my ass.”Steve laughed as he accepted the small box from Billy.

“You’re a terror.” He leaned forward to press a kiss to Billy’s cheek.

It was Steve’s first birthday since they moved to California.

He tore open the wrapping paper, tossing the lid of the box onto their bed.

He gasped.

“Bill, this is, thank you.”

It was Billy’s necklace. Steve didn’t even realize he wasn’t wearing it.

“Wanted you to have it. Since you’re my guy, and all that.” His smile was dazzling, lazy and warm.

Steve turned around, placed his palm over the pendant as Billy clasped it for him.

“I love you.” Billy pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, right over the clasp.

“Love you too, Pretty Boy.”

-

“Uh, here.”

Steve’s cheeks were flaming as he pushed the small box into Billy’s hands.

“Happy Birthday.”

Billy just smiled up at him, taking his time with the neat wrapping.

It was a ring, a simple gold band.

“You know, it’s been eight years since we got together. And I know we can’t get married, or whatever, but I thought, we could, we could have this.”

Billy was fucking speechless.

“Sorry, it’s dumb.” Steve reached for the ring, but Billy clutched it to his chest.

“Do you have one too?”

“Yeah. Matching set.”

“Go get it.” Steve looked nervous as he re-entered their living room with a matching gold band.

Billy took it from him. He took his left hand, slowly sliding the ring on his finger.

“With this ring, I thee wed.”

Steve barked a laugh, happy and bright. He slid Billy’s ring onto his finger in the same fashion.

“With this ring, I thee wed.” Billy’s smile was hurting his cheeks.

“Now with the power invested in me, by the great state of California, and the fact that no one can tell us fuck all, I pronounce us, husband and husband. Now gimme a fuckin’ kiss!”

They both laughed into the kiss, the sun setting outside their apartment, dousing the little makeshift wedding in gold.

[icefire149]

An Angel’s Vow

Chapter Five (Read on ao3 | Read from the beginning)

Once the kitchen was clean, Claire put her other duffle bag on the table. She unzipped it. “It’s not much, but it works.”

Cas took everything out of the bag and examined it carefully. The bag contained: a machete, some silver bullets but no gun, a pouch of silver coins, an iron crowbar, a lock pick set, a coin Claire thinks is iron, a couple bottles of holy water, some spray paint, a half empty container of salt, a box of penguin band-aids, cleaning alcohol, and an angel sword. Cas frowned. “This is abysmal.”

Defensive, Claire crossed her arms. “The sword is basically a hunting equivalent to a Swiss army knife.”

“I don’t understand what military grade Swiss cutlery has to do with anything, but I do know hunting. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Oh, so here we go! Hit me with the speech.”

Cas turned around bewildered. “What are you talking about? There’s no speech.”

“So you’re not gonna tell me that I’m being stupid and I should go live a normal life?”

“I’m not going to yell at you or tell you what to do.” Cas tried to keep his voice even. “Am I happy that you’re hunting? No. Am I frustrated that you’re hunting by yourself? Absolutely. But it’s your life and I promised to keep you safe.”

Claire rolled her eyes with her whole body. She went over to the refrigerator and snagged a juice box out. With a loud pop, she stabbed the straw in.

Sighing, Cas put his hands on the table. He looked over Claire’s hunting supplies again. “I don’t think you understand.” His voice came out much softer than before.

The juice box was half way to Claire’s mouth when she froze.

“I know you’re not going to stop now that your mind is set. I want to help you be a better hunter.”

“What?”

Cas looked over his shoulder, and studied Claire. Obviously, she was grown by human standards, but he could still clearly see the small child he devastated…..is continuing to jeopardize. His chest started feeling unnaturally tight. For a moment he thought that he could still see the baby from the shreds of Jimmy’s memory that remains with him. “I’m willing to share my knowledge of the supernatural with you. Afterwards if you’re still willing to be a hunter at least you’ll be better informed about what you’re signing up for.”

“Are you serious?” Claire tilted her head, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “How are we supposed to hunt with the kid?”

“We’re not hunting. We’re studying.”

Claire’s whole body drooped. “Studying what? I can’t imagine where you have lore books stashed here. This house is pretty bare bones.”

“Lore books would be nice, but I have a library right up here.” He touched his temple with his index finger. “And besides we have a ton of ground to cover before thinking about hunts.”

“It’s not like I haven’t been on a couple hunts already.”

“Yeah, but do you have the exorcism chant memorized? Or recorded? Can you make hex bags? Draw various devil traps? Read any Latin or Enochian? Tracking spells? Draw angel banishing-”

“Okay!” Claire burst. She put the juice box down on the table. Her voice softened. “Okay, I get it.”

Cas nodded. “Would you be interested in learning any of that?”

“You’re seriously willing to teach me any of that?”

“Of course. I want you to be safe, and I want you to be happy.”

The next thing Cas knew, he was trapped in a bone crushing hug.

“Thank you,” Claire mumbled into his chest. She let go just as fast and sat in the chair she used earlier during lunch.

Cas pushed the juice box into her reach. She took it and started drinking. He smiled, feeling the tension loosen in his shoulders.

“So….” Claire spoke with the straw still in the corner of her mouth. “When does hunter school start, professor angel?”

“We could probably start tomorrow. Does that mean you’re planning on staying for a while?”

Sitting up straight, Claire’s expression morphed from jovial to serious. “Is that okay? Is it even safe with…”

They both glanced towards the living room for a moment. Cas crossed his arms. “Of course it’s okay. You’re free to come and go as much as you please.” He sighed, uncharacteristically running a hand through his hair. “But your second question...I honestly don’t know. And that frightens me.”

Cas pulled the chair closest to him and sat down. “You’re not safe if you leave now.” He gestured at her hunting supplies on the table. “I know Heaven is after Jack. I’ve been careful to keep us hidden, but it’s not without flaws. Jack’s birth should have attracted a ton of attention. I’m shocked we haven’t been discovered yet.”

“You’ve been doing good so far. Maybe they won’t find you,” Claire said, leaning her elbows on the table. She rested the side of her face in the palm of her hand.

“They will at some point….I just wish I knew what’s taking them so long. I feel like I’m missing something.”

“Is there any kind of warding we could put up? Spells?”

Cas smiled softly. “Angel warding would be useless in this situation. Yes, it would keep Heaven away from this house, but it would also keep me and Jack out.”

“So what have you done?”

“After Jack was born….the moment we could flee, I etched Enochian sigils into his ribs to hide him from every angel.” Cas subconsciously rubbed a hand over the tattoo on his side. “My body is hidden from angels in a similar way.”

Stunned, Claire stared at Cas in silent horror.

“Actually that reminds me-” Cas turned his whole body towards in Claire’s direction. “I wanted to give you those sigils as well for protection.”

Claire slowly leaned away in her chair. “Why….would I need protection from angels?”

Cas’ eyebrows furrowed. “There’s always a chance you might stumble into an angel related case, but most importantly you should be hidden from them in case anyone remembers your ties to me. You’re important.”

“Because I can function as your vessel?”

“That does put you in a lot of danger.”

Her whole body drooped as she sighed. “Great.”

“At this point I doubt that there are any angels that remember which bloodline begets my vessels, but I’d rather err on the side of caution.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. You’ll never notice it.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Cas got up and positioned himself to stand directly behind her. Claire closed her eyes. He placed his hands on the top of both of her shoulders for a few seconds, and then he went back to his chair.

Claire opened her eyes. “You didn’t do anything?”

“I did and it’s done.”

She burst out of her chair, running her hands down her arms and looking over her body. “Everything looks the same.”

Cas smiled fondly. “Your ribs. You won’t be able to see anything without an x-ray.”

Her eyes snapped back up at him, wide with curiosity. “That was so cool! I can’t feel a difference.” She sat back down again. “What does the warding look like?”

“Oh.” Cas sat up straighter and glanced around the room. “I can draw them out for you, but…” He frowned. “We’re going to need to buy some pens and paper.”

That pulled a laugh out of Claire. “Figures. We need to go school supply shopping.”

Confused, Cas turned his head to the side just a bit. Then it clicked. “Yeah. We’ll need to go supply shopping.”

“So the warding will be enough to keep us hidden while we’re shopping?”

Cas sat back in the chair. “Technically, yes. The reason why it isn’t perfect is how angels communicate.” He touched the side of his forehead for a moment. “Dean calls it Angel Radio. I can turn it off when I want to, but in general angels can contact and find each other through our minds.”

Claire stared at him for several silent moments while his words processed, and then the gears turned. She glanced towards the living room.

“I don’t know if he’s connected,” Cas said simply. “And I don’t want to reach out to him that way until he’s older….and understands.”

“Huh.” Crossing her arms, Claire turned back towards Cas. “He’s really got us in a pickle.”

The puzzled look on Cas’ face was evident, but he chose to nod instead. Claire cracked a smile. “Hopefully Heaven is too scared of the idea of Jack that they’ll keep their distance.”

“Hopefully.”

After a quiet pause. “Sooo...does this place have decent WiFi?”

“I believe so. Kelly was frequently on her laptop.”

“Excellent.” Claire’s smile widened. “You wanna watch a movie?”

Cas’ expression softened. “I’d like that greatly.”

“Be right back then,” Claire said hopping up and leaving the room. On her way through the house she glanced at Jack sound asleep in his play pen. He was on his back, and the foot of a stuffed lion toy was clenched in his tiny fist. Amused, Claire shook her head and continued upstairs to her other duffle bag.

It was only a minute or two later when she descended down the stairs with her laptop charger clunking into each step. “Is there anything in particular that-”

Her voice cut off seeing the pained look on Cas’ face. He was seated on the living room couch, but he looked miles away. “Cas?”

Startled, his whole body uncharacteristically flinched. His blue eyes looked dull and sad. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you coming.”

Claire slowly walked over to the couch and put the laptop down at the opposite end. “Are you okay? You look sick.” She kicked the charger cord to the side and sat down on the middle cushion.

“I’m fine.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Wanna try that again?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I told you in the past that angels can pick up on more than just verbal prayers. Longing. Strong feelings of intent. They’re like…..indirect prayers.”

“Yeah. So who’s praying? Dean?”

Cas sighed. “He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but I can feel that he’s perturbed.”

“Well yeah.” Claire pulled her legs up, crossing them. She then turned her whole body in Cas’ direction. “Jody told me Sam is like ready to tie him down so he’ll stop clawing at the walls. He’s trying to find you.”

Mildly irritated, Cas shook his head. “He’s yet to actually pray to me so I can’t imagine he wants to speak to me that badly.”

“That’s fair. One point to Castiel.”

Cas raised an eyebrow at that.

“So why are we letting Dean sweat? What did he do?” Claire grinned. “Depending on what he did, I bet we can get Jody to boot his car.”

“I’m afraid to ask what that means, but I have no doubt that Dean would never speak to me again if we did such a thing to ‘his baby’.”

Claire shook her head. “Never mind that then.”

Cas took a deep breath. His gaze slid over to Jack’s sleeping form. “Dean and I didn’t part on good terms. I spent much of the past year tracking Jack’s mother. She wasn’t easy to find.” Cas’ head turned and he met Claire’s eye. He frowned. “And my original mission was to terminate the pregnancy.”

A sudden chill crept up Claire’s spine. “Oh.”

“Dean understood the complexities of my mission. I didn’t want to hurt Kelly, but….a child like Jack is…..he could cause a lot of harm.”

Arching her neck up, Claire tried to get a better glimpse of the baby. He seemed to be sleeping with his face squished into the playpen floor. “I get the idea,” she said quietly. “Archangel power. Prince of Darkness. But…” Claire pointed her thumb in Jack’s direction. “I don’t think he fits the bill.”

“When I did find Kelly,” Cas continued. “And I rescued her from Dagon, one of the Princes of Hell…..Jack called out to me. He showed me a peaceful world. A vision of the good he’ll be able to do.”

“And that’s why you’ve gone all dad mode.” Claire crossed her arms.

“He asked.”

“And Dean?”

“To hunt Dagon I had to trick Dean and steal a special gun he prized.”

Grimacing, Claire quipped, “I bet that went over well.”

“At the time him and Sam were pitching ideas of removing Jack’s grace.”

“What would that even do to him?”

“Make him human I suppose…”

“But you don’t know.”

“No. Not for certain. And Kelly wanted her son to be whole.”

Claire nodded in agreement. “She’s right. Jack should be allowed to be his entire self. No hiding. No changing or compromising for others.”

Cas smiled softly, and then it fell while he stared at his hands in his lap. “I suspect now that Dean is mostly upset about the disappearance act, but...I’ve been keeping the distance so I don’t have to lose everyone. My siblings already dislike both Winchesters.”

A small laugh escaped Claire. “Figures.”

“And….I do actually quite like this house. It’s peaceful here. Unlike their bunker...which is filled with rooms of unknown and dangerous items.”

A glint of excitement shone in Claire’s eyes. “Are you sure? Sounds like a fun place to explore and grow up in.”

Cas shook his head. “Jack deserves sunshine and windows...and a life unmarked by hunting…..well for as long as I can give him.”

Claire nodded, and they both sat there in silence with their thoughts for a while. Eventually, Claire’s eyes moved back to Cas and the sorrow exuding from him. “If Dean left the bunker to help you with Jack out here….would you want that?”

Cas was silent for a long time. Claire couldn’t make heads or tails of his expression. Eventually he spoke in a hushed whisper. “I miss him.”

“You should ask him instead of making his decisions for him.”

Cas’ eyes darted back to her for a moment. He stared, and then he pointed at the laptop. “So what kind of movie were you thinking?”

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

I wanted to pay back some of the love given to me by @loosesodamarble so I borrowed her OC ship Nachsele for a moment, and this fic was born. 

I apologize if they’re out of character, but I wanted to do some fluff (aka hurt-comfort) for them, but their history doesn’t translate into fluffy fluff in my head. But, I tried. I hope you like it! ^_^

Pairing: Nacht Faust x Josele (OC; Erika’s and not mine)

Genre: hurt-comfort

Words: 2581

The rain outside

Why was she there again? She couldn’t remember. No, wait she could, she came here to retrieve something. But it didn’t really matter anymore. It didn’t matter, because she had thought that she would have been strong enough to do this now, after all this time. But instead, she had found the weight of the two rings hanging from a necklace around her throat to be too much. The burden of two bands that would have decorated the ring fingers of a husband and a wife in the future.

In the future… but never did.

And the pain, the pull of the depths of the hells beneath the Faust estate pulled her closer to the floor, to the dirt, the mulch and the stones. Closer to Morgen. It was as if he was still holding her in his gentle embrace, and yet… she knew that he wouldn’t pull her along like that. Oh no, he’d want her to live. He wanted her to live.

But still… The weight of her bones tried to implore her; beckoned her to go closer to the one she loved. One of the men she loved. One of the men… because she did, she did love Nacht too.

I do…

Nacht blamed himself for what he did to Morgen. And Nacht blamed himself for what he did to her, to his beloved Josele. Or rather what he did to beloved Josele, for she wasn’t for him to call his own. She wasn’t his.

“Nacht…?” She asked with a quiet tone that was laced with the sorrows her heart still harboured and the veil of empathy that she felt for the man she also loved; the man who now had raven hair, much like his brother used to have.

He was looking out of the window of his father’s office. The harsh rain beat the window relentlessly and the shadows that always followed him, danced on the walls.

He’s blaming himself for it… And he won’t let go of it… she whispered to herself somewhere in the back of her head. She would have called herself a hypocrite if she had had the energy. But she didn’t, the weight, the burden, and the draining exhaustion of the rings around her neck. The memory of Morgen that she still refused to let go.

“Go home Josele,” he told her without as much as looking.

“Nacht…” she repeated, but this time her tone had become drained of emotion. It was as if she was running out on it all, even sorrow. Even her tears were running dry.

“Go home!” He yelled this time, turning his head slightly over his shoulder.

She flinched. She didn’t know she still had that in her, but she supposed that it was a reaction that was imprinted into her muscles, something that would take a long time to fade.

“Nacht… What are you…?” She asked with hesitation dripping from her lips.

He stayed silent for one sixth of an eternity as he grit his teeth and wondered if he should reply to her. But. How could he not? For his heart, the tick tick tick of it, or rather what was still left of it, belonged to her.

“I’m bringing this house down…” he finally admitted.

She couldn’t quite grasp his statement. She wasn’t sure what extent of it was really intended and what was only her herself jumping into conclusions.

“Nacht… please…” the syllables dropped from her. She wasn’t sure why, and what she meant by them. The only thing her still ticking heart, even if ticking by a faint thread, told her was that she didn’t want him to be in pain. Not in the kind of pain she was in.

There was a brief pause, lasting only a few seconds, not more. Perhaps even fractions of seconds. Fractions during which she took a few shaky steps closer to him.

“Go home Josele,” he insisted once more, as if it was the only thing he wanted. The rain outside of the window before which he stood, tapped the glass into the pitch-black evening, not even night yet.

“Why?” She asked before she could really even think. A spur of the moment. Something that only happened in the presence of her near and dear. Near and dear…

“Because….” He paused for a moment. Did he really even need to reply her question? Perhaps not, but he owed it to her; he owed it to her. After all he had killed her fiancé, his own brother. “I can’t have you here.”

“Why?” Again, the same question, as if playing on loop. Why do I even need to know? She questioned herself. But the answer she knew was in the withering fragments of her heart. Because whatever waltz there was left in her soul, would be his, for she had always loved him too.

But this time the question irritated him to no end. And the steps that she had taken closer to him certainly did not help. He had heard every single one of them. He could feel her mana, so gentle, and soft, and as if a proclamation of everything that was still good and true in that cold, harsh world, and it… made his heart crumble.

He couldn’t have her there, not while making the estate crumble. She shouldn’t see it falling down. She shouldn’t see him tearing it down, as foolish as it sounded. Because the difference that it made, was insignificantly small. But to her, watching the home, the former home of him and Morgen, the house where they had spent so much time while growing up… He couldn’t quite know just how it’d impact her. But it wouldn’t be pleasant anyhow.

So, she shouldn’t be there. She shouldn’t be there to see it. She should just go home and leave him be. She should just leave. And not insist on asking why he said what he did. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t.

“Wh-“

“Because I love you!” He spun around, furious and tense, staring at her with eyes wide open and clenched teeth.

She looked at him, only a few steps away from him, and she was holding her hands close to her chest. It was as if she was curling inside of herself, even further than she already had.

You see… I am a monster. I can’t-, even confess in a proper manner…

His tense posture melted away, and instead composure took a hold of him again. He straightened his back and looked at her with a blank expression, much more like the one he always wore and repeated: “Go home Josele”. But this time his tone, it was more of an echo of his previous statement, as if this repetition had never left him.

Her eyes were empty. They had been empty, throughout it all. There might have been a hint of sorrow, a veil of melancholy, as if a distant echo of what was slowly dying inside of her; that which he had killed.

She stared at him, with a gaze that struggled to fixate on him, and instead looked somewhere far, far away. But she didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t sure. What was there even to do? Morgen wouldn’t want him to… She thought to herself, as if she didn’t have a wish of her own, as if what she wanted didn’t matter anymore. And all that did matter, was what Morgen would’ve wanted.

“I can’t,” she spoke with a tone that was devoid of everything, as if simply going through the motions. And that sound, the tone that wasn’t hers, it pricked Nacht’s heart. The soft melody of her voice that had once been so full of life, the voice that had breathed life into him, even if it wasn’t meant for him. “You shouldn’t,” she said, not quite sure what she meant with it.

“I have to,” Nacht replied, taking a step forward, as if stressing his point.

“No,” she shook her head, even if the motion was weak and faint. “You shouldn’t-, be alone.” Her mind was still, as if a dead calm sea. The statement was true, and hypocritical, since she too, longed to be alone. She didn’t wish for the company of others, and instead wanted to embrace her own longing and sorrows, hiding them away from the world.

He frowned at her. Spoken like someone who has locked herself away. He thought to herself, knowing fully well that she had hid herself into the shadows of her room, much like he had. “Why do you care?” He asked, because he truly wanted to know. If anything, she should hate him. She should loathe him. She should wish to throw him into a dungeon, take his grimoire, and throw away the key. He had killed her fiancé! She should-, she should want to-

“Because I…” she stopped, trying to think to herself. How should she phrase it? How?

She felt her heart tugging in her chest, but she tried to reel it in. She shouldn’t let it be free again. She shouldn’t allow it to beat together with another again. She shouldn’t. Because this pain; feeling as if her heart was carved out of her body, her ribs that once shielded the sanctuary of her tender emotions, were cracked and shattered, pricking through her lungs to the point that she could barely breathe. And yet, she hadn’t died. She still lived, despite it all.

“You what?” He asked, closing in the distance between them. His steps were heavy and slow, the sound of his boots thumping against the cold stone floor echoed in the air. “You hate me? You despise me? You can’t stand the sight of me?” He spoke out what he thought of, even if it didn’t make sense. The flow of the conversation didn’t make sense. But what else could it be?

She looked at him, his eyes that reminded her more of a scared animal than anything else. It was as if he was frightened. He was angry, because he was scared and he was hurt. She knew those eyes. She knew them, and she saw herself in them. She too was angry. Angry at herself.

She shook her head, defeated and full of sorrow. “It-, it hurts…” she uttered. His pain hurt her. Her own pain, hurt her. The pain of them both, it hurt her. And it all felt too much, too much to hold in her body, but there was nothing she could do to be rid of it.

Her admission shot a spike through him. The pricking and the numbing in his chest, was lost with the piercing pang that overwhelmed him. If it was humanly possible, the skies above or perhaps the hells below, shoved a burden far grander than before, onto his shoulders. And he couldn’t, for the life of him, for the state of being that could barely be called life, not console her. Or even try to console her.

His hands lifted slightly, pausing for a moment, and the continuing to wrap around her. And she felt so cold and frail in his embrace, as if she had been lying in snow for hours on end, as if she had not been eating properly for months. And she shivered as if a lonely leaf, caught in the wind.

He felt sacred, heavenly even as he caught her into his arms, as if a piece of something so holy that the gods, the saints and angels above would seek to keep him away from her. He was as if a glimmer of hope, a shadow of twilight, guiding her away from the darkness in which she had wandered with the death of light. There was warmth in him, and he was sacred, no matter what he’d try to tell her.

“I love you,” she whispered while sinking into his embrace.

Air got lodged into his throat as he held her closer, wrapping his arms around her eve tighter, as if hoping to shield her from whatever depths of darkness that would try to pry her away from him.

“How…?” The question fell from him like rain, full of disbelief and denial. She’s-, she must be joking. She’s… she wants me to suffer more. I told her-, I told her and now she’s twisting the knife in my heart… As she should… As she should.

Her eyes, having closed for a moment while sinking in to the soft sensation of his embrace, fluttered open with his question. How does anyone say how they love someone? She thought for a passing moment, feeling the urge to reply to him. “I just do…” she admitted with faint syllables. “I always have… I always did. Both of you.”

And that revelation, admission, spoken with nothing but sincerity, made a thought dawn on him. She didn’t blame him. She had never blamed him. But instead of it brining him comfort and consolation, it just salted the already opened wounds in him, making burning hot tears rise to his eyes, tears that he wouldn’t let her see.

He didn’t feel that he’d deserve to call her his own, not now, not ever, but still his body moved before he could grasp onto it. His head turned to face her, rolling across her head, until his lips were pressed against her skin. But that’s as fat as he went, for he had no right to kiss her. He had no right to press his wretched lips against her blessed skin.

She wrapped her arms as tight around him as she possibly could, assuring him that he could. Assuring him of the sanctity of his touch, embrace and his kisses; his kisses would be sacred too. He wasn’t evil. He hadn’t meant any of it to happen. He hadn’t meant it, but she still found it hard to forgive. But the one thing that was harder than forgiving him, was hating him.

She couldn’t hate him. She couldn’t inflict him any more pain than he already felt. She could see it. She had always seen it. The way he had loved Morgen too. The way he had admired him. And now, she could see how he had begun to believe what the entire world around him had kept telling him: “you’re evil, the bad twin; it should’ve been you that died”. But that’s not what she felt. That’s not what she thought.

And she wished, oh how she wished that she could have said something soothing to him. She wished that she would have words of comfort to him, but as words failed her, she pressed her head against him and squeezed him in her embrace.

As if pulled by something grander, his hold of her strengthened, clenching onto her. To him, she was the last good thing in the world, and he had no place in wanting her, wanting to hold her. But there he was, holding her, and wanting to call her his.

Rain and thunder raged outside, but the two of them were indoors, warming in each other’s arms. It might have only been a thin sheet of glass between them and the world outside, but it was enough. And with that warmth, she could feel her heart slowly, and hesitantly, beginning to beat again. While Nacht could see a glimpse of something behind that veil of darkness, a rising dawn.

A promise, and an assurance, of something better to come.

[possibleplatypus]

You're hording dragon AUs like Smaug is hording his gold and I kinda Iike this about you 🐉 but would not say no if some of them ever leave the WIP cave. Who knows maybe a hobbit comes and steals some snippets 😌 (but obviously: no pressure just love)

Omg yes the dragon AUs fell out of my brain one after another 😂 and I can totally provide snip snops lmao

1. Dragon/unicorn AU (dragon!Bucky and unicorn!Steve)-- I've actually had this ruminating for two years @_@ dragon!Bucky moves into a forest, and the resident unicorn doesn’t like him

“So, this is it?” he says, giving the cart of offerings a bored glance. “A box of coins and a couple of goats?”

“F-forgive us, lord dragon,” stammers one of the humans-- the leader, Bucky assumes. “We are not a prosperous village. This is all the wealth we could acquire for you.”

Lies, Bucky thinks, not maliciously; there was always more treasure, always something they could give up. They had to make offerings to their gods and rulers, after all. They had more, but not for a dragon. Bucky doesn’t care, but...

“Where's the virgin?” he drawls.

The leader gapes. “I b-beg your pardon?”

“The virgin. Virgin sacrifice. It's traditional, isn't it?” Bucky says blandly. “Haven’t you ever made an offering to a dragon before?”

“F-forgive us, my lord, the last dragon who lived here left generations ago. W-we are sorely, er, out of practice.” Well, Bucky had already figured that out. “B-but, I don’t think she demanded virgins.”

“Oh?” Bucky curls his claws, inspecting them with a supremely disinterested air. “What did she demand?”

“From the stories, I believe she just wanted coin, my lord. And a cow or two every few months…”

The last dragon who lived here must have taken pity on them, Bucky thinks. How lucky they are that Bucky will also not ask for much-- or anything at all, really.

“Oh, that's all well and good, but I am the dragon who lives here now,” Bucky says, “and I want a virgin every month.”

2. Another dragon AU (dragon!Bucky is turned into a human)

“You,” the man rasped as the dragon turned to face him. The man who had been giving orders. His helmet was off; his light eyes were wide and crazed, his skin flecked with blood. The short blade he held against the dragon’s ribs was trembling. “If we can’t take you, we have to kill you.”

The dragon started, heart thudding fearfully-- but then he stilled. How many times, how long had he wished for death since his capture and imprisonment? Forced into this weak and mewling form, made to endure starvation and beatings and worse, compelled to work for these creatures with less worth than the grit between his teeth?

Through his hair, the dragon stared into his captor’s eyes, wishing that he could have seen the sky once more before this ignoble death. As it was, he would have to content himself with the expression of this man's fear, the flickers of battle reflected on the surface of his eyes. 

“Stop!” someone screamed. The blade sank in--

A blue-and-silver blur slammed into the dragon’s would-be killer, flinging him away. The dragon watched with wide eyes as a large man-- one of the biggest he’d ever seen-- knocked the enemy’s blade away with a swipe of his shield, then plunged his sword into his neck. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc as he wrenched the blade out, and the carcass slumped onto the floor.

“Are you all right?” The man suddenly loomed over him, his eyes shadowed by his helmet; he wore the same armor as the rest of his band, with the addition of a blue cape with a white star in its center flowing over his back. The dragon jerked away, flattening himself against the wall. He growled inwardly at this show of fear-- only moments ago he had been ready to meet his death, and now he was but a cringing hatchling again. "Don't be afraid, I won't hurt you."

3. Another another dragon AU (human!Bucky is turned into a dragon)

"Bucky!"

The dragon looks up, squints through his pounding head.

"Bucky, where are you? Bucky!"

The dragon swivels his head around. That voice. A man's voice. He thinks he.. Has heard it before, but there is nothing but pain and screaming when he tries to remember.

"Your highness, please! It's killed all the guards, incinerated the mages, we need to pull back and--"

"We need to stop it where it stands, before it kills anyone else! You think it'll stop if we pull back? What was the elixir for, if I can't protect my men?"

"The elixir will not make you immune to dragon fire!"

The voices stop. The dragon had been listening to them getting closer. He had been waiting, but he knew not for what.

When the man arrives, he looks much like any other knight, but the dragon knows him. He knows him. He was waiting for this man.

His hackles fall, his rage subsides. The fire shrivels up into cold dust in his heart, like it was never there at all. The screams subside to the back of his mind, where he can still hear them but not be overtaken.

But the man-- the dragon flinches, suddenly afraid-- the man's face contorts, in agony and rage. Tears shine at the edges of his bright blue eyes, coursing streams of black dust as they fall down his face. The fire in those eyes makes the dragon want to avert his gaze, but he doesn't. He wants this man's eyes on him, even in anger. He does not know why.

"Where is Bucky?" the man screams.

4. Yet another dragon AU (tiny angry dragon!Steve and cursed knight!Bucky)

Alas I haven't written anything for this yet, but the general idea is that cursed knight Bucky is on the run from Hydra and saves this tiny dragon from being killed by a bunch of humans that were harassing it, and the dragon is less than grateful for his assistance but also won't leave him alone because it owes him a life debt

WIP game

[aloysiavirgata]

Hot prompt: Mulder washes Scully's back.

And also for @fashionbooksboozefeminism who asked about 40th birthdays on the run. NSFW

***

Night, cash, Sonia and James. Mulder leads her down the faded carpet and wood-paneled halls of the old Poconos resort, nearly empty nine days past Valentine’s. Everything they own that isn’t in their bag is in the car outside. They stop in front of room 314.

Scully, a bobbed brunette in yoga pants and a hoodie, slouches against the wall. “If this turns out to be a reboot of The Shining, Mulder, I’m going to be really pissed.”

He works the key into the scuffed lock. “The Haunted Murder package wasn’t in my budget, don’t worry.”

They head inside, Mulder shutting the door behind them. The room is a perfectly preserved 70’s time capsule, amber-hued with shag carpet and velour club chairs. There’s a zigzag bedspread and a macramé plant hanger with a dusty silk fern on it.

“Groovy.” Mulder sets their duffel on the floor.

“Wow,” Scully says, peering around. Her mother would have killed for this room back when she hosted fondue parties and wore hostess pajamas. “Mulder, I feel like I’m in high school again. I’m going to need some blue eyeshadow, then we can play a few rounds of Mystery Date.”

Mulder examines a small porcelain shepherdess on the lamp stand. “Forty is the new sixteen. Go look around the corner.”

Scully picks her way past the walnut dresser and a floral folding screen. A yelp of laughter escapes her. “Mulder!”

The tub is glossy and red, heart shaped, with veined mirrored walls behind. It’s piled with bubbles, steam rising from the surface. A bottle of something called Sham-Pagne sits on the tiled rim. Her chest squeezes at the thought of him putting this together. She’s been remote since the New Year, prickly and self-contained as a spore.

He appears behind her, grinning. “James. Only the classiest for you, Sonia.”

She sits on the ledge, pats the bubbles with curious fingers. “Champagne glasses would have been classy, James.”

Mulder studies the bottle. “It’s got a screw top, so I think this is more a red Solo cup affair. Or straight from the bottle.“

Their joys are very small these days and she clings to them. “It’s absolutely awful, I love it.”

Mulder, beaming, squeezes her shoulder. “Go ahead and get in, I wanted it all ready for you so you could relax right off the bat.”

Scully stands, her back to the large mirrors. She undresses quickly, trying not to catch her reflection in the small mirror over the sink. She doesn’t want to see her choppy dark hair, the purple smudges under her eyes, her sallow skin and WalMart lingerie. A year and nine months and each glance at her reflection feels like watching a Dana who dropped out of med school to follow a band or wait tables at a truck stop. But she can’t tell her not to do it, she can’t wish it all away, it’s just... she is not suited for life in the bardo.

She climbs over the wide ledge, into one of the curves of the heart, and lowers herself into the bath. The steaming water is decadent after so many cramped showers, and this immersion feels baptismal. Perhaps she can come out fully cleansed, grocery store dye gone, Aphrodite on a bed of foam. The bubbles come up past her chin, making her sneeze. 

Mulder sits next to her, opening the wine. “Oh, whoa, whoa, she's a lady,” he sings, holding the bottle like a microphone.

Scully scowls at him from the tub. “No need for that, thank you.”

“Tom Jones, Scully!”

She puffs bubbles at him, and they stick to his shirt. “Do you have any cups?”

“I was serious about the bottle, I think.” He passes it to her.

She takes a long swig. It’s sickly sweet and too fizzy. She could easily finish it herself. “Get in.”

He looks surprised. “Really?”

“It’s my birthday, you have to do what I say.” Another swallow.

He’s already undressing. “No, no, I don’t mind. I just figured you’d want to marinate alone.”

Mulder, never self conscious, has no concerns about the mirrors. He gets in the other bend of the heart and water overflows onto the carpet. “Oops.”

Scully, already buzzy, passes him the wine.

He takes a long drink, winces. “Good lord.”

“Mm,” she agrees, settling low in the water. It seeps up her chin length hair, making a sleek dark cap around her face.

Mulder puts the bottle down and fishes around in a wicker basket. He retrieves a pink pouf and a tiny bottle of cherry blossom body wash. “Scoot over here.”

She hunches into the corner. “No I’m comfable. ComFORTable.”

Mulder laughs. “How hard did you hit that bottle?” He reaches around to take her by the shoulders and pull her through the water until she’s settled between his knees like a cranky mermaid. He squeezes a pearly dollop of soap on the pouf and begins to wash her back.

“This is soapy water already,” she observes.

“Well, it so happens I just like touching you, so don’t be pedantic.”

She lets her head fall forward as he makes circles on her back, tries not to feel embarrassed about her bony spine and the furrowed landscape of her ribs. She hasn’t been this thin since the cancer hollowed her out, and she never let him see her this way back then.

Back then.

“Got you a little cake, it’s in the fridge,” Mulder says, like he can read her thoughts again.

“Maybe I’ll save you a piece,” she replies. She wants to be cheery for him, a brave little sailor. The body wash makes her think of spring in DC and she sniffs at it.

He drops the pouf to massage her slick skin with his hands. They’re a little calloused now from the kind of rough work he was never bred for. He works his thumbs beneath her scapulae and she wonders if he can unfurl them like wings, let her fly away.

She takes another gulp of wine. “Mulder.”

“Hmm?” His fingers knead her neck, each tight trapezius.

Scully turns in the water to face him, catches a flash of her reflection as she does. Her hair is kelpy, the heavy black eyeliner she wears now smudged about her eyes like Theda Bara.

She kneels between his bent knees. “Nothing.”

Mulder sighs. “I didn’t want it like this either.” He holds his arms out and she rests against his chest. The water sloshes gently around them as he enfolds her, his heart thrumming at her cheek. She imagines this is what the last moments in the womb are like.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles into the wet dark of his body. “This is a really good present.”

His hands are skating over her back again with a washcloth this time. The texture feels good, centering her back into her bones. Sometimes she feels adrift from herself, dissociated, following her own body like a kite.

Mulder strokes her hair and she burrows her face up into his neck, her forearms pressed against his chest. She hopes he won’t sing Happy Birthday like he used to because it will undo her.

He doesn’t, just nuzzles in, whispering sweet nonsense into her ear. “I love you,” he says, in a voice like hot tea on a cold morning. He nibbles her unadorned earlobe.

Scully, who hasn’t wanted sex in over a month (or has it been two?), who has barely wanted to be touched, feels her body stirring. She turns her head, her earlobe chilled, and catches his lips with her own. She tugs at his longish hair, wanting to absorb him and his infinite love and his careworn soul. She nips his tongue.

His response against her thigh is instant and, bless him, he apologizes like a teenager on prom night. All this time and he’s still such a gentleman it might break her heart.

She pulls back, takes his face in her hands. How she loves his face, his autumn woods eyes and his mouth like a Botticelli angel. “Look at me,” she says.

He does, worry in his gaze. “Scully, it’s fine, I know y-“

“Shut up,” she says, with aching fondness. “Please shut up.” She thumbs his bottom lip.

He furrows his brow, uncertain.

Scully lets her legs float up off the bottom of the tub, twists so that she’s straddling his lap, her arms about his neck. “It’s my birthday. You have to do what I say.”

He swallows, still watching her. “As you wish.”

Scully tips her hips forward and he’s inside her, hot and hard and familiar.

Mulder’s eyes close and he murmurs some wordless hindbrain prayer.

There’s almost no leverage, but he’s holding her hips as she rotates them, groaning when she tightens her pelvic floor. She’s wrapped in warmth from the inside out, liquid heat, her breasts crushed to his chest. Water splashes to the floor.

Mulder slides his hands up so that his thumbs are at her waist, his fingers spanning her back. She sighs and leans into the brace of him, her chin tipped up.

He takes her left nipple into his mouth and her shoulders roll back, hands trailing in the water. She exhales hard through her nose. A memory comes to her, Mulder in the tub in Rhode Island, and she recalls even then the fierceness of the unnameable thing she felt for him. Love is such an inadequate word for this.

He’s slowly taken over their rhythm now, pulling her down harder, and she falls away into the dopamine surge. Panting now, belly dipping and rising. Tingling at her sacral spine.

Scully groans in disappointment when he turns his head from her breast. Her areola contracts in the cold, and Mulder runs a hand from her throat to the hot junction of their bodies. She is not long disappointed.

She sees then that he’s looking at the mirror wall, watching, and she’s afraid to do the same but cannot help her curiosity.

Her arched body is a full sail, held up by the mast of Mulder’s arm, rising and falling on an unquiet sea. Even with the glass veined and fogged she sees the slackness of desire in her mouth, her dilated eyes.

In the mirror, Mulder’s eyes are on hers, the face of a mystic in ecstasy. In the mirror she watches his jaw clench and his head roll back. Watches him grind his hips up into hers. He calls out to her god.

She’s dazed, visually overloaded. Scully leans forward to his neck again, biting at it as his fingers continue their steady work between her thighs. The hand that was on her back is on her ass now, and gripping hard.

“You liked watching,” he says at her temple and it isn’t a question, just an observation, but somehow the intimacy of him knowing it trips her over the edge. She’s lightning-struck after so long, her nerves overfiring, and she shudders back into his arms, gulping air.

He traces endless figure eights on her back, or maybe they’re infinity signs. He tells her about a raccoon he saw in the bakery parking lot, eating an entire raisin bread by itself. “It hissed at me when I got out of the car, Scully, and I don’t even like raisins.”

“You’re so brave,” she says. “Just to get my cake.”

“I’d fight a raccoon for you any day.”

When the water gets cold they emerge, ectoplasmic wafts of bubbles trailing behind them to the bed. They can shower later.

Scully, chilly now, wraps herself in the bedspread. She sits cross-legged on the bed like a wise old oracle. “Where’s my cake, please?”

Mulder opens the mini fridge and removes a perfect miniature birthday cake, sprinkles and fudge frosting and a vivid maraschino cherry. She might not save him a piece after all.

He brings her the cake and two plastic forks. A small white box.

“Mulder!” she exclaims. “I thought this was my present, I hope you didn’t really get me anything else.”

He sits next to her on the bed and rubs her back through the heavy comforter. Clears his throat. “It’s, um, it’s not from me, actually. I didn’t just run into a raccoon at the bakery.”

She looks at him in utter bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

“Open it.”

A strange fear creeps over her as she fumbles with the tape holding the lid on the box. Her fingers are clumsy, numb, but she gets it off at last. Inside is a cheap cell phone, a burner. There’s a Post-It stuck to the front.

“Many happy returns of the day, Scully.

- Walter Skinner”