#anxiety has started to dig its teeth in

[lologoinsolo]

In The Shadows

Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6

In The Shadows Masterlist

TW: Soap is being a creep towards Reader in here, mentions of body dismemberment, body horror(?) At least I consider it body horror, anxiety, fear, tell me if I missed any!! finally managed a 4k fic for once

You’re angrily pacing the living room by the time you hear that familiar ringing of the sheriff's bell. Eyes brimming with mixed emotions when you think about your garden or Jessica or Erin or your grandfather. “Won’t run from this.” You say it over and over again like a mantra. Doing whatever it takes to prepare yourself as you run through your nightly rituals to calm your beating heart. You chugged your tea down without even putting any sweeteners. Checked all your locks but this time you didn’t barricade your doors. You’re tempted to stay downstairs but you want to see him face to face. The boarded windows in the living room would’ve been taken off had you found a hammer in time.

Adrenaline starts pumping in your veins when the sun is truly set and night has made its way up. You stand from your recliner and place your mug on the coffee table. You wait and wait till you hear the faintest groan of the old wood on your porch and the pound of a singular knock before you make your move. “Come upstairs, asshole!” You shout against your door and bang on it yourself. Taking off to run upstairs to wait for him to come to your window.

You know he’ll come, he has to from that sharp, cackle of a sound he makes. Oh how he mocks you when you hear a loud snap against the wood of your door. The runed rock above it holds firm even as the walls shake. It makes you sick to your stomach when a thrill runs up your spine, blood pumping faster now. Your feet slammed against the stairs until your toes landed on the old, brown carpet. You twist your heel around in the fibers, digging it in in an effort to ground yourself for what you’re about to do. You wish you had some liquor to drink or something to take the edge off but you want to be focused for this. You need to be focused for this.

You stand at your room’s door and wait, the thing outside seems far too patient despite what was done to your garden. Still though, you’ve yet to take a step in. You want to know for sure he’ll come up before you start acting a fool. You’re tempted to open the damn window but you’re not that fucking stupid. Breathing in once and then twice and finally a shadow of a man starts to bleed over your curtains. You can make out the shape of his head and the width of his shoulders. Your teeth shake when his shadow bends and his shoulder jumps just the slightest.

Tap. Tap. Tapppp.

He taps again and again, not yet banging nor even speaking to you. You take a second in steeling yourself even with your hands begin to shake. “By the balls.” You murmur your grandpa’s words of courage and you take a step in, walking quickly almost in time with your visitors tapping.

You throw your chair that you’ve kept by that window to the side and shove the curtains all the way back and to the side. You glare at Mohawk’s waiting face, he’s crouched as he was before the first time you saw him. A staring contest forms between the two of you, you won’t look away from him. Choosing to stare at him as much as he does you. Maybe you would’ve flipped him off had your hands not been so badly tightened around the curtains fabric.

“Fuck you.”

You sneer out and he just smiles wide when you speak to him finally. Just like he wanted from the beginning of this mess. The hand he used to tap moves to push the strands of his mohawk down.

“Ooch hen, yer really hurtin’ ma feelins.” He even pats over his chest. The horrible bastard he is, he just leans his forehead against the glass like he did the first time he saw you. “I ken ye’d sound pretty but ye sound divine when yer angry.” He makes a delighted sound, happy with himself at getting what he wanted in the end.

Your nostrils flare and your hand leaves the curtain to grip against the windowsill. “You’re a piece of shit you know that?” Taking a page out of Jess’s book and nose diving into cussing him out. You expected him to glare or even look upset, maybe even annoyed but he just laughs patronizingly. Tilting his head and the window pane squeaks against his skin.

There’s a twinkle in his sky blue eyes. “Yer that upset?” He asks, shaking his head like a parent does an angry toddler. As if he didn’t ruin something good, as if he didn’t leave blood everywhere. “Did I scare ye?”

“Yeah, I’m upset.” Refusing to answer his last question. Your other hand settles on your hip. Both curtains now are free to fall down besides the window’s frame. It sways, the movement slow and you notice his eyes flicker to its motion before coming back to you. It looks like you won the contest for now. “I worked hard on that garden and you and your stupid friends ruined it.” You can tell that the way you’re acting is pinching a nerve of his.

“Careful,” his brows twitch, “I like ye angry but I only like it so much.” The playfulness in his voice falls ever the slightest.

There’s a threat woven into his words. An underlying warning to quit while you’re ahead. You know it’s there but you’re too angry to stop yourself. Blood’s pumping in your ears and your good thought is overruled by your anger. “Or what?” Nearly pressing against the window just to get as in his face as the glass will allow. “You’ll kill me?” Scoffing now and his eyes open wider like you just flipped a switch in him. That little, well meaning voice in the back of your head tells you to shut up, to turn from him but you press on. “You can’t do anything to me. Come on, do something.” Antagonizing him as you sway side to side.

The way he watches you now is like a cat does its bird. He enjoys how you posture and squawk at him from inside your little cage. Your boldness is enduring but very misplaced. “Step outside.” His tone shifts, a chill settles in the room as he nods outwardly. His shoulders square tight as those veins in his arms bulged. His eyes seem endless now, a blue so vast like the dark abyss of the ocean that sucks you under. “Go on, lass.” Encouraging and even leaning back as he taps at the window expectantly. “Come outside and say that to my face.” His accent rougher, deeper in his drawl as his hands looks longer than it did prior. “I’ll show ye what I can do.”

Your brows pinch, trying to keep the shudder that threatens to break out. “I don’t have to do shit.” It’s your turn to look away from his face now. Taking note of the changes happening right in front of you. His skin looks like it’s stretching, trying to keep something that threatens to tear out. As if holding himself back from slamming into the glass.

The rock will hold… it has to.

The edges of his mouth pull up wider. Watching how quickly your tunes changing, “afraid now, are ye?” He clicks his tongue disappointingly. His nail scratches against the window making jagged, little lines on the glass. “Thought ye were so big and bad, aye?” Rolling his tongue over his lips. “That pretty mouth of yers will get ye in trouble with Bravo. He doesn’t like when soft things try to act tough.”

That’s three names he’s mentioned since he’s spoken to you. Ghost, Gaz and Bravo. You cling to that, needling it into your brain. You need to keep your wits about you, maybe you can get him to talk more. Choosing to stay quiet for the moment, sweat forming on your brow.

He simmers in the silence that befalls the room. The skin starts to shift, no longer thinning as it did before. “I guess, it’s a good thing he’s not here? Wouldnae do ye any good to mouth off to ‘im.” While he looks calm there’s still a quiet danger to him as he speaks about this Bravo. He sounds almost hopeful that you’ll piss off whoever that is. Maybe this Bravo is the one you call Mask? He is the one that frightens you the most after all.

Whoever it is, you’ll deal with him just the same as you’ll deal with Mohawk. Besides, there’s nothing he or his group can physically do as long as you stay in the house. That momentary lapse of fear does once you remember that. Sticking your finger up and you tap at him as you speak. “I don’t give a damn about who this Bravo is.” Dragging your finger down to trace the lines he made, “I don’t give a damn about you or whatever threats you spout my way.” It’s your turn to lean against the glass now. Your eyes are burning defiantly as you refuse to blink or look away from him. “I’m trapped in here, yeah, but there ain’t nothing.” Spitting your words out next, “nothing that you can do to me.” Leaning back once you got your point across, “got anything else to threaten me with or is that all?”

Arms crossed as there’s a smug look to you now. Mentally playing this off as a checkmate in your book. You do start preparing for him to look as he did before but… he doesn’t. He doesn’t even laugh or try to look as patronizing as he did prior. The smallest bit of worry starts to bubble in your chest as he eyes you up and down slowly. He looks giddy at how you responded to him. Happy from the looks of it with that sharp attitude of yours even. Maybe this is what he was after but it makes you uneasy nonetheless.

He finally speaks after he listens to your little rant, it’s cute. “Somethin’ can be done to those wee friends of yers though.” He sings mockingly as his lips pull back into a devilish grin. Watching you stiffen up makes him groan. A rope tightens around those wings of yours, just waiting to get clipped. “Gaz’s been sweet talking a stupid little rabbit in that townhouse. He likes to play with his sweethearts, ye ken?” He watches in rapt attention as that smug look of yours switches to pure terror. “Gaz likes how they taste when they’re in love with him.” He rubs almost thoughtfully on his chin as he thinks about the numerous ‘lovers’ that Gaz has fooled over the years. “Would be a shame for yer friends to die because a lovesick darling opened the door, hmm?”

Your blood runs cold, your hands are clamming up and your knees wobble as he speaks so placidly about what his friend can do. “Y-You,” your words faltering, the strength you had is sapped from you, “you can’t. There’s no—“ Erin isn’t stupid, there’s no way that she or any of them would talk to those monsters. “You can’t—“

“Oh, I cannae dae that but pretty boy Gaz can.” He hasn’t stopped staring you down, hell you haven’t even seen him intake any air. “I can speed up his process though. That poor stupid ‘lover’ of his is so willing and wanting. Desperate little things. Now, that’s how I like’em.” Licking his lips, “they’re bones taste better.” He takes a mock bite of air and you visibly flinch.

Your stomach lurches to your throat while your heart drops from your chest. You feel bile running upwards at a rapid pace as your world starts to spin. You take a step back. Sweat forms on your brows and you feel like you can’t breathe properly. “No…. No, no, no,” your hand rubs against your chest. Trying to keep yourself from spiraling at the thought. Who is Gaz talking to? Gaz has to be Smiles, right? It has to be him!

The one in front of you though enjoys the show he’s watching, your spiel of anxiety is just too good. Sends a rush through him. “Shh, shh, it’s alright.” He coos mockingly as he takes in a big, exaggerated sniff. “Can smell ye, ye ken? Keep acting like that and ye’ll really get me going.” His hand moves down unabashedly to his crotch. You can’t see it due to how he’s crouched on your roof but you know he’s palming himself, getting off on how you’re about seconds away from a full blown panic attack. “Ye gonna be nice or dae I need tae cut our convo short. M’sure Gaz is just dying to eat. He’s been complaining about our recent meals, says they’re not sweet ‘nough for ‘im.” He laughs loudly, “Ghost acts like he isnae starvin’ but I ken he is, might get a nice meal out of one or two of the townhouse people. All packed in like sardines.” His mouth waters at the thought of all the people in there. Hungering for something warm to settle in his belly that’s not animal.

Shutting your eyes tight as you focus on what you can right now. Focusing mainly on what you can control right here at this very moment. If you play your cards right then maybe you can give Erin another day. Your hand rubs over your chest in slow circles, fingers spreading as the beat of your heart pounds against your palm. He’s patient as he watches you drag yourself just seconds away from a panic attack. It does make him sad that he won’t get to enjoy it longer.

You slowly open your eyes to find he hasn’t looked away from you. There’s an expectation in his eyes as you speak. “I’ll… I’ll be good,” you murmur. Your voice is as steady as you can get it. His hand moves to clap only once suddenly and it causes your shoulders to tense from the sharp noise. “I’m…” you swallow thickly, “I’m sorry for how I’ve acted too.” Adding that in for good measure.

He chuckles deeply. “Thata girl, I ken ye have manners,” he praises and his lips haven’t fallen just yet. “Now,” placing both of his hands on the window once more. “Sit,” nodding to your chair that you had shoved back in your haste to yell at him earlier. “We’ve got a lot of things tae talk about and not nearly enough time, yeah?” He looks at his wrist but there’s no watch attached, even if it was, you doubt his would work. “Got a good couple hours that I can work with.”

You stumble in grabbing the chair, picking it back up and sitting on it when he gives an approving noise. The chair creaks and groans under you and you try to get as comfortable as you can be with how he observes you. You swallow, forcing yourself to keep your voice from hitching or stammering. “What do you want to talk about?”

He grins broadly, kneeling instead of crouching when he looks a little shorter. Probably tired of having to crouch for so long. Humming a familiar tune as he thinks it over. He thought it would’ve taken a bit more convincing but he’ll settle for this. “Yer the talk of the group ye ken?” You don’t like knowing that, you don’t like that one bit. “Ye’ve any idea the kinda thrill I got when I noticed a pretty, plump bird was watchin’ me?” He looks damn near ecstatic, buzzing like a bee. “I wanted to keep your attention always on me. I ken ye were watching the other so I had to get bigger and better in my art shows. Did ye like’em?”

Like them? Art shows? You think to yourself, brows tight as you don’t understand what this art show could be before it clicks. The times when the bodies were found, the red on the walls. He— he did that? He did it for you?

Your stomach twists and knots, bunching up as you squirm in your seat. Your fingers dig into your thighs to ground yourself, focusing on the minor pain of your nails. “W-Why?” You shake still even as you try desperately to not give into the ever increasing panic. Before you can filter your response you speak, “why would I?” You’re completely taken aback that he’d think that you would. “Why would I like that?”

“Ah, ye didnae like it after all?” He looks hurt, almost saddened and maybe you’d feel guilty if it wasn’t for the fact that he dismembered those bodies. Brutally killing and tearing into their skin like butter. You helped clean up those people and you couldn’t get the tremors out of your hands for days without feeling the cold of their skin. Couldn’t get the smell of blood out your nose either. “No one appreciates art these days.” His eyes rolling as he just smirks at how visibly distraught you look. “I took my time makin’ it all look good and ye didnae even like it.” He grumbles and mutters words under his breath that you can’t make out.

Your lips part to speak and he perks up. “Why?” Asking once more, as awful as you think it. Did he even eat… or did he just do it just because he could? He takes in a long, exaggerated sniff once more. He’s smelling you once more, his pupils dilating. “Why did you do that? What do you even gain from it?”

“Why would I dae tha’?” Talking down to you, his hand rubbing under the stubble of his chin. “Aw, my bonnie girl,” Giving the illusion of actually caring with how you're swimming in guilt. He sighs, pretending it pains him but in the end it doesn’t and you know that it doesn’t. “Cause I ken ye’d write about it, hen.” His reasoning for his carnage. “Ye seemed so observant the day after and I wanted to keep yer eyes on me.” His shoulder shrugs, it’s so simple for him. So easy as if his decisions were between Mayo or no Mayo, mustard or no mustard. Arm here or leg there.

He tilts his head and scratches at his chin. “There’s little fun to be done ‘round here. What else am I supposed tae dae?” He snorts, “garden?” Eyes squinting at you a childish grin on his face. Your lips purse, a tight line forms as you can’t hide how you’re feeling. “Ye donnae like that, hm?” There’s just a sliver of silence before he laughs, “yer not good at pretending, I like yer little looks. Wonder how ye’ll look at me when yer under me beggi—“

“That’ll never happen,” your hands ball against your knees while you whisper under your breath. The lights of his blue eyes electrify at your shaky defiance. Despite how scared you are you still hold a promise to yourself that you’ll go out your own way on your own time.

There’s a knowing look in his eyes that you can’t quite understand. “We’ll see, hen, we’ll see.” He speaks as if the games already been called and you the loser and the prize simultaneously.

“Are we…” You swallow, “are we done?” There’s no signs of tiredness on him but you are growing tired. You don’t know how long you can keep him for.

“No.” His voice shines firm when he presses his forehead against the glass before he relaxes once more. “Not yet… What's yer name?” You bite your lip quickly from blabbing that information away. You’ll give a name to anyone else in town but him? “I’ll tell ye mine if ye tell me yers?” A trade, an offer that sounds good yet conniving. A trap in the making but… learning his name could be good for you. Probably, anyways…

You tell him just your first name, not giving him a middle or a last. You’re tempted to give him your nickname but something tells you that he’ll sniff out a lie. Something dark swirls in his eyes as he tries out your name. The hairs on your neck stand up as he sounds it out with the roll of his tongue, shaping the vowels in his mouth. He smiles brightly when you ask for his name quietly.

“My names Soap.”

“Soap?” You blink. Blink twice and thrice more when he doesn’t make a move to correct it or jest about pulling your leg. “Are you— Are you serious?” Astounded and confused, there’s no way his name is actually Soap.

“I asked for a name, I didnae say ye had to give me yer real name now did I?”

Your head falls to look at your hands that squeeze over your knees. “The fuck kinda name is Soap?” Speaking under your breath as wordlessly as you can but he catches on quickly.

“Watch yerself, hen.” He tuts disapprovingly, “an here I thought ye were doin’ so well. Ye want me to leave?” He gets into a crouch, just seconds from pushing all the way up to stand at his full height. “M’sure Gaz is ‘round here somewhere.” Musing thoughtfully when those eyes of yours pop.

“No!” Standing up and getting close to the window, “no, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m just tired and I,” stumbling over a quick apology, “I just thought you would’ve—“ he smiles deviously at how desperate you are to keep him from leaving and you wish you could gnaw your foot off when you stop yourself. This is what he wants after all, to keep you hanging off by a threat. Holding you over a cliff it so he can watch you beg and plead.

“S’alright, ye are tired, huh?” He quirks a brow and you nod rapidly. Sitting back down slowly and he watches with intense focus as you bend and sit. Eyeing how your body conforms and dips in the seat. The fat of your thighs spreading and seeping out from under the armrests, “pretty.” The moon hangs overhead now, light seeping into your dark room and illuminating your living space. He looks around before coming back to you. “A little bare in here, should decorate some more don’cha think?”

You tilt back to look around and it is rather empty but it’s not like there’s many stores around. Could hardly do a DIY considering materials are spread thin as is in town. “Don’t have many things to put up in here.” Murmuring quietly to no one in particular. He jumps around so quickly, going from happy to serious to threatening and then acting like nothing’s happening at all. You can’t seem to navigate him, “not many stores…”

“Poor thing.” He pouts, “trapped in a cage and nothing to do to make it better.”

Your jaw clenched tight, “yeah,” gritting it out as softly as you can. You don’t know if he or the others are the reason as to why you’re trapped. You don’t know if they’re not the reason. It’s all happenstance and rotten luck that you saw that damn tree. “I guess.”

“Guess?” There’s that laughter again, a shit eating grin on his face. What else are you to say to him? “If ye ever need somethin’ to do,” his head turns to the side. Rolling his shoulder, “ye can always open the door and let me in.”

“I uh— why?”

“So I can help, silly.” A tell tale predatory look in his eyes blooms. It unsettles you, prey instinct makes you want to get up and run when face to face with the apex predator waiting outside your window. “Ye donnae want my help?” There’s an uncanny slowness to the way his smile widens to his ears, eyes darkening like the night's blue.

Shivering slightly, a chill runs up your spine. The hairs on the back of your neck stand completely up. Did you offend him or is this another way to play with your fear? Your back tenses and prickles as if unseen fingers are touching your back. It’s nails dragging against your spine and trails up till it claws at the back of your neck. “No… I’m good, I’m fine.” Looking away from him and it makes you feel worse, this feeling that’s weighing you down is oppressive at best and frightening at worst. “Thank you… though.” You say just as quickly, your fingers balling as you keep yourself seated straight.

“S’alright,” a smile can say a thousand words and yet all his says is danger, run away. “It’s gettin’ late,” he sighs long suffering like, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” It’s not a question but a fact.

“T-Tomorrow?”

“Aye,” licking his lips as the unsettling look of him reverts to his ‘normal’ stage once more, “unless ye got other plans, bonnie.” His brow raises, “gonna go for a walk in the woods?” Your tongue presses hard against the roof of your mouth, shaking your head no. You haven’t stepped near it since he stuck his hand out to wave at you. He clicks his tongue in satisfaction, “then it’s settled. I’ll see ye tomorrow night.” He stands promptly and you remain cemented in place. He taps gently against the window, “be good. Doon talk to stranger, ye ken?” Winking at you as he turns on his heel.

“Wait!” You call for him as he takes his steps on the shelf. He turns slow like and crouches to look at you. “You won’t,” your hands clench, “you won’t talk to Gaz, right?”

Grinning at you. “Goodnight, hen.” Standing once more as he leaves. Dropping off your roof, you stand up on weak knees. Watching him leave, hoping he doesn’t head anywhere near the Townhouse but all he does is disappear into the woods. You look around, worry forces you to try and see where the other three. Beard is near the police station once more but he’s also heading towards the wood. Smiles and Mask are nowhere to be seen.

You stay up the entire night. Unable to find your sleep even when you hear the mourning doves cooing outside. Your head turns on your pillow as you peer out, you didn’t shut your curtains. You wanted to watch just in case if there was a change but you notice something. There’s dark clouds brewing overhead. Rain’s coming earlier than usual and with it brings an unease in the pit of your belly.

[hazbinshusk]

It’s the holiday season, and I know most of you may be spending an extended period of time with family and friends. So, kind-hearted as I am, I thought I would take a moment to remind you that while you’re spending quality time with them...

Husk Edition

Not to think about Husk sitting next to you at the dinner table, listening along to whatever conversation is playing out around you. He’s working hard not to look so damn sullen – Charlie had managed to track down half the hotel’s actual families for the occasion, yours among them. The two of you might not be so into labels, might not be announcing any time soon what you have between you to the people sitting opposite you, but he still finds himself worrying that they won’t approve.

Don’t think about him sipping at glass of wine or whiskey as he listens to you try and justify whatever crap they’re judging you for now, his other hand making a slow, familiar journey up over your thigh.

You’re not to think about the way it starts out innocently enough – a calming reassurance against the scattered stress of the high holidays. But as the meal carries on into seconds and thirds and the both of you had had a little more than you should to drink, his hand wanders higher, his own anxieties soothed by the feel of your warm skin against his heart-shaped palm.

Don’t think about him kneading into the flesh of your thigh, the softest of purrs rumbling through his chest – barely audible over the dull roar of warring conversations. His claws digging lightly into your skin, ghosting up just under the hem of the dress you wore to make your mother happy. You can feel the soft breeze of his tail twitching back and forth by your ankle, notice the soft tilt of his lips as you glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

Don’t think of him retracting his claws to tease those long fingers delicately over your inner thigh, or the way that soft smirk twitches wider when you feel yourself part your legs instinctively to his touch. Husk will accept another drink with ease – for once not the bastard who has to serve the drinks – and you’ll have to force your voice not to catch as you tell Niffty that yes, you would like some pie. No, you’ll keep it steady even as you swallow back the whimper that threatens when Husk tugs your underwear to the side and runs a fingertip up against you.

Don’t think about how satisfied he’ll be to find you wet, how his ear will flick greedily towards you to catch that little hitch in your breath as he brushes a finger against your clit. He didn’t intend to do this… he’s not a total creep… but how can he resist when your lips part that way at his touch, your teeth grazing your bottom lip? At the scent of your growing excitement teases at his senses, overpowers the rich smells of the dinner spread across the table. All he can do is thank fuck that Niffty had dressed the table with a long, wide tablecloth that spills out over your laps, and hope you keep letting him get away with this.

Don’t think about the way Husk’s hand is going to feel between your legs; those slow, gentle touches that send those addictive little sparks swirling into the pit of your stomach. The way your hand will clench too tightly around your fork as you try to busy yourself with your food, try to appear like everything is normal even as you begin to desperately wish you could grab him by the arm and drag him off to the nearest private room so you can fuck him until you’ve forgotten all about the guests of honour.

Don’t think about Husk leaning across you as though to reach for the basket of bread rolls, just so that he can murmur in your ear how wet you are, how much he wishes he could bend you over the table right here and taste you. You’ll shudder – whether its because of his words or the way he slides a finger into you, who could tell? His nose just manages to brush against your cheek as he sits back again, and it’ll take everything you have not to turn your head to chase his lips for a kiss.

Don’t think about the way Husk will finger you slowly, steadily, pausing only when people’s eyes begin to linger on you for a moment too long. His thumb teasing against your clit and your face flushing with heat the more you try to keep yourself calm. Your breathing quickens and you’ll swear you can taste blood from where your teeth have been digging into your lip.

Don’t think about the way Husk’s own breathing will grow unsteady when you reach over to clutch at his thigh under the table, shifting your hips as subtly as you can against his hand. It’s amazing you don’t tear his pants with the way you’re gripping at his leg, and Husk’s tail curls around your calf, and he has to dampen his purr with another whiskey.

Don’t think about how badly he’ll wish he could fuck you. To kiss you even… to feel you moan against his tongue. He wants to taste you…  to suck your sweetness off his fingers or to better yet, bury his face btween your thighs and feel them squeeze around his ears as he assaults your clit with his tongue.

And whatever you do, don’t think about how goddamned pleased the bartender will look when you finally cum, your body jerking enough that you knock the table and the cutlery rattles against the wood. Just how quickly do you think you’d be able to make enough excuses so you can get the both of you away from the table and back to his room for round two?

[truedove]

belladonna

word count - 2,076

content - smut (minors dni), porn with some plot, f!reader insert, oral (f recieving)

two hours. it’s been two fucking hours since you left and he’s this close to losing his mind. he’s sure he’s worn a path into the carpet with his restless pacing, his stomach a tight knot of anxiety. he’s never felt this level of panic before, like his heart is trying to claw its way out of his chest. the ache in his being is unbearable, like someone has taken a dull knife and carved out his insides. he can't even think straight; his thoughts are a jumbled mess of what-ifs and whys.

fuck, this is so stupid. he doesn’t even remember what you two fought about. all he remembers is that your pretty face had been etched into a frown, lips pressed into a thin line, and the barely concealed hurt in your eyes that made him want to die. he should have just apologized, should have just said something. anything to make you stay. but no, he had to be stubborn, had to dig his heels in deeper. and now look at him, a pathetic mess in his empty apartment, unable to function without you.

space. you said you needed space. from him. like hell he was going to give you that. how could he, when all he wanted was to crawl out of his skin and into yours?

well, it's been two hours, he thinks you've had plenty of space by now. with that thought in mind, he grabs his shoes, pockets his keys, and heads out the front door.

the entire walk, he forces himself to keep his head empty, clear. less he starts to fucking panic. again.

not ten minutes later, he's standing outside your apartment door, his heart thudding painfully against his ribcage. now that he’s actually here, he feels a bone deep sense of dread wash over him. what if you don't want to see him? what if you've decided you finally had enough of him and his shit? his palms begin to sweat and his clenched fist trembles as he lifts it to knock on the door, frantically, desperately willing you to open it.

the door swings open on his tenth (twentieth?) knock, and relief washes over him as your face appears in the crack. despite the frown marring your features, his heart soars at the sight of you.

“hey.” he rasps, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, taking in every detail of your face as if he’s forgotten since you left him, as if you could ever fade from his memory.

you utter his name, then take a deep, fortifying breath, as if you were begging yourself to be calm.

“what part of space do you not understand?” your voice is quiet, laced with a hint of frustration.

his brows furrow, confused marring his face, that neither party are sure is real or not.

“i did give you space, honey.” he says, like it’s obvious, like you should have known he wouldn't be able to stay away.

your pretty eyes narrow as you stare at him in disbelief.

“it’s been an hour.” you grit out his name between clenched teeth incredulously.

fuck, if he doesn’t love it when you says his name, even when you're so clearly pissed at him.

“it’s been two hours, actually.” he corrects, sounding much too like the man you left behind just an hour—sorry—two hours ago. he just can’t help it, he’s a dick right down to his core.

“honey,” he cuts off what would surely be another scathing retort from you, judging by the way your frown deepened, adorable really. “you asked for space, i gave it to you. now, can i come in or not?”

he flashes his charming signature smirk, the one that always seems to melt your insides. but you don't even so much as crack a smile.

“not.” your voice is sharper than he's ever heard it. he nearly flinches, his cocky smile faltering, even feels a pang of guilt for making you so upset. “you can’t just be a total jerk and then expect me to just take you back with open arms!” you harshly whisper, even in your anger not wanting to disturb the neighbors.

he lets out a heavy sigh, knowing what he needs to do. he doesn’t understand why it’s so hard for him to just fucking apologize, to admit he was wrong. it feels like admitting defeat, and he doesn't do that. never in his goddamn life, has he ever admitted defeat. but this isn't about him, it's about you. he fucked up and if he doesn’t want to lose you, he needs to fix it.

so, he sucks it up and forces the words past his lips.

“i’m sorry.” the words taste like ash in his mouth, but he forces them out, unable to meet your eyes as he speaks. he can feel your stare burning a hole through his face, but he refuses to look. he can't look. not right now.

he hears a sigh, followed by the longest damn silence in the history of ever. it's deafening. his heart begins to pound in his chest, dread gripping him tighter by the second. he forces himself to keep his gaze trained on the carpet beneath his feet.

“i don’t know..” it’s barely a whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “i just..” your voice trails off and it’s then that he looks up, see’s the conflicted look on your face and his heart clenches in his chest. he hates that he put that look there, hates that he can't do anything to take it away. he hates, hates, hates that he fucked up so bad.

he apologizes a second time, followed by a low utterance of your name. it’s rare that he actually calls you by your given name and not some cheesy pet name, but in this moment, he needs you to know he means it.

“fuck, i…i didn't mean to hurt you. you’ve gotta know that, right?” his usually rough voice is softer now, pleading almost as he steps further into your space, desperation clawing at his chest. you can’t leave him. you can’t.

you attempt to protest as he forces his way into the threshold of your apartment but you’re cut off from the shock of his lips on yours. he kisses you hard, possessively, your teeth clicking together in his eagerness. he groans against your mouth, his tongue sweeping in to to taste you, claim you, to remind you of how good you two are together.

“'need you. fuck, i need you, honey.” a large hand tangles in your hair, not-so-gently pulling your head back so he can look into your eyes, his own pleading with you to understand. “i don't know what i'd do without you, baby. you know that, right? you know i'd be lost without you?” his words come out in a rush, desperate and rough, as if he can't get the words out fast enough.

you let out a breathy sigh of his name, unwilling to relent just yet. even as your body responds to his touch, your heart is still unsure. sensing your indecision, he wastes no time in trying to sway you further. his other hand finds its way under your shirt, tracing lazy circles over your back, teasing the skin at the small of your back with his touch. he presses his mouth to yours again, the cold metal on his tongue sliding against yours, tickling and teasing. you gasp into his mouth, feeling a shiver run down your spine at the sensation, much to your annoyance.

a smirk tugs unwittingly at his lips as he feels you begin to respond to his touch, your body softening against his. he grabs a handful of your bum, pressing his stiff cock against your front and groaning into your mouth.

“see what you fucking do to me, honey? see how much I want you? you're it for me, you know?” he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, to convey the depth of his need for you. his pupils are dilated, eclipsing the hue of his irises.

you bite your bottom lip and he can see the indecision in your eyes, the internal struggle playing out before his very own. your fingers clutch loosely at his shirt, not pushing him away but not embracing him either.

he could work with that, though. he continues to push his luck, his hand giving your bum a firm squeeze before moving up to cup your breast through your shirt, his thumb flicking lazily over the stiff peak of your nipple through the fabric. a soft, plaintive sound escapes you, and his smirk widens.

"i'm sorry," he murmurs into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth. he's earnest, can't you feel it? the desperation in his touch, the way his fingers dig into you like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go? "i'm so fucking sorry."

when he can see you still aren't fully budging, he decides he'll just have to show you just how sorry he is.

his hands drop down to your waist, gripping you firmly as he lifts you off the ground. your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, your body melding into his, and he takes that as a sign to keep going. he navigates your apartment, heading straight for your bedroom, his mouth growing more demanding as he goes.

no matter how much you try to hold onto your anger, the way he kisses you, the way he touches you, it makes your resentment melt away piece by piece and is instead replaced by a fiery need that you hadn’t realized you had missed so much until now. his mouth is liquid poison and you are willingly letting him in, letting him devour you. he knows it too, can tell by the way your breath hitches in your throat and your eyes glaze over when he touches you like he owns you. and he does, doesn’t he? no one else has ever had the power to make you feel like this, like you’re simultaneously coming apart at the seams and fitting perfectly into place.

his hands are everywhere, touching you in ways that make you squirm, make you ache, make you want more. you can feel the bulge of his erection pressing against your stomach and it's all you can do not to grind against him. your legs tighten around his waist and you let out a soft whine when he finally breaks the kiss to lay you down onto your bed.

"look at you, baby." he drops to his knees and kisses along the juncture of your thighs, eyeing the apex of your legs with hunger. "this all for me?"

you're too hazy to grant him a response but your body seems to have a mind of its own as it arches into his touch, your back bowing off the bed. he takes it as the invitation it is, his hands moving to unbutton your jeans and tug them down your legs, leaving them in a heap on the floor. your underwear quickly follows, leaving you bare from the waist down before him. he runs his thumb along the seam of your cunt, collecting your wetness and smearing it over your clit. the touch sends a jolt of electricity through your body, making your toes curl and your eyes roll back into your head.

he grins wolfishly at your reaction, the smugness in his expression telling you just how much he loves watching you come undone for him. he wastes no time in burying his face between your thighs, his tongue flicking against your clit, the sensation making you plead and whine for him. he sucks and nibbles at the sensitive bud, his tongue delving into your folds, lapping up the sweetness of your arousal like a starved man. fuck, if he didn't miss this, the way your thighs quiver and your hands tangle in his hair as he works his magic on you. it might have only been some number of hours since you were last together but it felt like an eternity to him.

minutes, hours, days. you can't recall how long he's down there for, but when you feel the vibration of another apology against your clit, you don’t care.

his fingers slide into you, filling you as he licks and sucks, and you're sure that this has to be the best apology you've ever received.

[throneofsapphics]

ruhn helping you paint your nails drabble

warnings: anxiety, panic, a hint of suggestiveness

word count: 655

a/n: sorry about the very creative title, but this is the result of a poll I did a little bit ago!

You suppose you are the one who wanted a new hobby, and therefore only have yourself to blame for your frustration. 

Still, it. Is. Annoying. 

Smudges, weird patterns, red all on your skin but not quite seeming to get on your nail. Your hands look like a toddlers who stole their mothers nail polish and tries to paint for the first time, not a fully grown and supposedly fully capable fae female.  

Not sure what else to do, you start scratching away at the sides of your nails, determined to clean them up somehow. The result is a bigger mess, and the beginnings of tears in your eyes. 

It’s a little thing, logically you know that, but right now, after the day you had you just need one thing to go right. Really, you should email the writer of that article you read the other week, one claiming painting nails was relaxing, and call ask her exactly when the relaxation is supposed to set in, and which fucking part of this bullshit is relaxing, because right this second it’s none of it. 

You feel the subtle displacement of air. 

A door opening. 

He’s home. 

After a brief second of lighting up with a smile, it disappears and the beginnings of panic set in. He’s going to see you, think you’re a fucking mess, leave you, then you’ll be alone and nobody -

Footsteps through the doorway, you tried to focus on your breathing, focus on pushing your anxiety aside and focus on the realistic things. 

‘What’s going on?’ Ruhn’s voice surprised you, flooding through your mind and filled with unmistakable worry, like he’d tried speaking to you aloud and it wasn’t working. 

You blink up at him, words not exactly coming how they’re supposed to. Gods can you do anything right. 

Warm hands grip and envelope both of yours. 

His mouth is moving, your mind isn’t registering words or sound. 

‘Squeeze left for yes, right for no,’ his voice is inside of your mind again, steady and soothing. 

You nod. He gives an encouraging smile. You can do this. 

‘Are you injured?’ 

Squeeze right.

‘Do I need to kill someone?’

Squeeze right. A small smile. 

‘Are you frustrated?’

Squeeze left. He knows you, perhaps in a way nobody else does, and at times it annoys you but right now it certainly comes in handy. 

‘Trying to paint your nails?’ 

Squeeze left. There is no mocking in his tone, no lilt or cadence to make you think he’s going to make fun of you. 

“Let me do it for you, love,” he spoke aloud this time, and you were unsurprised you heard him. Prolonged exposure to his presence always has a calming effect on you. 

Carefully, he dips a cotton ball into a pot of remover, and starts wiping away the evidence of your attempts. A shadow makes its way to the remote, and turns on your favorite show. It is sweet, really, but you are lost watching him right now, and his cocky ass probably knew it. At least it was a rerun. 

His fingers make gentle but firm movements, and Cthona competency can seriously be a turn on. You did not think watching your boyfriend paint your nails would do it but - 

“Later, love,” his voice is full of sensual promise, and you grin, teeth digging into your bottom lip. 

Before long, he makes it to the color. “You know I used to practice this, for hours, just to piss off my dad. I’m not saying you need to practice for hours,” he grinned up at you, pausing. “Actually, I’d rather you let me do it for you.” Your lips pursed, about to protest before he kept speaking, “because I enjoy doing this for you,” he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, “quality time, and all that shit.” 

“Quality time, and all that shit,” you echoed. 

He chuckled, “it’s good to hear your voice, love.” 

[4pfsukuna]

could you write smth for long curly haired reader who isn't doing the best mentally so she isn't ty taking care of here hair and geto who has a crush on her offered to help her with it? i just know he'd be soft and gentle.hed even look up how to take care of curly hair to help make his girls (he wishes 😔) hair look the best it ever has (so she can ask him to keep doing her hair for her) i need him down bad 🙏🙏

omfg girl. GIRLLLLLL. This may have just healed my writers block🥹

Suguru Geto was the neighborhood heart-throb with his dark volumtious hair, midnight black eyes that were so dark they nearly looked purple his tall muscular frame (his thighs were drool worthy when he man spread) and his hands that could probably… no definitely palm your whole face. Between that warm honey coated laugh and the smooth calm tone he always heals in his voice he had every girl and woman in a 10 foot radius always swooning over him. Not that he noticed his eyes were always on you and when you werent around his mind was thinking if you ate today, how your day was, what new hobby you picked up what conditioner you used? The last one was a bit unhinged.

Last week he made a complete fool of himself when he seen you in the shared hall of your apartment and finally gathered up the courage to ask you on a date but it started off so well. 

“Hello sweetheart, how was work?” He grins down at you waiting for your brown eyes to meet his and he feels his heart stutter when you do with a soft smile.

“Hey Geto, it was alright, glad im off though im starving” you answer” as you fumble with your house keys pushing some of your long curls out of your face with a single finger.

He can feel his insides exploding, this was it you just put the ball in his court for a lay up or whatever silly basketball analogy Satoru used when he told him about you, now was his chance.

“Oh? Theres a new family owned restauraunt that just opened nothing to fancy. You should go” he blurts out faster than he has time to think about it and his tongue instantly feels heavy in his mouth. His jaw feels hinged and hes clenching his mouth and fist so tight he doesnt know what will break first his teeth or the skin on his palms from how bad his nails are digging in.

“Yeah, i think i will. Have a good night” you wave and hes so in his own head he doesnt realize the way the smile doesnt reach your eyes from either dissapointment of him not asking to go together or the long day of work is something he spends the next few days pondering about once he gets in his apartment.  The only thing hes glad about is that neither Shoko or Satoru was there to embarass him endlessly. He always had a smooth slightly arrogant demeanor but when it came to you words fealt heavy in his mouth, his hands got clammy and his eyes could not leave you what so ever.

The next time he sees you hes shocked. Its around midnight after a full day of listening to anxiety by meg thee stallion on repeat loud enough for him to hear it in his living room that he begins to get worried. Its when he sees you in a dark blue hoodie blanket going to take out your trash that he stops you.

“Hey sweetheart, i can take your trash for you. You shouldnt be taking it down this late anyway” he reaches for the bag not expecting you to pull away.

“N-nah its cool, i got it” you voice cracks and he finally looks at your eyes seeing them puffy and red which makes him fall into defense mode. 

“Who did it? Ill kill them” and that wasnt exactly what he wanted to say but fuck it its not like he didnt mean it and it earns a chuckle from you. Ok, finally he was doing something right.

“Everything and everyone” you pout and he feels his heart soften at the helpless look of defeat on your face. If only you knew you had a man that would actually burn the whole world down in front of you.

“I dont have enough matches for the whole world but if you give me enough time i can run to the store to buy more and burn the it all down for you” he rubs his chin earning a smile this time.

“Maybe not the whole world” you start with a slight giggle and his heart starts doing that weird thing again “It's just… my anxiety has been in overdrive this week and my job has rumors about letting some people go and i think its me since i've been talking about being home sick and my hair stylist canceled my appointment which ruined my week because not only does she not know when she’ll return but my hair products are nothing more but empty containers that won't get shipped here until next month. NEXT MONTH Geto, i cant just put anything in my hair and nobody here can help me” you pout feeling your bottom lip tremble as you fight back tears not wanting to cry infront of your neighbor you needed to hold onto some shred of dignity— hes already watching you in this snuggie with kuromi socks on.

Your face is quickly found in his chest as he pulled you in for a hug and you nearly start sobbing, its not your fault when people hugged you when you were sad it only made you cry more.

“And then i forgot to go grocery shopping” you finally break the hot tears running down you face you wait for him to push you off instead he just holds you tighter resting his chin on your head and rubbing your back. His embrace kinda felt nice and this was the only thing that felt right in your whole horrible week you were going to bask in it.

“I can help you with your hair” Geto blurts and you wipe your eyes to make sure you heard him correctly.

“You what?” Your raspy voice questions looking up at the man whos tall enough to nearly reach the hallway ceiling.

“I can help you with your hair” he repeats, using a thumb to wipe some of the tears from under your eyes, his palm cupping your cheek to keep you in place. Completely unbothered by the fact that any of your other neighbors could walk out and see you two like this he’s just happy to have you this close.

“No shade but what do you know about kinky curly hair, plus im not trying to let anyone experiment on my hair let alone a man” you cross your arms but you don’t pull away from his embrace which he selfishly enjoys.

“You think this long healthy hair comes from using a body wash and shampoo 2 in 1? I actually take pride in my 8 step hair routine” he tells you reaching up to pull his hair from its bun letting his long obsidian locs cascade down over his broad shoulders the coconut scent hitting your nose.

You stare at him for a second debating how wrong this could go letting this man play in your head. I mean worse case scenario it gets tangled and you big chop after your hair crisis(amongst the several youve had throughout life) youve always said ‘fuck it im going to just go bald’ and maybe you finally spoke it into existance. 

You see the hopefulness in his eyes and know this man is fully convinced he can do your hair and will spend all night convincing you if he has to and you're not sure if it's his resilience or your lack of sleep that has you finally crack and let out a long sigh.

“I promise i can do it just give me a second to toss this trash, grab my products and i'll be over in a second” he promises with an excited grin grabbing the trash from your hand and taking off down the hall.

“And thats not all… they were roommates” you gossip with him as he runs the detangler through your hair after parting it into four sections. He was on the last section before having your lean back to begin the wash process and maybe he did know a thing or two about hair. Gently guiding your head back to the running water you hear the CLICK of the bottle opening before you feel the cold substance on your scalp.

Your eyes instantly close when his fingers begin massaging your scalp his nails feeling so heavenly against your roots.

“Oh my God Sugur your fingers feel so good” you nearly moan and he has to stop for a second, pretending to look for your detangler comb to not lose his composure. he cant even help his pants getting slightly tighter, he was honestly so down bad for you. 

He rinses repeats detangles conditions detangles again with very little instruction from you and honestly it was because you had began dozing off quite a few times enjoying the physical touch of another human while he is the physical embodiment of happy to be here.

He notices the song you had on repeat is also off instead choosing Sade to listen to which was alot more calmer. Its when he begins humming along that your brows scrunch and he panics assuming that hes hurting you.

“What you know about Sade?” Youre soft voice pokes making him chuckle and damn does he have a nice laugh.

“Im a man of culture” he pokes your temple and you jokingly pretend to attempt to bite his finger your goofyness slipping out easily around him. “Besides im washing your hair obviously im very cultured” he adds in and you cant argue there.

An hour later you find yourself rambling about all your favorite things favorite music, hobbies and embarassing stories of you from the fourth grade which he counters of embarassing stories of him in high school with him and his best friend satoru who he promises to introduce you to.

“And i'll section the braids up here into smaller parts So if you want a middle part or side part you have options” he tells you absentmindedly and you crain your head back to make direct eye contact but he gently grabs the side of your neck using his thumb to push your head forward.

“You'll get neck pain if you do that sweetheart” he commands softly in a way that makes your spine tingle and you rest your head against his large thigh.

“Have you done this before?” You ask your mind instantly floating to another woman and while there weren't too many girls that looked like you in japan with a hair texture like yours he was entirely too good to never have practiced this once.

“Yes” he answers honestly and you force yourself to push down the thoughts that make your stomach drop. “Though they usually fall asleep by the time i get to conditioning their hair”

And it's like you can hear the record scratch and the peaceful bliss you're in ends abruptly.

“So it's nice having someone to talk to up until the end” he tells you before finishing a braid and you feel it fall mid back before he shuffles around. There's a bright light gleaming on the side of your face and you turn slightly to see a picture of twin girls, one with dark hair and one with light brown, almost blonde hair.

“They're so cute, how old are they?” you ask taking the phone in your hands to get a better look as he swipes showing different clips from what looks like a trip to the aquarium.

“11, thats mimiko and nanako usually they are here with me but they are with uncle Satoru for the summer making his pockets hurt as they say and spending time with their little cousin megumi” he tells you before he stops sliding landing on a picture of him satoru the twins and a dark spikey haired little boy that looks angry at Satoru.

“He looks like he absolutely hates satoru” you giggle resting your head back on his thigh which earns a laugh from him.

“Despises him, actually thinks Satoru is so annoying but he loves him… deep deep deep down inside his tiny little body since he adopted him. We knew his dad… real piece of shit actually” Suguru admits using a bit more force on your hair, its not painful but you could tell he hated Megumi's dad more than Megumi hated Satoru. 

“You must've had them really young” you pry slightly which he snorts at before using the comb to detangle a section of your hair and adding in more product. 

“No, I met them at an old job. They were in a bad environment and I took them in. I just couldn’t watch them go through that horrible system it's not a place for innocent little girls” he tells you his touch becoming so featherlite you almost forget he's doing your hair 

“Yeah it makes sense you are such a girl dad. Definitely dilf material” you ramble going back to look at the pictures zooming in on how happy the girls look.

His eyes widen and breath gets caught in his throat he nearly has to stop what he's doing to focus on you again.

“Dilf? At Least take me out to dinner first”he jokes trying to calm his heart before you lean your head back once more making eye contact with him.

“How about the new family owned restaurant you told me about? You could even bring the girls I’d love to meet them” you smile at him watching the blush build on his face.

“R-really?” He stutters, not expecting you to ask him out on a date… shit was it a date?

“Yeah they seem to play an important role in your life and I need to make a good impression on them as well… I mean unless I’ve been taking your staring, heated looks and your kind offer to wash my hair the wrong way?” You tease with a sly smirk and he can feel the flush running through his entire body.

“Oh so you've just been letting me embarrass myself in front of you… this entire time” he exaggerates, holding a hand over his mouth in faux shock.

“I thought it was cute” you shrug watching his reactions before he tilts your head back forward using neck cramps as an excuse.

“Hey suguru?” You yawn, leaning your head back against his thigh and it was just the perfect head rest as his fingers began massaging through your scalp again.

“Yes sweetheart?” He asks slowing down for a second and you begin enjoying, a bit too much, the way he sounds calling you that.

“Thank you for washing my hair and styling it” you smile closing your eyes and shoulders dropping slightly and he grins at the signs of you falling asleep. He's seen it too often with the twins but he had to admit he may have been enjoying this more than you, acts of service being his love language that much was clear.

“Anything for you” 

[thedreamlessnights]

Someone to shed some light - pt. 7

Astarion x gn!Reader

{series masterlist}

Synopsis: After your discovery of Calthir's letter, you and Astarion make an escape.

Warnings: Mentions of death and blood, descriptions of an anxiety attack.

Word Count: 3.4k

As the final words of the letter and their meaning sink in, something dark and unknown takes hold of you. It’s foreign and bitter and cold, but it laces its way through your lungs without permission, bleeds into your veins, takes control of your locked muscles even while your mind stays frozen.

Even before you’ve realized it, you’re running.

The journey is only flashes of things. A string of images. Cazador Szarr signed in neat script on a letter. Your boots squelching in sticky mud. The scent of sweet, wet grass. When you find yourself back at the tent, your body battered and bruised, it’s nearly a surprise. Your mind is still in that tent, staring at that letter and fleshing out the cost.

But your body is here, gripping the paper in your hand with such force that’s practically crumpled into a ball. The inside of your mouth is metallic and warm with blood from where you’ve bitten your cheek. Your breathing is jagged and harsh, and your eyesight is blurry. You’re shaking. Is it from anger or fear?

What a joke your kingdom is. Their arrogant form of ‘justice’ is no better than Erelin’s. Their determination to take the throne and the amount of blood it will shed is no better than the way she rules. In attempting to make the kingdom better, all Calthir has done is stopped down to Erelin’s level.

Bile churns in your stomach at the thought of it. Your heart pumps steadily, but your chest strains for air, and your lungs burn with every breath. Astarion, you think, shivering from head to toe. He has to know, no matter how horrible the knowledge is. The two of you need to run, no matter how little of a chance you have to escape.

You finally stumble into the tent, boots still muddy, vision starting to blacken at the edges as you make your way further in. Breathe, you tell yourself. You can’t warn him if you’re dead. You can’t get the hells out of here if your brain isn’t getting the oxygen it needs.

After a moment of slow, deep breathing, you come back to yourself. Your thoughts clear. The ache lessens. Astarion is trancing on his bedroll, relaxed and undisturbed, and thankfully alive. Or, more accurately, undead. You hate to rouse him, but this can’t wait.

You set a hand on his shoulder and gently shake him. “Astarion-”

Considering everything, he takes his rest being disturbed fairly well. He opens his eyes and sits up, blinking as he takes you in, muscles winding with tension. He relaxes when he sees that it’s you.

“Well, hello,” he greets, tilting his head and flashing you a smile. Whatever else he was going to say dies on his tongue when he sees your face. “What’s wrong?” he asks, straightening, his gaze darting over your expression. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I… they’re going to… we need to-”

All your calm has faded away, now that you’re trying to say it. You’re so frantic that your words jumble together, barely coherent - trembling so much that your teeth are clanking together.

Astarion grips your arm, coaxing you down into a sitting position, and you suck in another deep breath. “I heard Aris and Cal talking,” you start, swallowing hard. “They were arguing about something. I couldn't tell what it was, but I went into the tent after they were gone, and I - I found this.”

You lift up the crumpled paper and press it as flat as you can, not wanting to give it to him - not when it feels like poison against your skin. But when he gently pries it from your fingers, you let him. You watch his gaze run over the words as you tuck your knees into your chest, and your nails dig into your palms to draw fresh pain.

His brows pinch at first. Confusion. Then he stiffens, looking as though he’s been slapped. A small, quiet loss crosses over his face. “I…” he starts, shaking his head as he trails off. “Gods. Of course they are.”

“Is it really him?” you ask.

“That’s him, alright,” he says, voice sour. “I’d know his handwriting anywhere.”

It occurs to you that you should be comforting him, not the other way around. You gently rest a hand on his shoulder, hoping it will help, rather than make things worse. “I won’t let them give you to him.”

“You can’t stop them,” he says sharply, sucking in a deep breath. “Trust me, dearest. They’ll probably separate us at first light.”

“No,” you insist, “I won’t let them. I mean over my dead body, Astarion. We’re leaving.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” he snaps. “We’re trapped, remember?”

“We leave now,” you answer. “We’re close enough to the city. It’s busy enough that no one will notice until tomorrow. By the time they realize, we can be in hiding. I know someone - someone who’d take us in without any question. Or… well, she’d probably have some questions.”

You pause, giving him a chance to respond, but he doesn’t. He’s not looking at you. “Even if they do find us in the city, they can’t take us without making a scene,” you continue. “We can make it.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, reaching up to massage his temples with his fingertips. “This is a terrible idea,” he says, shaking his head. “Gods - alright.” He lets out a brief sigh, shifting up to his knees and reaching for his pack, and you know he’s come to the same conclusion that you have.

Anything is better than staying here, waiting for Calthir’s plan to be executed.

A wave of sheer relief rolls over you as you follow in his lead, slinging your pack over your shoulder. There isn’t much left inside, but it won’t take more than an hour or two to get to the city, and once you arrive - well, that can be sorted out later. You can’t exactly go back to your tavern, but…

It doesn't matter. Anything is better than staying with these people.

You’ve never been more grateful for Astarion’s stealth as the two of you slip through the crowd. He steals two hooded cloaks from a nearby bin and both of you slip them on, covering your faces. The darkness is doing its part for those without darkvision, but the other soldiers are wearing hoods, too. Your chances are better like this, blending into the crowd.

Leaving camp feels like holding your breath, despite the shallow pulls of air that rush in and out of your lungs. Your shoulders pull tight, your jaw clenches, your body creeps slowly past the camp limits. Your face remains impassive, but your gut floods with fear.

Nothing, yet. Miraculously nothing.

The two of you make your way into the trees, and there’s still no sign of any soldiers nearby. Silver moonlight floods through the leaves, glittering on the damp grass. Birds fly from tree to tree, startling you as the leaves rustle with their weight.

You’re just about to feel relief when the orange light of a torch flickers through the trees, coming toward where the two of you stand. Your fingers ache for the knife that had been taken from you. Astarion slips his dagger out of its sheath.

You know your luck has officially run out when the figure stalls at the sight of the two of you, both of you without a torch and without any good excuse. Astarion’s dagger glints in the light.

“You!” the figure calls. “What’s your business here?”

Your eyes register the familiar face as soon as the voice hits your ears - Cal. It’s Cal again, looking angrier than you’ve ever seen him. To your surprise, some of that fury melts away when he sees that it’s you, and he lowers his torch. In his other hand, his blade is at the ready.

“You shouldn't be here,” he says.

“Cal, please,” you start, but he shakes his head. Pain washes over his eyes.

The sharp crack of a branch sounds in the distance - another patrol strolling through the trees, judging by the torchlight that floods the nearby woods. All three of you freeze at the sound, your hand automatically reaching for Astarion’s arm.

Cal’s gaze flickers between you and Astarion. Then, toward the sound. “Go,” he says, keeping his gaze toward the trees. “I’ll end the tracking spell, but you won’t have much time until they realize you’re gone.”

It takes you a moment to realize what he’s saying. “Cal-”

“Go,” he urges. “Now!”

It doesn’t escape you what they might do to him when they find out what he’s done. Something tight and painful throbs in your chest, squeezing like a fist.

“I love you,” you say.

He smiles, finally meeting your eyes. “I know you do. And you know how I feel. Now go, and don’t look back.”

So you run.

Astarion is faster than you; it’s all you can do to keep up with his nimble movements, blindly following behind him. Adrenaline is red-hot in your blood, pulsing with every beat of your heart. Your footsteps seem much too loud in your ears. Every time a twig snaps underfoot or a branch pulls at your cloak, you’re sure that someone is going to catch you.

But they don’t.

Scraped hands. Aching feet. Sides feeling like they’re splitting as you struggle for breath. It’s all you can register in the darkness aside from the silver of Astarion’s hair and the swish of your cloak behind you.

Your adrenaline fades further as the two of you scramble through the trees, making your way toward the distant view of the castle, and it’s exhaustion that takes over in its absence. Your vision blurs. Your muscles fatigue. It’s not long before you’re forced to come to a stop, your hands on your knees.

Astarion stalls beside you. You don’t hear him say your name until the third time he’s said it, reaching over to brush his thumb across your cheek.

“You’re bleeding,” he says.

You hadn’t noticed - the mild stinging had been second to everything else. One of the sharp branches must have dug into your cheek as you ran.

“It’s nothing,” you reply quickly. It isn’t safe here, and you know it. “We should get going.”

He hesitates. “I am sorry, you know. About Cal.”

“Thank you.” The words come out soft and broken. You attempt a smile, but it falls flat. “They were going to turn you in. He knew what he was getting into.”

Your words don’t stop the deep hole that’s built its way into your chest.

You adjust your pack on your shoulder and start off again without waiting for a reply, and the rest of the journey is silent. It’s a difficult trade-off, trying not to sprint the entire time, but never feeling like you’re quite going fast enough. It feels like there’s an outstretched hand behind you, forever waiting to grasp onto your cloak and tug you to the forest floor, wrenching Astarion out of your life forever.

But it doesn’t come. The moon travels across the sky, and the two of you make it to the city in one piece.

Home. The smell of cooking meat and spices in the air. The familiar stone underfoot. Distant songs played in distant taverns. For the first time in months, you’re finally home.

It’s late, but there are still plenty of people milling around the Lower City - enough to make you blend in with the crowd, weaving through until you’ve finally arrived at your destination.

You brace yourself and knock, and find silence. Another knock, and then a voice responds, “Coming!” on the other side.

The door opens, and you find Karlach Cliffgate at the other side.

It’s been so long since you’ve received a hug that you’d almost forgotten what it felt like. But Karlach takes one look at you, eyes widening, and pulls you into a bone-crushing, soul-healing hug that could chase away even the darkest night.

“Soldier, is that you?” she asks, her voice wobbling a little. “Gods, I’m glad you’re here. It’s not been the same, going to that tavern and not having you there. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

“I think I have a clue,” you tell her, choking out the words between your ribs being crushed.

She releases you and grins, ushering you and Astarion inside.

“Friend of yours?” she asks, and you nod. The alternative is not something you’re keen on at the moment. You’re just about to introduce them to each other when another voice comes from your side - a voice you know very well.

“Would you look who it is!”

Wyll Ravengard steps forward, every inch a distinguished gentleman, and every bit of tension you might have about him dissolves when he pulls you in for a hug, too. “Well, well,” he says, grinning widely as he pulls back. “In the flesh. Newly married, if I’ve heard right!”

“Married?” Karlach asks. “What? Tell me that isn't true.”

“Oh, but it is,” Wyll says. “Tell me - how does it feel, my friend? Being a newlywed?”

A faint smile tugs at your lips, and you finally let it pull into a full smile. All these months of misery and here you are, as close to home as you can possibly get, warm and with your friends.

“Horrible,” you answer. “But that reminds me. Everyone, this is Astarion. Astarion, this is… everyone.”

In the midst of this, still wearing his cloak, Astarion looks to be two things: uncomfortable, and very out of place.

“It’s good to meet you,” Karlach says, stepping forward and extending her hand. “I’m Karlach.”

She’s scarcely dropped his hand when Wyll is there, shaking it with a new, dashing smile. “And I’m Wyll,” he says. “Though, most people call me the Blade of Frontiers.”

“The Blade of Frontiers?” Astarion asks, looking to you for confirmation. “You keep famous company.”

“You’ve heard of me?” Wyll asks. “I’m flattered.”

“Indeed I have,” Astarion says. “Fighting off monsters on the Sword Coast? You’ve made quite the name for yourself.”

“I’ve only sought to rid the world of what seeks to harm it,” Wyll responds. Humble as always. His gaze turns over Astarion and sharpens a little. A form of suspicion.

Karlach’s looking him over, too, but her gaze is much less severe and much more admirational. She’ll probably adore him, despite his sharp edges. The room goes silent for a moment, and the realization of who Astarion is seems to settle in.

“So,” Karlach says, “this is your… husband? And…”

All of them seem reluctant to finish her words, so you do it.

“The prince, yes.”

There’s a long beat.

“Hey - what are we doing?” Karlach finally exclaims, breaking through the awkward silence. “This calls for a celebration! It’s not every day that an old friend gets married! And I wasn’t even invited.”

You grimace, though you know she’s just teasing. What you wouldn't have given to have her there, riling the crowd and making you smile. “If it’s any consolation, I had no control over the invites.”

“Nah, don't worry about it,” she says with a grin. “I’ll bet it was boring anyhow.”

And, gods, it really was.

She leads the three of you into the dining room, gesturing for you and Astarion to sit at the table. Astarion removes the cloak from his head, lightly tapping his fingers against the wooden table, but you can tell he’s still anxious.

Wyll takes a seat across from the two of you, and Karlach grabs hold of some Ithbank, pouring all of you a glass.

“So,” she says, clearly trying to mask her curiosity. “What brings you here, Your… Highnesses?”

“Please don’t call me that,” you request, laughing a little. You sink back into your seat, pulling your glass toward you, and sigh. Your skull is throbbing with the telltale signs of an oncoming headache. “As for why we’re here? Let me down this drink first. I’ll need it for the story I’m about to tell.”

Karlach and Wyll take your story better than you’d thought they would.

You leave out some choice details, of course: Astarion’s vampirism, the Gur hunter. Wyll’s brow furrows when you mention his father’s involvement with Calthir, but he doesn't interrupt. You allow Astarion to chime in with as much information as he’s willing to share during the sore subjects, and soon the four of you are sitting in silence.

“I cannot fucking believe they took you prisoner,” Karlach bursts out. “They’re supposed to follow what you want, not… force you into their own plan!”

“That’s royalty for you,” Astarion snipes dryly, taking a sip of his wine. “Trust me, it could have been worse.”

“So I’ve heard,” Wyll replies. “As terrible as it sounds, the two of you got lucky. My father… I can’t believe he’s truly involved. Not of his own will, at least.”

You don't want to believe that this situation could have been any worse, considering the letter you’d found, but the fact that Astarion is at your side says enough. They could have killed him at any time. Despite your stubbornness and your threats, you would have been powerless to stop them.

As for Wyll’s father, it wouldn’t surprise you if Aris had been lying to you about Duke Ravengard’s involvement. She’d lied about nearly everything else. Still, something doesn’t feel right. Guilt slithers through your ribs like vines, crawling between bone and blood. You’ve put everyone here in danger by coming to them like this.

“I’m so sorry for roping the two of you into this mess,” you tell Karlach and Wyll. “I didn't know where else to go, and-”

“Stop that,” Karlach interrupts. “Stop that right now. I’m happy to have you here, soldier, you know that. Whatever happens, I’m at your side. Alright?”

“As am I,” Wyll agrees. “If what you say is true, then we may just be looking at a full-blown war on our hands. Whatever danger lies ahead, the Blade of Frontiers is ready to meet the call.”

“Oh!” Karlach says suddenly, “and Gale will be here in the morning! He’ll want to help, too!”

Your brows rise. “Gale? He’s in the city?”

“Wizard stuff,” Karlach explains. “I don't know much about it, to be honest. There’s that bookshop he likes here, you know? I invited him over for breakfast - thought it might do him good to see some friends. We can tell him what’s happened as soon as he arrives.”

“Thank the gods,�� you murmur.

If Gale decides to help with your cause, then you’ll have gathered a formidable little team. Not enough to hold off Calthir’s entire army, of course, but enough to delay your capture and figure out some way out of this.

You finish off your Ithbank, and find your eyes heavy. It’s been a long day, and your body is aching and tired. Karlach must notice, because she leans forward and examines your eyes.

“You two look exhausted,” she says. “I’ll fix up a bed for you, alright? We’ll talk more in the morning.”

You drag yourself behind her like a corpse, following her to your makeshift bedroom.

“Are you two alright sharing a room?” she asks.

You glance toward Astarion, and he raises a brow. The two of you have been sleeping in the same bed or the same tent for months now. There’s no reason not to continue that, really.

“That’ll be fine,” you tell her.

She leads you in and fluffs up the sheets, pointing out the bath and extra blankets. You know this already, of course, having been here dozens of times, but Astarion doesn’t. He listens without a word.

Just before retreating, Karlach pulls you into another hug. “I’m glad you’re here, soldier,” she says, letting you go. “Get some rest, yeah?”

“I can’t thank you enough for taking us in,” you reply. “I owe you.”

She nudges your shoulder. “The only thing you owe me is five gold from the bet you lost on Returning Day, alright? Hush up and go to bed.”

She leaves without another word, and it’s all you can do to kick off your boots and climb in bed before you’re lost to the world.

tags: @amica-aenigmata-naboo @sadslasher13 @peachy-possum @the-lonely-abyss @maddiedrmr @starved-kitten @catching-fire-in-the-wind @aoirohi @g0retash

[polyamorousmood]

Hi I need some advice.

So I identify as poly even tho ive never had a poly relationship before and made that very clear to my girlfriend before we started dating. She said she was fine with it, and that we could always discuss terms when I start to like another person. We've been dating for a year, and I'm starting to like one of our mutual friends. I was excited to tell my girlfriend, but when I did she freaked out about it and said she couldn't do it. Because she was freaking out, I said it was OK and agreed to be in a mono relationship (I often will say anything to get someone to calm down, and I know that's a flaw of mine which is why I was open about everything before anything was at stake). I don't think I am OK with it, but they way she spoke about it sounds like she won't be convinced either.

I feel like I was lied to? And now I'm in this situation I didn't want, but I don't want to break up with her because I do love her. Functionally our relationship is the same as it always was so maybe I can handle it, but I just don't understand why she would have such a negative reaction when she seemed completely OK with it at the beginning.

I mean... maybe she said it was okay when it wasn't for a similar reason you did? Because she wanted to make you happy more than she wanted to dig into the issue? While I understand this probably felt like a major gut-punch after you made a point to be open about it, it seems to me unfair you'd hold her to a higher standard than you're holding yourself now wrt voicing what you'd be okay with.

Anyway, TL;DR: I think y'all both need to "come to Jesus."

What do I mean by that.

You need the classic Uncle Iroh moment

And it really, really fucking sucks, but you both will have to consider if the life you want -- poly for you, monog for her -- is feasible with each other. I'm sorry, I know it hurts even to think about, but even if everything gets worked out, you will have to think about the possibility it won't first.

First, you're going to have to bring it up again, and explain its importance, and explain your confusion, and acknowledge this is clearly difficult for her. I think a strong possibility is that she's okay with you dating someone else, but not someone she knows. It being her friend may be the sticking point! I've found a lot of people don't consider that a possibility until they're confronted with it, and it drudges up a lot of bad feelings and anxieties that you "always really wanted them and not me," so that's worth investigating.

... Its also really possible she never gave it a ton of thought and assumed it was never really gonna happen🫤. Its also possible your timing was just shit in a way you're not mentioning (maybe didn't even think of!) like, if you mentioned it a week after y'all Had A Talk™️about her feeling really insecure lately, I can see how that could cause her some panic. You are just going to have to grit your teeth and talk🗣️. It is the ONLY path forward that has a chance of everyone feeling fulfilled. Which to me at least, makes it the only path forward, period ⏺️ It sucks. Its hard. You'd rather saw off your toes.

But here's the secret -> people regret more the things they didn't do than the things they did do. A life spent wondering is generally much harder than anything else.

So if after you talk to her, she does have a problem with polyamory, there are only a few options for how this shakes out:

You never get the polyamory. Either because you kept your mouth shut 🙊 or because you asked and it was clearly never going to be okay with her. You stay with her forever and cut off this desire of yours to make her happy. Most poly people find this a very constricted existence.

She consents to polyamory even though she doesn't like having to share you. You guys broker some sort of compromise. Maybe she comes around, but maybe its always a sore spot, and she always feels like she's settling for half a relationship.🌗

You break up💔. Maybe now, maybe after years of trying and failing to do one or both of the first two options.

That's all there is. There's room within those categories, of course, but every outcome is one of those three. Give each of them their fair consideration, because there are some major, long-term pros and cons with each of them, and you need to know what you're signing on for. Oh, and if you're not willing to talk about it? You're locking yourself into the first one. Maybe she's worth it to you, but if that's the choice you're making, you cannot hold that choice against her later, because she won't even have realized you made it if you don't talk about it.

And if you do broker some sort of deal, you better fasten your seatbelt. Because you will have to talk about things she's uncomfortable with very regularly. Accept that right the fuck now. You know its true. You know that even if she understands, there will be new situation after new situation you will have to go through together. And a lot of them will be hard on her. And it will be on your shoulders to see her through.

This is, without exaggeration on my part, one of the worst situations to be in ever. My heart goes out to you.💝 I hope from the depths of my soul there's some sort of misunderstanding that gets resolved without much drama, and you're all okay. I am also truly sorry if that sounded harsh, but I don't want you to waste your time looking for miracle fixes. Everything from this point on will be messy and labor-intensive, but I hope it can be a labor of love.

Wising you the strength to see yourself to a life you love 💙💖🖤

[prinvessdior]

okay I decided to upload the first chapter here but please head to here for full updates :3!

CW: mentioned panic attack/ anxiety lots of it. Mentioned gun (never used) panicking. Kinda a bitchy bitch? Idk

(Y/n) wakes up in her new home headed to school. (Y/n) can’t help but click on an early morning live stream of the ninja. She keeps watching one specifically though. Weird things happen..

My alarm screaming at the crack of dawn is something I thought I should be used to by now. It apparently was not as I rolled over, burrito-fied in my blankets. Blindly reaching for my blaring phone I haphazardly press around on the screen. The alarm shuts off and I groan rubbing the sleep out of my bleary eyes.

The early morning sun casts a sheen of yellowish orange across the expanse of my room. Given it wasn’t really a room yet. Boxes stacked and filled the corners of my room, remnants of what I had left to unpack. A soft knock on my door has me (begrudgingly) sitting up.

My dad pops his head in through my door after I mumble a sleepy, “Come in.”

His black curls bounce as he swivels his head to find me still in bed. “Mornin’ babygirl.” He affectionately greets sending me a soft smile when I catch his gaze. I yawn holding a hand over my mouth to cover my manners and the noise.

“Morning Dad.” I pull the covers over my body once again the winter air sneaking in from my bedroom window when Dad cracks it open.

In his hand is a plate stacked with pancakes, eggs and bacon I hum happily as the smells wafts when he sets the plate on the table next to my bed. The only thing I bothered to unpack.

“Big day! Being the new girl is gonna be a lot, especially you so a special breakfast for my favorite daughter.”

I smiled tiredly, “But I’m your only daughter?” I reminded with a frown, he frowns taking a seat at the foot of my bed.

“Whatever.”

Dad digs in the pockets of his pink sleeping robe, I snort to myself that he’s still sleeping with that thing. I could vaguely make out the sound of something jingling.

He presented me with a set of car keys, blown wide awake I threw my covers off I started at dad wide eyed. “Hiram says since its your last year of high school, and almost an official adult, that you deserved some freedom.”

My smile grew in size, I all but snatched the keys throwing my arms around Dad, “Dad! Thankyouthankyou I’ll call dad after school and thank him too!” He chuckled returning my attack of a hug with one arm his free hand ruffling my hair.

I pulled away to inspect the keys closer, turning them over in my hand a few times. Oh! I’d seen these before!

“Oh God this is the car Mr. Cyrus gifted to dad right?” I asked remembering way back when Dad was first starting his school Mr. Cyrus Borg had donated a lot of cash to get it started, I can remember Dad repaying him with his own class at the school and dad got a car out of it, cool.

Dad nodded standing up, “Yeah, so don’t break it.” I huffed rolling my eyes.

“Eat up princess, I’m riding along I need the car for work. Regroup in twenty.” Dad gave me a goofy salute, leaving me alone in my half unpacked room once again.

Humming a song I stood from my bed, first order of business was to take care of the rats nest on my head. I opened the door that connected my bathroom to my room, which by the way, so cool! Back in the village all the home’s layouts had been exactly the same, copy and paste. It was a nice change, what can I say I am a simple girl.

I had only managed to fully unpack the bathroom. Kicking an emptied box out of my way, assessing my appearance in the mirror. Huffing, I quickly slid a brush through my hair securing it into a low ponytail with one too many hair ties, I brushed my teeth.

Next on the agenda was Dads “special new girl breakfast”. Bounding on my bed taking my phone along with me, unplugging it from the charger. I ate in semi-silence as I scrolled through social media. I flicked through friends from private school seeing some girls I used to preform with preparing to go on vacation for winter break. There was the usual news, weather, and people posting their mornings on their stories.

An account I had followed years ago piqued my interest. The twitter account; a Secret Ninja force fan account specifically. Awhile ago when Hiram’s college first opened I remember Dad telling me about how it’d been attacked by..

I squinted at my phone as if the fan account would help me remember.

Whatever it was years ago anyways I was barley thirteen I think. Sighing thumb hovering over the notification at the top of my phone. The account was livestreaming.

“Early Morning skirmish with the Ninja!!”

Sure, an enthusiastic title, seemed like they had been live for awhile. I glanced to the time on my phone.

‘Who goes live at 6:32 in the morning’

About to scroll, I needed to be getting dressed for school anyways. I was still in my pajamas for gods sake. I had to pack my school bag, I barley had seven minutes to get dressed and meet dad outside, wanted to test drive my new baby too, I frowned.

I clicked on the livestream.

The footage was grainy at best, camera flying between each of the ninja. The ninja themselves were gathered around a group of people, I couldn’t tell the gender of the people they seemed to be deescalating a robbery situation. There was a lot of noise the audio was choppy and shitty too, barley registering what was being said.

This “fan account” sure had a shitty phone

I thought to myself as the commotion grew louder.

The cameraman tilting to an angle possibly hiding behind something as they continued to film. There were just enough context clues for me to discern the robbers had guns. I placed a hand over my mouth, suddenly remembering that this was real. A live stream happening somewhere across ninjago city.

Oh shit.

In my momentary anxiety attack, noises of fighting was enough for me to nervously glance back down to my phone. From what I could tell there was an eruption of color. So much so I had to turn away from my phone and shield my eyes, too bright even through a screen. The colors dissipated and assuming the streamer started explaining the whole ordeal. The teen’s voice yelled about how the Water and Green ninja had disarmed the robbers of their guns. The camera quickly switched away from the ninja as police sirens approached making it hard to hear again, the teen continued to yap praises for the ninja.

My gaze flicked over his shoulder to the aftermath, I could barley make out the green one with the robbers apprehended in tow making his way to the approaching police. I clicked off the stream my phone falling to rest on my stomach.

“Woah.”

Dad yelled my name from somewhere downstairs and I shot up from bed still clad in my pajamas.

“Shit!”

▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎

Three minutes was the fastest I’d ever gotten dressed I think. After hastily throwing on a light pink sweater, over my pj shorts I put on some thick winter leggings. Grabbing my phone I hovered over the sleep button gnawing on my bottom lip, overthinking. It was really weird how I’d went completely braindead not thinking before doing something.

What.. what was I doing before clicking on that livestream? I held a hand to my head wincing from a sudden oncoming headache.

Dad called my name louder this time, “C’mon babygirl! We’re gonna run late!”

“Coming!”

Breaking out of my overthinking with a shake of my head ridding the ache with it. I plucked my favorite winter jacket that sat atop a few boxes of clothes. I grimaced at all the unpacking I still have to do. Sliding the pink-inner-woolen fabric over my arms and zipping it all the way, I slid my phone into my pocket zipping that up too. I snatched my shiny new car keys off the bedside table along with my schoolbag lazily thrown over my shoulder and left my semi-room.

Hopping two steps at a time I met dad by the door; he was looking down at me then back to his watch.

“Twenty-seven minutes, seriously?”

I nodded even more serious, “Seriously, takes a lot to look this good.”

Dad snorted and rolled his eyes, holding the front door open for me. I grinned walking out into the chilly early morning air. Seriously Dad told me how cold the city gets in winter but seriously?

Fumbling to retrieve the keys with half frozen fingers, my grin grew as we approached the silver SUV. Sure, it was a soccer mom car but a car nonetheless.

Sliding into the drivers side I hurriedly turned the ignition over desperate for the warm air. Dad entered a few seconds after I threw my bag with my phone inside, Its better out of sight while I’m driving anyways, to the backseats. Dad takes control of the radio as I back out of the driveway.

Whatever song spills softly from the cars speakers as I pulled to the main city road. Dad nudges my arm to grab my attention I hum in query.

“Did you grab your sheet music?” he asked

I groaned hitting the side of the steering wheel. I had completely forgotten about it, I meant to pack it before I got dressed but well.. plus, wouldn’t the kids think it’s weird if I’m walking around school with oldie sheet music? I grew up singing, dad says I was born with a Tony Award in my chubby baby hands. Hell, Hiram has a school on our shared musical expertise.

“I.. forgot.”

Hoping that was the best answer, Especially because I didn’t want dad to know my thought about his oldie music it’d hurt his feelings if I voiced my feelings about it being weird.

Dad brushes it off, “I’ll remind you tomorrow.” I release an anxious breath. Fingers tapping on the wheel as we paused at a red light.

“Anyway, Hiram has a new assistant.” Dad finger quotes the word assistant “Basically this kid found out about Hiram’s daughter was transferring to ninjago high. She emailed for months begging Hiram to offer her help.”

I nodded half listening, “So dad got me a friend? Peachy..” I muttered with a gritted smile sinking down into the seat as a newfound bubble of anxiety enclosed itself around my head.

I sighed through my nose stepping on the gas once the light flicked to green once again. The song switch to ‘Walking on Sunshine.’

Nope. Not very sunshiny.

▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎

LeRoy stole my baby, my silver suv baby that I’d only known for fifteen minutes but my point still stands. Dad told me Hiram’s “assistant”’s name was actually Sapphire, pretty like the stone. He then sped away blasting some musical soundtrack I couldn’t quite catch. Leaving me to turn and face my impending doom.

I stood dumbly on the bottom of the stairs. Watching as groups of students and loners pass me. Some would give me weird looks as they did. I would too, seeing a new kid standing like an idiot at the bottom of the steps in forty degree cold.

Before I could gather my thoughts and stop the oncoming panic attack. Someone approaches me calling out my name I snap my blurry vision up to the feminine voice. The girl looked no older than me, I tilted my head confused but thankful she broke me out of my panic.

“Uh— yeah that’s me.” God. Why’d I sound so small.

The girl smiles down at me from her elevated height on the stairs. At this angle I was able to see her bleached, maybe too bleached blonde hair. Dark jet black roots poking back out from the dye job.

Bad dye job girl had on pure white earmuffs, her whole outfit was white actually. Save for the light gold puffer jacket she wore. My gaze flicked to my own jacket, my favorite jacket. Mine definitely was cheaper and I remember saving up for at least a month. I’d spent a pretty penny on it, bad dye job girl was pretty too I guess.

“Hey! I’m Sapphire!” the fake blonde smiled bigger though it wavered at the corners, she outstretched her hand to mine.

I smiled too, putting my hand in hers. “Hi! It’s so nice to meet you! I’m so sorry I feel so bad my dads dumped me on you.” We shook before releasing hands, she pulled hers back quicker than I expected. Students stopped whispering and staring too I noticed.

Sapphire shrugs, “It’s not a big deal especially for that– oh let me see your chart.” She cleared her throat and I fished my phone from my jackets pocket. Pulling up a screenshot of my classes. Sapphire’s mittenened hand all but snatched my phone. She made a noise I couldn’t decipher and tossed the phone back.

I fumbled to catch it.

We made our way into the school, through the front doors. Sapphire toured me around the school. It was humorous how huge this place was. It had every room a school could need, even actual locker rooms with stalls. Surely gym wouldn’t be so bad then.

Sapphire asked, well demanded for my phone again, I complied. I watched as she put her phone number in my contacts, swiping out her own phone. She message me a map of the school, this time handing my phone back to me.

Maybe she’s just antisocial.

I wondered as bad dye job girl ranted on about the school, I was only half listening. She asked about Hiram’s school and I had to tune myself back in. I tried my best to answer all of her, really creepily detailed questions but the lack of information seemed to ignore her as she pulled a face.

Yeah. Total personality switch.

I grimaced.

As we walked I had to pause to look around the school. Circling back to the school being huge, Yeah it was massive. Multiple buildings for everything almost, one of the three story buildings was just a library in itself! Maybe I could rot away to study there. All the buildings connected so we didn’t have to track back outside to the cold and I got to bask in the heat of the hallways.

“So, do you do anything with music like your dads?” Sapphire asked after she was finished talking about herself, how we got to talking only about her I had no clue.

I nodded anyway.

“Yeah, Dads had me classically trained for singing ever since I was able to hold a note. I play some instruments too.” I explained a relaxed, easier smile growing. All that panic from before harmoniously melting away as I spoke of my favorite thing, what I grew up with.

Sapphire nodded satisfied with my answer this time. Sapphire stopped suddenly and so did I. She gestured to the door which was my first class for the day before she spoke again.

“You should join the choir, we had some weirdos drop out. So we need people to hum and sway in the background or whatever.” She seemed uninterested. Her suggestion didn’t seem like a question.

Shitshitshit

She tossed her bleached hair over her shoulder, turning her hand palm down to inspect her nails. I shifted awkwardly on my feet anxiously tapping the heel of my foot into the ceramic floor. Anxiety please you’re not actually being put on the spot. But.. what answer would she prefer? I didn’t mind being in the back of the choir, I came back to the city to be successful on my own without anyone else’s help, not even dads.

Sapphire’s obstinate blue gaze jumped to mine and I stumbled over my words gasping out any response.

“Fun!! Or Uh- sounds fun yeah I’ll join!”

An even more awkward smile spread across my lips. I spat out a yes befofe I could really even think about it. What is with it with me and spontaneity today??god so stupid.

Sapphire however, seemed to enjoy my response as an amused smile rose to her mouth. “Great! We get together on Friday’s after school.”

A bell ringing pulled us out of the awkward conversation, ha saved by the bell. Sapphire sighed stepping back

“I’ll see you later, shoot me a text if there’s any trouble.” She called out a few feet away, bidding me goodbye with an almost princess-esqe wave.

I returned the wave with the best smile I could muster. As she turned a corner my smile fell.

Aren’t choirs supposed to have auditions for newcomers?

My hand fell down to my side as I mentally slapped myself I wanted to scream.

The damn sheet music!!

[cabezadeperro]

Hi friend!! It’s me (always) kindly kindly for darsev (again) (I miss them so much) with this insp tag post https://www.tumblr.com/cabezadeperro/712365374185799680

<3!

hi len friend!!!!!

established relationship, post order 66!au, T, ~600w. as always, i have no idea of what i'm doing with sev but i hope you like it ❤️

---

Sev stops on the shore and breathes in: the familiar, muddy smell of the lake water coats the back of his tongue and fills his lungs. The water is cold where it laps against the sand, and he digs the toes of his foot into the cool mud, leaning more of his weight on his cane. His shoulder throbs, but it’s worth it���he stares at the dark and at the stars, at the moon’s reflection on the still waves, and the world stares back.

The wind rustles the tops of the trees, and Sev shivers. He went out without a coat, trusting the lingering heat of the day to keep him warm, and now he’s cold, the breeze damp and cool on his bare arms and the skin of his face. His shirt sticks to his back, the sweat he worked up making his way out of the house and through the fields on his own drying quickly. 

Darman is a faraway shadow, his dark head bobbing up and down on the waves. He knows Sev’s there, but he’s taking his sweet time swimming back to shore. Sev settles down to wait, his hold on his cane sure and the noise of the waves soothing the prickly feeling of anxiety that shadows every single of these encounters.

Unlike Dar, he can’t say he gives much of a shit about Kal Skirata’s good opinion, but sometimes he finds himself wondering whether it is worth it: Sev’s not what he used to be, and Darman will forever be mourning the mother of his son. Sev feels at war with Etain’s ghost, with himself, with the world; with his brothers’ guilt and shame, with his own resentment and grief, with his body and its limitations.

Dar reaches the shore and stands up. He’s silhouetted in black against the water, the round moon painting his shoulders and his hair in silver. Sev’s eyes are used to the weak light, but he can’t quite tell the expression on his face. He shifts, yesterday’s half-forgotten anger waking itself up within his chest, and the now well-worn trepidation threatens to become regret.

“Where’s Kad,” he makes himself ask. Darman starts walking, his legs cutting the waves quietly. He’s bare, his clothes in a mess on one of the heavy boulders that surround the edges of the lake. 

“He’s at Atin’s,” he replies, his voice low. He sounds tired. Sev shifts his grip over his cane and waits, watching Dar while he approaches him.

Sev likes the boy. He’s clever and he’s funny and he’s very—sweet. He has Dar’s dark eyes and most of his temper.

“I almost didn’t come,” he tells Darman plainly. He needs to hear himself say it—it might be the closest he’s ever gotten to acknowledging this thing that has somehow sprouted between them, strange and fragile and wonderful and awful in turns as it is.

Darman huffs. He tilts his head: moonlight slides down his face, drawing the line of his cheekbone and his eyelashes and his jaw in silver. He crosses his arms: Sev wants to bite him, wants to sink his teeth in the muscle of his shoulders, lick the taste of rainwater and familiar sweat off his skin.

“What changed your mind?” Dar says. He sounds like he already knows the answer. He’s leaning towards Sev, swaying in the night wind like a reed. 

This makes me feel like a person.

Sev shrugs. “I like swimming,” he replies instead. Dar snorts, loud and gross, and then there are wet arms around him, and Sev allows himself to be dragged under the waves, cane and clothes and ghosts and all.

[ofoceanandwaves]

and this is life (better than all we ever hoped for) 

Pairing: Gert Yorkes x Chase Stein

Words: 1k

Warnings: Absolutely none

-x-

The box is weightless in his pocket, often startling him into checking its presence. He chuckles at the thirteenth time: It had cost him only every dime he had earned over the years, fixing cars for strangers on the road and on the run. It had been a choice, to buy it with his own money instead of using the millions left to him by his parents. Chase didn’t want to use that money for something that had always been so pure and untainted. Thank you very much, but he would like to keep it that way; even if it meant he had to work his ass off for weeks, miles away from her.

It had all been worth it, he thinks as his thoughts go back to the cushion cut diamond strapped on a double band of smaller stones sitting snugly on its velvet bed in his pocket. He almost smiles trying to keep the nerve-wrecking excitement in check.

There is still so much planning to be done because this has to be perfect. After everything that they’ve been through, he owes it to Gert. And Gert deserves the absolute best of everything.

A sudden flare of hunger has him looking up their favorite Chinese restaurant and he almost hits the dial icon before abandoning and turning towards their kitchen to make some pasta. Gert quite enjoyed his cooking.

By the time he is done, the only thing he has decided on is the day, which is exactly a week from now and just enough time for him to get his nerves together. His planning is cut short as he hears the sound of Gert’s keys from the other side of the door.

-x-

Gert walks in, still chuckling to herself about Karolina’s suggestions while they had been lingerie shopping.

“Something smells nice.” She comments, stretching on her toes to press her lips to his cheek.

Chase snakes his arm around her waist, pulling her in for a soft kiss. She hums before pulling back with a smile.

When he walks in their bedroom ten minutes later, Gert is near the dresser, observing the roots of her hair; he thinks she needs a cut and dye because the brown roots have started to show. He slips his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. A small smile stretches on her lips.

“Karolina is so helpless with lingerie shopping, it’s almost funny.” She looks at him from the mirror. “And before you ask, no, I did not get anything for myself.”

He hums against her neck, “I wasn’t gonna.”

She chuckles, causing his teeth to graze on her shoulder before raising her eyes to meet his. “And that is why I love you.”

And right that instant, he knows. He just knows he has to do it right now. So before Gert even pulls in another breath, he inserts himself between the mirror and Gert, landing on his knees, the hard wood of the dresser-knob digging painfully in his back as he fumbles to take out the box from his pocket. Gert is suddenly left grappling empty air, fazed for a moment as her brows furrow in confusion.

“I want to hear you tell me that for the rest of my life. I want to annoy you until you stomp your foot and tell me how much of an idiot I am. I want to go stargazing with you and have you admonish me for getting the star names all wrong. I want to wake up right next to you, every single day and I want to have the sole right to hold you close when you’re upset. I want to tell you how much I love you as many times as I can, every damn day for the rest of my life. You make me happy, you make me laugh and more often than not, I’m too blinded by you to even think straight. You are amazing, kind, passionate and I’m sure words to convey the extent of my love for you have not been invented yet, I’m sorry. So Gertude Yorkes, will you please be mine and give me the honour of taking your last name?”

Gert feels the air leave her lungs at the sight before her, hearing words an 18 year old her could have never dreamed of hearing from Chase Stein. It is everything, she realizes even as she feels the first signs of her anxiety trying to surface. It lasts until she looks into his hopeful eyes, shining brightly; with his lower lip trapped between his teeth as he waits for an answer. Her heart skips a beat at all the love he is radiating with, his brown eyes clear with hope and nervous anticipation. It quashes her anxiety, reminds her that this is the man who would find a way to get her stars should she ever ask for them and gaze at her like she is the moon. And a lifetime with this man sounds like contentment mixed with protection (she considers that one patriarchal but God, just his presence is enough).

Finally, Gert smiles, a smile that threatens to make his heart stop as he dares to hope that the answer might be in his favor. “I’m more inclined to hyphenate; Yorkes-Stein has a nice ring to it.”

He will forever find it funny that he couldn’t decipher her answer and it had been Gert who had to crouch to his level and press her lips against his to chase away the confused furrow on his brow.

And then he is kissing her back with the hunger of a starving man, all lips and teeth before abruptly stopping to ask the stupidest words she has ever heard him say, “Wait, is that a yes? You never said yes!” Gert cannot see his face from where she has pressed herself against his chest to avoid bursting out laughing but she is sure he has that wild-eyed, panicked look which is just a step away from the hysterical ramblings. She leans up to press a soft kiss to his jaw and pulls back with a wide grin on her face.

“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, you silly and adorable jock!”

An instant later, Chase has her trapped against himself; hurriedly slipping the ring on her finger and Gert concludes that even a thousand galaxies couldn’t hold a candle to the smile stretched on his face.

-x-

[jcurneysend]

hc + 💕💌🧡👗

For the muses who interest you most for each one! :)

Thematic Headcanons. A series of subject-specific headcanons you can ask your favorite blog and muse. * for a loved-themed headcanon * for a romance-themed headcanon * for a friendship-themed headcanon * for a clothes-themed headcanon

Imma be real, I am. Actually kind of confused about this one. So I am gonna do a twist and provide HC's for a muse of mine for each one, then pick a fav from yours!

..I blame being hella sleepy! I am so sorry in advance if this isn't how you should do it- And I hope its okay!

Lets start with yours! I imagine for the love in Byleths life, They love making their partners morning tea or coffee! Like. Love language is sorta just like that? There's probably a better word for it but. I always imagine Blyeth to be the type to make Coffee super well! I also imagine that for romance, Himiko is the type to sorta like. devour and rip into romance themes and whatnot when she gets into fictional things. Like! She is actively searching for those tropes she loves, you know? A real sucker for romance themed stuff on her downtime from her usual shennanigans. Sunny is the type of person as a friend who can, and will spend his allowance [ You know, before the plot thing happens ] on his friends if they're hungry or thirsty and they're away from home. Like, Kel! Bud, you want a orange joe? Look at the short dweeb casually walk over and get you three cans. He will take care of you-- They say 'clothes maketh man', But Haruhi has no preference when it comes to what she wears. Like. Cmon. She'll rock a dress, a suit, whatever, and you know it to be true--

As for the muse I'll choose for this- Yuri, take the stage! Yuri finds love a fair bit confusing, and with it, sort of struggles due to her anxiety about people and dealing with others and whatnot. You know how life is when you're a fair bit spooked-- Though romance? Not actually her favorite type of novella! You might be wondering why and simply speaking, I just think Yuri digs her teeth more into the nitty gritty sort of books. Horror? You bet! Friendships are a bit hard to maintain when a certain Club Presidents around, but I like to imagine Yuri is the type of friend you can vent to anything about. She's a great listener! As for clothes, Yuri much prefers comfort over fashion!

[34goingon9]

Who Hurt Her Before She Knew She Was Hurt?

I talked about my childhood panic attacks before, and this post is an extension of that.

Moreover than the panic, I also had an embarrassing and uncontrollable tic as a child that would manifest as a result of a high emotional state- be it anxiety or even excitement. I would give myself an aggressive hug and use every ounce of strength my tiny arms could squeeze into my body..all while digging my teeth into the skin of my right arm and/or forcing my fist into my cheek. I would try my best to hide the extreme look of release of tension overtaking my face behind my limbs and turning my head while diverting my gaze (I imagine this to be the equivalent of a childhood the “Kim Kardashian ugly crying face” meme). Humiliated by this outburst that I could not stop, I would try to pretend I was just performing a giant stretch. Shockingly, my classmates and peers were much more astute than a neurodivergent kid would hope and based on the looks of that photo, it doesn’t appear I was as good of an actress or yoga instructor as I thought, either.

I do not know when this behavior began, or why this overwhelming need to self soothe would take over my tiny body like an exorcism. I do know it existed prior to my mom’s death, as not only evidenced by the date of this photo but also because of her frustration at how I would destroy my clothing when I would suppress the urge by chewing on the sleeves and drawstrings of all of my shirts and sweaters- the wet fabric chafing my chin and wrist, dehydrating the cotton, and putting holes in everything like an infestation of anxious, hungry moths after hours of feasting on end.

Furthermore, I talk about this arm biting -which is something reminiscent of The Lion King with Ed the Hyena savagely gnawing himself- like it’s past tense, yet it still exists in present day. And I still am dominated by this pervasive need for oral fixation via other outlets which I have unfortunately found in vapes over the years. Nonetheless, after countless attempts, I finally managed to kick that habit which was hellish and a feat to overcome considering it was often told to me how I would still incessantly use it even while sleeping. I am glad Freud is not my therapist to give me an interpretation on this one, though.

The decades of abuse on my wrist has literally left me with what has been adoringly referred to by my friends as my ‘werewolf patch.’ The skin is ever-dry and comparable to the hyde of an elephant in a famine in which the only thing that grows in this climate is a thick, discolored, brown dry grass much like a stubborn tumbleweed that forced its way through the arid terrain.

I still harbor my childhood insecurities to date whenever this tic takes over. It’s weird, I don’t even realize always when I’m doing it, the action is noticeable, it inflicts obvious injury, and most of all.. I have no idea why I started doing it in the first place-among various other peculiarities I have not all nearly mentioned, as many of which are difficult areas to revisit and discuss. I do know from not just my education but my own intuition that these behaviors -both individually and cumulative- are demonstrative of something larger that happened. An unknown traumatic event(s) that occurred before the onslaught of known traumas that began at age nine.

Until I am able to explore my inner psyche enough to answer that question, and if I choose to even try to ever access that part of my deep past or subconscious, I can choose to look at that photo in a way that reframes things to: “I love the similarities in mannerisms between me and my mom,” even if hers is an intentional and well controlled pose.

[theharrowing]

Revisit Thoughts:

hello, welcome friends! 14 is a beast of a chapter, and the first in a while where there are warnings that need to be taken very seriously. it is absolutely bonkers to think that in chapter 9 i was freaking out because the chapter went over 10k words, and this one is a cool 14.7k. we won't perceive upcoming word counts yet lolol.

back in an earlier chapter (i think maybe 5 or 7?) mc tells Felix she is worried about there being a target on her back, and Felix tells her that she does not have to worry because Yoongi and his men are untouchable.

we'll see, starting with this chapter, whether or not what Felix says is true. (which is not to say Felix may be lying, but that maybe they have become a little too proud and self-assured lately...)

we open with a scene so bleak, it honestly breaks my heart, and i am the one who wrote it. mc is fulfilling her duties as mafia wife-to-be while uploading photos from a trip she never went on, and she looks at them longingly, wondering if she ever will have a chance to see those places herself.

i have been thinking about how in chapter 1, the SUV mc is led into had a bulletproof glass partition between the front and back seats but no others have, and that i did not find a way to explain that not all of them do; i kinda just left that detail on its own. nobody has ever questioned it, but i think it's reasonable to assume they have a certain number of those vehicles for special occasions, since we never see it again.

rereading this car chase scene has me so nervous because it has been long enough that i don't remember every beat, but i also know what is coming for them. (also, i do not explicitly state is, but the SUV they almost run into at the beginning is the same one. they were casing the team and waiting for them.)

while writing this post-crash bathroom scene, i very much considered how i might respond in this situation. (okay, let's be honest, i try to imagine how i might respond to most situations when i write a main character, but it is sometimes hard to fully imagine myself in her shoes, and there is a balance to strike between my experiences and the ones i have created for her.) a lot of the fear and anxiety mixed with a willingness to stay might seem absolutely bonkers to some people, but it feels like the most honest depiction i could write of how i imagine this character responding to these scenarios. especially in future chapters, even when she reacts in ways to things that i might not.

i feel like i just described how writing a character works and i apologize if all of that seems too obvious, but i really have no idea what kinds of instincts are universal when it comes to writing.

i......................just thought of something that would make the final chapter so much more impactful. wow wow. see, this is why i do the reread haha. this is just what i needed. we love to see it. (sorry for the tease, but !!! ahhh, it feels nice.)

As the men speak around you, their voices fade in and out. Distant and underwater, through worn speakers over poor transmission. Although you catch words here and there—drugs, docks, Shin, men, plan—everything feels too heavy to conceive of and too featherlight to grasp. The sound of your heart pounding behind your ribs is dizzying, and you sigh, rubbing your palms over your face, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes.  "Darling?" Yoongi asks, voice expertly sneaking through the smoke and tar of your mind. "Are you alright?"

woof. i really love how i wrote this.

i did the thing again where i thought "oh this detail would be really good if i add it to this paragraph" and then i read two more paragraphs only to find that the very same detail is already there. (remarking about Jungkook's bunny teeth when he talks and mc thinking it is pretty.)

i hate to admit it, but i loved writing this smut scene between Namjoon and Yoongi. i love inserting these little reminders that although these men do seem to genuinely have feelings for mc, they are also very manipulative. talking to her about Jungkook and about the prospect of them fucking while pleasing her sexually is such a cunning move. they're a couple of snakes. especially when they talk back and forth, overwhelming her in the same way 2seok did in the casino basement.

take a shot whenever mc says any of these men will be the death of her.

man, in the first half of this chapter i found absolutely zero typos, but as soon as i hit the smut scene they are just sprinkled about hahaha.

this smut scene is so good, and it is followed by more pain. but you know that's just how i do!!!

whew, this chapter is a doozy. at one point, i found myself thinking, "am i still reading chapter 14???" lmaoooooo.

going to add SoYoON!'s Smoke Sprite to this chapter. previously, i had the song Bad on the playlist but i am swapping it. Bad seems to deal with infidelity, which doesn't really fit the vibe. (but i added it to the Reconciliation playlist for reasons i will reveal probably in a year from now lmao bye.)

Collateral 🗡️ 14: Darling, breathe

Your ex-boyfriend gets in over his head working for the local mafia, and Boss Min has come to collect his payment: You.

But was it simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or has he always had his sights on you?

PREVIOUS | INDEX | NEXT

🗡️ Yoongi x Female Reader x Namjoon 🗡️ word count: 17.9k 🗡️ mafia au, strangers to lovers, graphic violence, major character injury, poly, smut, angst, fluff, nsfw, explicit 21+  🗡️ chapter warnings: gun range, handling a gun, car chase & collision, gun fire, blood, gore, watching a man get stabbed with a katana, major character injury, bath & foot massages, nightmares, early signs of ptsd, weed smoking & cocaine use, teasing the maknae, mention of noona kink, threesome, use of "baby" & "daddy", pussy & thigh slapping, begging, talk of masturbating while thinking about jungkook, the wee-ist bit of breath play, use of vibrator, established safeword use, orgasm control, oral & vaginal sex, squirting, spit-roasting, blow job, spit, anal fingering, all holes filled, namjoon's dick is big bc of course it is, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, cum in mouth & creampie, news of minor character death (sorry!) 🗡️ note: ummmm........i really do not know how the fuck this chapter became so long (i mean.........i definitely went wild on the smut......) but, uh..........? enjoy! you've gotten this far, so you know i do not fuck around with the warnings, but if you are sensitive to violent shit, please take care and heed the warnings. see you on the other side! 🗡️ beta read by @neoneunnajimin! 🗡️ posted on march 2023 | read on ao3

In the two days since you accompanied Yoongi and the terror twins to the gun range, you have spent some time getting used to your new cell phone. You have followed Namjoon on Instagram, and have uploaded a few photos of your own, pretending that you and mister mafia boss have recently returned from a weekend in Kyoto. 

You wonder, looking at the images again somewhat longingly, if you will ever get a chance to visit Kyoto. You wonder if Yoongi would want to go again and show you around. All of the photos in your Kyoto folder feature sprawling landscapes and a sense of serenity you are not sure you have ever felt in any place before and you would love to experience it by his side. 

The vehicle you are in suddenly jostles, pulling you from your thoughts of Japan, and you jolt up, gazing around the driver's seat through the windshield. The large, black SUV ahead must have stopped suddenly, causing Taehyung to break abruptly.

"Shit, sorry," Taehyung mutters under his breath as he waits for the light ahead to turn green. 

Your eyes fall to the side of Jeongguk's face briefly, studying his expression, which appears calm, if not for the hint of a frown down-turning his lips. Since your little chat with Namjoon, you no longer gaze at Jeongguk and see a petty little brat whose only mission is to get under your skin. Now you see a man who uses his bratty behavior as a defensive mechanism—a pretty man with chiseled muscles, pierced nipples, and a noona kink. 

Gazing to your right, you find Yoongi appearing relaxed, leaning slightly toward the door with his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with a wide smile on his face. The expression gives you chills, and you sink a little into your seat. 

With a waggle of his eyebrows, Yoongi looks to the back of Jeongguk's seat, then back to you, before winking. Warmth rises to your cheeks, and you shake your head, finding it difficult to hold back from cracking a smile. These men are going to be your breaking point. There is no way around it. 

"Here we are," Taehyung announces flatly, almost as if spoken through a sigh, and you turn to the window, glancing at the familiar building just outside. 

Although you feel anxious to be returning to the gun range, the air in the vehicle feels far less charged. Even Jeongguk managed to give you a simple, "Hey," as you got into the car, and has not spoken a word since. 

Everyone clambers out of the sedan and walks into the range just as you had before, with Taehyung in the lead, Jeongguk second, and Yoongi reaching from behind you to hold the door open, since Jeongguk does almost nothing to acknowledge your proximity, allowing the door to fall closed before you can reach it. All for the best, you tell yourself. Lack of acknowledgment is quiet. Peaceful. 

The musty smell of the gun range main lobby and storefront hits you nauseatingly, and you take your next inhale through your mouth, keeping your eyes glued to the scratchy grey carpeting as you head toward the staircase. Everyone's footfalls tap rhythmically against the cement, falling into place nicely, and you continue to watch your toes and Jeongguk's heels as you climb slowly to the second floor. 

This time, when you enter the room, and everyone walks toward the bar for a drink, you follow behind. Taehyung pours four glasses of brown liquid from the unmarked crystal decanter, and you lean against the rich, dark wooden surface, twirling the glass ever so slightly as the scents of spice and caramel hit your nose. As you all lift your drinks in a toast, Jeongguk's eyes meet yours, and a tiny smile flits across his lips. And this time, with a quickening pulse, you allow yourself to give him a gentle smile, in return. 

Your shooting improves quickly, and the hour breezes by. Yoongi even leaves you alone for a chunk of the time, practicing in his own lane, and you get lost in a rhythm of shooting and reloading to the sounds of bullets exploding from guns on both sides. At first, you worry that coming into the range with a buzz would make your shot a lot sloppier, but the mystery liquid loosens you up just enough that lining up your shots and breathing through each one feels easy.

When the last of your targets is held up by Taehyung's long, tanned arm—sleeve rolled to his elbow with a very expensive-looking watch glinting in the somewhat dark room—he regards you with a lift of his eyebrow. 

"You could kill a man easily with an aim like this."

Taehyung speaks with a tenor so rich and alluring, that it makes his words sink down to your bones even more uncomfortably than if anyone else were to say them.

You smile nervously and mutter, "Thanks, Tae," between your teeth before turning your eyes away from the target, impressive as it may be.

Taehyung chuckles as he sets the paper down with the others on the table by the back wall, then he leads the way out of the range and into the lounge area. You take off the headphones and eyewear and set them on the shelf of your lane, then stay back while Jeongguk trails behind Taehyung, waiting for Yoongi to finish packing his empty magazines into his small duffle bag, before following him out. The four of you reconvene at the bar, and by the time you approach, Taehyung has the crystal decanter in his grasp, and he pours four glasses. 

Part of you wants to ask what is so special about this particular liquor, but there is something exciting about the mystery. The vessel is a little over halfway empty when Taehyung sets it onto the counter, and you wonder if, when you return, it will be refilled. You cannot remember how empty it was left days ago, nor how full it was earlier today. You wonder whose job it is to refill it.

"Let's raise a toast to two of my favorite little sharpshooters," Yoongi says, pulling you from your thoughts and making you blink heavily as you regard the men around you.

Taehyung stands in front of you, on the other side of the bar, Jeongguk is to the right, at the far end of the bar, and Yoongi is directly to your right. You lift your glass and tap it against the others, then let your gaze fall to the countertop as you pull the drink to your lips and sip. The flavor is strong—caramel, wood, and spice—making you wince ever so slightly as it hits your tongue.

A shrill, loud ringtone blares, causing you to flinch, and Yoongi pulls his phone from his pocket. You notice Seokjin's smiling face before Yoongi thumbs over the screen to accept the call and lifts it to his ear. 

"Hello?" Yoongi says. 

The sound of Seokjin's voice comes through the speaker loud enough for you to pick up on a somewhat frantic tone, but you cannot make out any words. Tense, you set your glass down onto the bar and notice the other two have the same reaction as you turn your attention to Yoongi. 

"We are at the range," Yoongi calmly responds, then his eyes widen, gaze flicking up to Taehyung and then Jeongguk. "Sounds good. We will head back now."

Yoongi hangs up and pockets his phone, then slams back the rest of his liquor. Without waiting for explanation, Jeongguk does the same, then stands up straight with a loud exhale.

"Boss?" Taehyung asks. 

"Seems Ryujin may have caught onto the fact that Hyunjin was one of ours, and has sent a search and collection team."

"How does he know that?" Jeongguk asks, brows knit and angry.

"Seokjin has his ways," Yoongi says simply. "We need to head out."

Taehyung lifts his drink and shoots it, and you hesitate before doing the same. You wonder if the sudden urgency means this search and collection team is also a threat to you—if Seokjin had been somehow tipped off, and he called because he wanted to make sure everyone returns safely to the property.

"Are we in danger?" you ask as the liquid burns all the way down, making you feel nauseated.

Yoongi huffs out a chuckle and shakes his head. 

"Of course not, darling," he responds, rubbing a warm hand over your back. "But we should return home, anyway."

Something in the air feels off—it feels wrong. You cannot put your finger on it, but there is a looming sense of dread that makes your blood turn cold. 

Jeongguk must feel the same, and he reaches for Yoongi's duffle bag and unzips it, then pulls out a handgun. Swiftly, he finds a magazine that is full of bullets and slides it into the handle, then he checks that the safety is on and reaches to set the weapon in front of you. 

"Just in case," he mutters. "I don't like the tone of Seokjin hyung's voice."

Yoongi shakes his head and chuckles, pressing you away from the bar with the tips of his fingers against your back. You pick up the gun, check that the safety is on, then reach behind you to shove the barrel into the waist of your jeans before allowing Yoongi to guide you to the exit. The cold steel of the weapon against your skin gives you chills, and you try not to overthink it, but your heart pounds heavier and harder the closer you get to the steps. By the time you are on the ground level and exit the building, you feel panicked. 

The late evening air is thick with humidity, yet there is a chill that settles deep into your pores, down to your bones. You wear a black tee untucked over tight grey jeans, and you wish you had worn a jacket, but it was much sunnier only two hours ago. Everyone returns to the sedan with a hurried pep in their step, and although the street seems empty, you still feel the urge to flit your eyes from left to right as you approach the vehicle, throwing the door open and quickly shut. 

"Normal route or back way?" Taehyung asks as he starts the ignition.

"Back way to be safe, I suppose," Yoongi responds with a nonchalance that feels unsettling. 

Jeongguk opens the glove compartment and pulls out two black holsters, which he straps around each thigh, connecting them both with a strap to his black leather belt. You half expect Yoongi to say something about the action—to tease him, perhaps, for being paranoid. But Yoongi simply watches out the window as Jeongguk slides a loaded handgun into each one. 

The streets are mostly empty until Taehyung takes a right-hand turn around a corner, and ahead, he spots a large black SUV that sits in the middle of the road with its lights off. 

"Fuck," Taehyung mutters under his breath as he slams on the brakes and throws the vehicle into reverse. 

The SUV's headlights flash on. 

"Seatbelts!" Taehyung shouts as he rounds the corner backward, and you, Yoongi, and Jeongguk scramble to get your seatbelts on. 

Taehyung begins to accelerate forward, but as soon as your seatbelt clicks into place, the headlights shine into the side of the vehicle—blindingly bright, making you squint—before the SUV slams into the passenger side. 

Your ears ring, and you let out a scream as the vehicle is pushed, tilting momentarily onto the driver's side wheels before Taehyung gets control and presses hard on the gas. Desperately, your hand claws at the grip handle on the door while the other attempts to grasp onto the edge of the leather seat, aimlessly trying to hold on for dear life. When you glance around, Yoongi and Jeongguk seem fine, and everything appears intact. 

From outside, you hear the sound of guns firing, followed by bullets hitting the vehicle, and you gasp, feeling every inch of your body respond to fear greater than you have ever felt, quaking through your guts and rising with the taste of bile into your throat. You cover your head with your hands and lean forward, breathing heavily through the urge to vomit and cry, feeling your lungs tighten and burn. 

"How the fuck did they find us so fast?" Yoongi shouts.

Outside, the gunfire stops, but the headlights continue to take chase, blazing brightly through the tinted back window. It is not yet night, and the sun is still setting, making you wonder if they have a special kind of headlight that shines so brightly. You lift your head enough to glance around, noting that everything seems to be intact, save for a small web of cracks on the right side of the rear window, on the outer layer of the glass. The vehicle must be armored. 

"What did Seokjin say?" Taehyung asks, voice higher and more emphatic than you have ever heard from him. 

"Not much," Yoongi responds. "Just warned me that there would be men searching for Hyunjin."

Jeongguk sighs, turning to face the backseat, gaze finding you before going straight back, squinting into the bright light. "But how the fuck did he know?"

"You know how it is," Yoongi responds simply. "People talk. Word travels."

"Seems convenient that word happened to travel so fast," Jeongguk gripes.

"Jeongguk..." Taehyung says in a warning tone, and you do not miss the way Jeongguk's gaze flicks to him and sharpens. 

Clearly, these two have had a conversation before that Taehyung is not interested in rehashing in present company. You wonder if Jeongguk is suspicious of Seokjin and his source of information, and whether there is more evidence to support those suspicions. 

Yoongi, to your surprise, says nothing in response to Jeongguk's outburst. He simply stares ahead, past Jeongguk, through the front window. As skilled as Taehyung is at driving, it seems impossible to lose the SUV, and with each sudden whip around a corner and swerve to dodge a vehicle on the mostly empty roads, you are beginning to feel nauseated. 

"We'll need to get rid of them before reaching the mansion," Yoongi finally says, taking his phone from his pocket. "I'll call Double Seok and Namjoon. Do we have rifles and vests in the back?"

"Yes, boss," Taehyung responds curtly before skidding around a corner and accelerating harder up a winding road that snakes away from the city. Momentarily, the light from the vehicle that is giving chase dims, but then it returns just as bright. 

Jeongguk whips his seatbelt off, sending the metal to thunk loudly against the door panel, and then he begins to climb over the center console and into the backseat. Surprised, you mutter, "Jeongguk?" but he ignores you and scrambles onto the seat between you and Yoongi, on his knees, before he continues his path over the back, and into the trunk. These vehicles are spacious, but never have you imagined a grown man climbing straight through one. 

"Hoseok," Yoongi says into his phone. "We're being tailed. Coming up the east hill from the north, can you meet us? I'll send the location. Call Namjoon."

"Incoming!" Jeongguk shouts, making you gasp and attempt to look through the rear window.

The lights of the SUV brighten before the vehicle slams into the back of yours, causing you to shout and lift your hands to the sides of your head. Your shoulders and head slam against the headrest, instantly making you dizzy, and you sink against the leather, pressing yourself back against the seat in case another impact occurs. 

Something black and heavy flies from the rear section of the car, and you are so shaken that it makes you flinch before you realize that Jeongguk has tossed over a bulletproof vest, followed by two more. You hear the sounds of velcro being pulled apart, and glance over your shoulder to see Jeongguk securing a vest around his torso. 

"Once the others arrive and we get into position, I'll ambush from the rear," Jeongguk states simply, as if they have done this before. 

Yoongi grabs a vest, pulls two velcro straps on the sides until it is loose enough to slide on, then moves his seatbelt out of the way, quickly pulling the vest over his head and securing it tightly before readjusting the seatbelt to the proper position. 

You reach for a vest, but your hands shake so hard you barely graze your fingertips over it. How the three of them could be so calm in the face of danger is alarming, and you suddenly fear that this is a regular occurrence for them. This is not something you can imagine yourself growing accustomed to, and as your outstretched hands tremble, you stare down at the finger on which you have felt the weight of a diamond. Panic hits you in a dizzying wave as you imagine being married into this kind of lifestyle. 

Although you are not proud of how clearly you must be terrified, you are grateful when Yoongi reaches for one of the vests and deftly prepares it for you. With shaking hands, you grab your seatbelt strap and quickly move it so that it is no longer slung over your shoulder, giving you range of motion to pull the vest over your head and arms. The material is thick and just tight enough that it feels instantly constricting, causing your panic to increase. 

"Darling, breathe," Yoongi coaches softly, and you sob through a shattered breath as the air squeezes from your lungs and hot tears pour down your face.  

Once your arms are through the holes, you yank on the bottom of the vest, pulling your head the rest of the way through, scratching the material over your forehead and right ear, then you begin to attempt to reach for the large, velcro straps on the sides, unsure what to do. 

"These pull tight," Yoongi explains, grabbing the one on the right and pulling it forward before smoothing it over your stomach. You do the same with the strap on the left. 

Two fingers slide between the vest and your shoulder, and then Yoongi undoes a strap over the shoulder and tightens it. "Do the other side," he instructs, and you nod and hum in response as you reach up with your right hand to pull loose the strap on your left shoulder to tighten it. The underside of your arms feel uncomfortable resting over the scratchy, thick vest, but you are grateful for the extra level of safety. You just hope that it will be enough.

"Jeongguk and I will take the lead," Yoongi says as you slide your seatbelt back into place. "I want you to stay in the vehicle, unless you are given another instruction once we see how the others are positioned at the meetup spot. Two days at a shooting range are not enough to prepare you for a situation like this."

"What in god's name could prepare me for a situation like this?" you mutter fearfully as Taehyung barrels over a hill so fast, you lift from your seat and your jaw clatters. 

As soon as your words pass your lips, you tense up and stare down at your hands, gripping tightly to one another over the grey denim of your pants. The last thing you have wanted since the day you arrived to the mansion has been for Yoongi to smell your fear, and here you are, terrified out of your fucking mind. 

But if Yoongi is bothered in any way, his voice does not convey it. Evenly, he says, "The only thing to prepare one for war is to be on the frontlines, I am afraid."

A chill runs over you, causing your heart to pound harder and faster than before. War. Yoongi casually describes an event that could very well take place at any point in his everyday life as war.

Briefly, you wonder what Namjoon would do in a scenario like this. And then, as if ice water has been poured over your head, you remember that Namjoon was requested to meet up with you at some point. 

The route that Taehyung drives stretches down long, winding country roads. You have never been to this area outside of the city, and have absolutely no idea where you are, making this scenario all the more terrifying and isolating. 

Ahead are three sedans, all turned sideways and blocking the road. Taehyung accelerates toward the blockade, causing your breath to catch in your throat as you imagine barreling into the vehicles head-on. But then he slams on the brakes and spins, drifting in a circle until the car is sideways, only about ten feet from the stopped vehicles, with your door facing them. 

"Change of plan, darling! Get out and go with Namjoon!" Yoongi instructs as Jungkook passes a rifle over the backseat, and Yoongi takes it, throwing his door open. 

You hardly have a chance to process what Yoongi has said before there is a knock on your window, and you whip your head around to find Namjoon's panicked expression looking back at you. Frantically, you unbuckle your seatbelt and reach for the door handle with a trembling hand. As soon as you manage to get the door the slightest bit open, Namjoon shoves it away and grabs onto your arm, yanking you from the vehicle and onto your feet. 

Namjoon scoops you into his arms and runs through the blockade of vehicles, then off to the side of the road, near a deep trench, setting you onto your feet just before the grass dips low. The loud, rapid sounds of gunfire make you freeze and trip over yourself as Namjoon leads you down into the trench, where he gets onto his knees and huddles. You follow suit and bury your face into his back, taking deep breaths of the familiar scent of spring mornings and musk. Namjoon's presence is familiar in a way that is comforting, and you allow yourself to breathe heavily and cry. 

"Wanted to get you out of there in case the vehicle decided to collide with yours," Namjoon explains quietly. 

This knowledge makes you fold in on yourself more, gripping tightly to the black material at Namjoon's sides as you let out shaky exhale after shaky exhale. No two vehicles do seem to collide, however, and soon, the gunfire stops. Namjoon continues to huddle, and you stay put, unwilling to lift your head and look around until you are given the order to return to one of the four sedans. 

"All clear?" you hear a voice call, possibly Seokjin, from somewhere to the left. 

"Clear!" you hear Hoseok respond from somewhere in front of you. 

"Clear!" Jeongguk and Taehyung shout in tandem.

"Clear!" Namjoon's voice booms. 

There is more shouting, but it is distant, and you wonder if Yoongi had also confirmed but you were unable to hear him. 

"Namjoon," Seokjin shouts, this time much closer. "Get the two of you home. Hoseok will trail, and I will hang back with the other three."

"Heard," Namjoon responds as he slowly begins to move. 

You release your tight grip on Namjoon's shirt and attempt to get to your feet, but your legs wobble beneath you, and dizziness pulls you down into the dry grass. Namjoon turns and catches you by the elbows, attempting to help you get sturdy, but the world spins and shakes, and the urge to vomit intensifies. 

"Did you hit your head?" Namjoon asks as he crouches before you and wraps your arms around his neck. 

As he scoops you up, you shake your head, but then remember you had earlier, when the other car slammed into the sedan, and you nod. 

"They hit us," you mumble. "I think I got whiplash."

Namjoon hums and holds you close, carrying you back toward one of the vehicles. 

"I'll have Taehyung make sure you don't have a concussion, once we get back to the property."

His voice is soft and vibrates through your ear pleasantly, which is pressed against his chest. You close your eyes for a moment, relieved that the world has stopped tilting so violently around you, listening to the sound of Namjoon's beating heart.

Namjoon shuffles around, and you hear a door to one of the vehicles being opened before he is setting you into a seat. You open your eyes and assist with getting into the passenger side, reluctantly letting your hands slide away from around Namjoon's neck. Namjoon bends and smiles, bright and pretty, nearly melting your fears away, and you attempt to smile in return, only feeling your lips tug fully when he leans and presses a soft, warm kiss against your forehead. 

"Let's get you home," he mutters against your skin. 

You sigh with relief. 

"Sounds good."

Namjoon steps back and closes your door. You watch through the window as he seems to be assessing the scene beside your door, and notice that you are in the sedan that was closest to the side of the road you were just huddling by. From here, you can see Taehyung's back as he points, directing someone to do something you cannot begin to parse. The sun has sunken lower, making the sky much darker, and it is hard to make out very much movement and detail with the men all wearing black.

From a distance, bright headlights come into view. The vehicle appears to be moving fast, and fear courses through you. The sounds of shouts ring out from the scene before you, and you watch as Namjoon, who still stands just to the right of your window, draws a gun, pointing it forward. 

The vehicle does not stop. Rather, it barrels straight into the furthest vehicle, the one in which the group who chased you was driving. The sound of metal hitting metal is loud, and although you are far enough from the impact, you flinch, pulling your hands up to your ears. 

Unable to make out the state of either vehicle, you continue to watch the scene before you. Bright white headlights glow off to the right, to the side of the road, and you think you can make out silhouettes of the family men approaching with weapons drawn. Bullets spray, voices shout, and you hold your breath, for fear of screaming. 

Namjoon rounds the vehicle and jumps into the driver's side, pulling your attention to glance at him and make sure he is alright. Of course he is, but none of your thoughts are fully rational, all bordering panicked. 

When you turn your attention back to the action, you see a man running toward you with a gun drawn. This time, you do scream, and when he fires a bullet in your direction, you flinch into Namjoon's side. The sound of the bullet hitting the glass causes your ears to ring. And although the bullet does not pierce the window, there is a white mark and what looks like fractures breaking out from it along the outer layer of the glass, right in front of where your face was, before you cowered. 

Namjoon starts the ignition, throws the vehicle into reverse, and whips it around until the headlights are beaming toward the man whose weapon is still drawn. The man fires twice into the windshield in front of Namjoon, causing a web of thin cracks to burst from each point of impact on the outer glass, and Namjoon accelerates into him, throwing him backward and onto the ground. 

With the way the other sedans are lined up, Namjoon is unable to advance on the man and run him over. The man lifts his arm in the air, gun pointed toward the windshield, and you squint, waiting for another bullet to strike the glass, when Taehyung appears. 

You gasp at the sight of Taehyung—sweaty and disheveled with his sleeves shoved up to his elbows and streaks of blood painting his arms. He reaches for the man's wrist and snaps it as if it is nothing, causing the man to scream in agony before his arm and weapon are dropped. Then Taehyung bends and lifts the man's head by the hair. 

Namjoon begins to back up, muttering, "Sweetheart, close your eyes. You don't need to see this," but you are unable to close your eyes as Taehyung squats behind the lifted man and shoves what appears to be a katana through him, which glimmers in the headlights, piercing out from his guts, dripping with blood, before sliding back, out of sight. 

As the vehicle begins to pull away, Taehyung grins with his eyes trained downward, possibly to where blood appears to be dampening the ripped black shirt. The man convulses, and when the sword appears once more, sticking from the center of the man's abdomen, you squeeze your eyes closed and drop your head into your hands. 

Beside you, Namjoon sighs, and you sink down into the leather seat, hearing only the sounds of the car wheels on blacktop until even that is nothing but a dull, low hum. 

When you open your eyes, the metal gates of the mansion are opening, and you are suddenly alert, listening as metal scrapes mechanically along metal. You must have fallen asleep, feeling groggy as you blink and take in your surroundings. The mansion looks just as it has every other time you have seen it, but tonight it does not feel like the home that you have known it to be. Tonight, it feels like a looming, dangerous presence, akin to a prison. 

"Are you alright to walk?" Namjoon asks as he pulls the sedan in front of the driveway and shuts off the ignition.

Truth be told, you have no idea whether or not you are. With an exhale, you wiggle your toes, glad to at least have feeling and circulation, and then you shrug. 

"Maybe," you respond, voice weak and raspy.

"Don't push yourself," Namjoon says as he unbuckles his seatbelt and opens his door. 

You stare ahead at the silhouettes of trees, covered in a blanket of dark blue with hints of stars. You barely register the sound of the driver's side door closing, and when your door is pulled open, a moment later, you gasp. 

Embarrassed by your jumpiness, you let out a deep sigh and fix Namjoon with a grimace. Namjoon smiles in return and unbuckles your seatbelt before taking you by the arm and assisting you onto your feet. Much to your surprise and chagrin, your legs work just fine.

"Will you carry me anyway?" you ask softly, feeling pathetic. 

Namjoon guides you with an arm around your waist up to the front door and goes through all the steps to unlock it, then he helps you over the threshold and releases you to take off his boots. Saddened by his lack of response, you press your butt against the door, clicking it shut from the weight as you bend and begin to also undo your boots, sliding them from your feet. 

"Come here," Namjoon says as you toss your boots aside and straighten out. 

You take a step forward, and he bends, wrapping his arms around your thighs while you drape your arms over his shoulders, and he lifts you up. Warmth radiates through you as you nuzzle against his warm, soft neck, breathing in the sweetness of his skin, tasting hints of salty sweat. Although there are inches between you where the bulletproof vest acts as a barrier, you feel warm and protected, squeezing your legs around his hips. 

"Bath?" he asks, and you nod as you mutter, "Yes, please," eager to sink into warm water and wash this day from your skin. 

"I didn't see Yoongi," you say as Namjoon carries you up the stairs. 

It takes Namjoon a moment to respond, filling your chest with heavy fear and uncertainty. When they were calling clear, you also did not hear Yoongi's voice, although you did not think much of it, at the time. But if something did happen to Yoongi, would Namjoon be this calm?

"Yoongi will be home soon," Namjoon says. "I got word from Taehyung that a bullet grazed his hand—" you gasp, lifting your head to stare out into the dark mansion, "—so Taehyung is going to clean the wound and bring him home."

"His ha—" you heave, feeling tears well up and spill over. "He was injured?"

"He'll be okay," Namjoon insists. "I promise you, it is no worse than burning your hand on an oven door."

"He could have been hurt worse," you lament, burying your face against Namjoon's skin, seeking out his hairline with your lips, desperate to stop spiraling. "He could have been killed."

"Hey, shhh. Let's not talk like this, okay, sweetheart?"

You enter Yoongi's room, and you nearly ask to be taken straight to bed, instead. But your hands and arms are dirty from taking cover in the grass, and your clothes are undoubtedly in a far worse condition. 

The brightness of the bathroom light makes you groan and bury your face further into salty skin, but Namjoon must adjust a switch because the light dims to something far more pleasant. As you lift your head, you meet your own reflection and take in your appearance. You look exhausted—worn out and a little broken. Dirt is caked on your elbow, and one of the knees of your jeans is covered in green and brown stains. 

Namjoon turns and sets you onto the sink, then he busies himself with the tub, starting the water and setting the temperature. This feels awfully reminiscent of the time you brought Jimin into the bathroom to comfort him. A soft smile breaks over your lips at the memory of the bubbles, and you hug your arms tightly across your stomach. You miss Jimin. 

"How often does something like this happen?" you ask.

Silence—save for water rapidly filling a large, vinyl basin—hangs, and you look up to find Namjoon regarding you with a slight frown. He approaches, fingers unbuttoning his black button-up as he nibbles on the inside of his mouth. 

"Not often," he finally says as his fingers reach the last button, and he untucks his shirt from his slacks. 

You reach out with your feet and hook an ankle around Namjoon's thigh and tug him forward. A soft chuckle falls from his lips as he allows himself to stumble forward, and you reach out to begin to undo his leather belt. Somehow, the idea of undressing yourself feels too big, but you can help Namjoon in small ways.

"Since I have been here, there have been several attacks," you say softly as you attempt to yank his belt free, quickly giving up when it shows you a tiny amount of resistance. 

Namjoon shrugs the shirt to the floor, then untucks his tight black tee and pulls it over his head, dropping it with the other. You reach up to trace your fingertips over the tail of the ink-black dragon on his ribs. 

"It has been quite busy since you arrived," Namjoon admits, unbuttoning his slacks and pushing them past his hips. Your fingertips trace up, snaking along the belly of the dragon. "But it is not always like this."

"What is it always like?" you ask as Namjoon begins to undo the velcro of the bulletproof vest. 

You lift your arms and Namjoon pulls the vest over your head slowly, careful not to let it snag on your ears, chin, or hair on its way up. You have been sweating beneath the material, and when it is set onto the countertop beside you, the sweat turns cold, making you shiver. Namjoon begins to lift your tee, and as he pulls the fabric away, you realize, for the first time all night, that there is still a gun tucked into the back of your pants. 

With a gasp, you reach back, fingertips grazing over warm metal as you struggle to grip onto the weapon. Namjoon looks into the mirror and notices, then he quickly drops your shirt from where he had lifted it over your breasts and wraps an arm around you, grabbing the weapon and setting it aside. 

Two warm arms wrap around you, and Namjoon pulls you close, hugging you against his chest. As tears fall for the umpteenth time, Namjoon's hands caress your back, over the bunched-up material and down, across bare skin. 

"Oh, sweetheart," Namjoon mutters against your temple. "That had to be so scary. I'm so sorry you had to witness everything today."

"They shot at the car," you gasp, feeling heavy sadness and fear burst from your lungs. "They hit the car, too. They wouldn't let up."

"Shhh," Namjoon hushes softly, holding you close. "I know. I'm so sorry. I wish I could have been there with you."

"I felt safe with them–with Taehyung driving, and with Jeongguk and Yoongi," you mutter, inhaling shaky, dense breaths, "but I also felt so helpless. I never—it was h-horrible."

"I know," Namjoon mutters, softly leaving kisses on your temple. 

With a sob, you shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut as if willing the tears to stop. 

"I never want to get used to this."

"You never get used to it," Namjoon responds sweetly. "You become numb in the moment—adrenaline takes over, allowing you to think. But you never get used to it. At some point, all the fear and stress and anger builds until it crashes. It happens to us all."

"I don't want that," you sob. "I never want that."

Namjoon's arms squeeze you tight, then he slowly backs up, sliding from the hug. Although you do not want his touch to leave, you can see that the tub continues to fill, water rising close to the top. Namjoon steps over and shuts off the faucet. 

"Jets?" he asks, reminding you once more of the time you and Jimin were in here and you were setting the bath for him. 

You nod and finish pulling your shirt up, over your head. Then you snake your fingertips under the tight material of the sports bra around your ribs and pull it off. The cool air of the room hits sweat that had collected under the material, and you wrap your arms around yourself, hugging your ribs tight. 

When Namjoon returns, you slide from the counter, socked feet hitting the cold tile floor, and you drop your hands to the sides, allowing Namjoon to reach forward and undo your jeans. The way his hands always tend to gravitate to your body fills you with warmth, and you stand on your toes to lean forward and brush your lips over his. 

The feeling of Namjoon smiling against you makes you smile, and you lazily purse your lips, pressing slow kisses against him while he returns each kiss against you. Calm washes over you, and you let out a deep, slow exhale into his mouth, allowing your eyelids to flutter closed.

Namjoon shoves your pants down, taking your underwear in the same motion, and you step from the material, haphazardly toeing out of your socks. Then you suck Namjoon's lip between your teeth before pulling back and opening your eyes. 

Even the faintest brush of Namjoon's lips has revitalizing powers, and you smile as Namjoon stares down at you with something bordering between soft and sharp in his gaze. His arms wrap around you, tugging you close, and you gasp as he bends and kisses you again, flitting his tongue out gently until you open your mouth, giving him access. 

"We should get into the bath," you grumble against his lips, but Namjoon only licks into your mouth with a hunger deeper than before, sighing as you flit your tongue lazily against his. 

"We should," he says before kissing down your jaw, to your neck. "But now I don't want to take my lips off you."

"I'm all sweaty," you complain, attempting futilely to push Namjoon away. 

He groans, making your smile grow wider. "I don't care."

Your emotions are all over the place, dizzying. The ghost of tears streak your face, and you feel a heaviness that lingers from deep sadness and frustration of earlier. But Namjoon is warm, firm, and safe, and he kisses you in a way that makes you feel cherished. 

Namjoon's lips trace the curve of your neck, down to your shoulder, and you loll your head back as you let out a deep, pleased sigh, conceding to his inviting touch. 

"Alright," Namjoon finally mutters, taking one of his hands in yours and guiding you toward the tub. 

You allow yourself to be tugged, then you clamber in, attempting to be careful but quickly knocking your ankle joint into something hard and slipping a bit. Namjoon chuckles as he gets in beside you and stands, holding his arms out to help you. Although you feel much more calm than you had only moments ago, your limbs may as well be overcooked pasta—loose but heavy and difficult to maneuver. 

The water is just a bit too warm, but you feel somewhat numb as you settle into it, finding the seat and sinking down. Namjoon sits across from you and uses his feet to hook behind your ankles and lift your feet to his legs, and you giggle as the movement causes you to slide, butt resting on the edge of the seat and water up to your ears. You lay your head back and smile at Namjoon as he lifts your right foot and begins to dig his thumbs along your arch, squeezing and massaging. 

The feeling is a mix between heaven and hell, and you let out a deep sigh, relaxing further as Namjoon continues to slowly work his thumbs and palms over your foot, releasing the tension. You close your eyes and listen as the water rushes around you, pushing and pulling through jets in a comforting rhythm. When Namjoon sets your foot down to grab the other, you keep it rested on his thigh and stretch your toes forward to brush them against his tummy.

The initial squeeze of your left foot makes you sigh once more, edging on being slightly too painful. From downstairs, you hear the front door close, followed by the sounds of voices traveling through the large, empty space, and you open your eyes and stare ahead at the tall white ceiling, anxious for the men to come upstairs and join you. 

"Hubby's home," Namjoon says sweetly as his hands fully engulf and squeeze both of your feet, thumbs rubbing in circular movements just beneath your toes. 

You smile and chuckle at the ridiculous nickname, giving your head a shake as you listen for more signs of movement. Finally, you hear a deep voice that you are certain must be Taehyung, followed by the grumble of Yoongi. 

Taehyung appears in the doorway first, then Yoongi, who is leaning into Taehyung's side, hobbling slowly with his arm slung over Taehyung's shoulder. He smiles, but it does not reach his eyes, and when his other hand comes into view, it is bandaged. 

With a gasp, you sit up, yanking your feet from Namjoon's lap and sending water sloshing over the sides of the tub. Your heart pounds nauseatingly fast, and as the cool air of the bathroom hits your naked chest, you pull an arm up to cover yourself, more concerned at the moment about how cold you feel than at Taehyung seeing your bare breasts. From the stoic look on his face as he regards you and Namjoon, Taehyung also does not seem concerned. 

"Don't panic," Yoongi says, holding his injured hand in the air. "I took a bullet to the vest, right in my sternum, and it hurts like a mother fucker, but I just need to rest."

"You took a—" you gasp, voice becoming weak and dying in your throat as Yoongi's words sink in, and you realize that someone managed to shoot him in the center of the chest. What if they had been just a few inches higher?

The overwhelming urge to cry hits you once again, and Namjoon moves across the tub, sliding into the seat beside you, and wrapping his arms around your torso—stable and warm.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Namjoon says sweetly, making your chest ache all the more. 

How must Namjoon feel, knowing the man he loves has been shot and injured? How can he be handling it so well? All you want to do is scream and cry and tear at your skin until it all peels off, leaving you a numb, useless pile of bone and guts.

Taehyung deposits Yoongi onto the closed lid of the toilet seat, then approaches you, pulling a long, black instrument from his pocket. 

"Yoongi, Jeongguk, and I are all fine after the bout of whiplash, but I would like to check your eyes," Taehyung says, squatting beside the tub.

You nod and stare up at Taehyung, who switches on a small flashlight beside the right side of your face and slowly pulls it toward you until some of the light hits your eye. His expression remains stoic as he moves the light to the left side of your face and does the same, then he switches it off and cracks a smile. 

"Your pupils are dilating properly. Do you have any severe head or neck pain?"

You shake your head and mutter, "No, just a little soreness where my head hit the seat."

"Nausea or dizziness?"

"Kind of, but it could also be related to all the anxiety."

"Alright," Taehyung says, standing and taking a step backward. "If you happen to become dizzy or nauseated enough to vomit, or experience any sharp head pain, please call me and I will come right over."

"Thank you, Taehyung," you say softly, feeling a sigh of relief wash over you.

With the softest smile you have ever seen him make, Taehyung says, "Don't mention it, buttercup."

Yoongi begins to unbutton his shirt as Taehyung backs up, then turns gracefully on his socked feet, leaving the room. You feel tempted to get out and help him, only to realize that you and Namjoon had been so distracted by each other's lips that neither of you bothered to grab any towels. 

"Do you need anything, baby?" Namjoon asks sweetly, and Yoongi smiles and shakes his head. 

"I'm fine, really," Yoongi says as he stands, wincing as he straightens himself out, then pulling his lips into a smile. "Taehyung insisted on helping me up here, even though I told him I could manage."

Yoongi pulls off his shirt, slipping the material past his shoulders and letting it fall down his arms, past his hands. You can see the limits in his range of motion and feel yourself frown. Yoongi walks over to the cabinet and grabs three towels, then sets them onto the closed toilet seat and as he begins to lift his untucked tee over his head, you feel a little surprised by his observation; you had not asked for towels. 

In the dead center of Yoongi's chest, nestled between his pecs, is a red welt. The skin around it is raised and pink, and you worry your bottom lip between your teeth as you watch the skin and muscle around the mark stretch and relax and flex with each movement he makes. Even through the thick vest you wore, the impact of the bullet is still that great, taking you by surprise.

Yoongi begins to unbutton his slacks, and you meet his gaze, finding him smiling sweetly at you. With a raise of an eyebrow, Yoongi points to his chest and says, "This is nothing, darling. You should have seen the other guy."

And although his candor and grin bring a smile to your face, you feel a deep ache in the pit of your stomach. This is certainly not the type of nausea that Taehyung warned you about moments ago, but it is nausea, no less. 

As Yoongi's pants and briefs drop to the floor, Namjoon places a kiss on your shoulder, releases you from his hold, and stands up to help Yoongi get into the tub. Yoongi enters right where Namjoon had just been, and Namjoon takes the seat across from you as Yoongi wraps his arms around you from the right side and rests his chin on your shoulder.

"I hate that you had to see all of that," Yoongi mutters sadly against your neck. His lips tickle, but you are too happy to have him close to mind it. 

"It sucked," you say, lips tugging downward as the urge to cry suddenly begins to build. You are so tired of crying, and you do your best to swallow the feeling down. 

"Things like this don't happen often," Yoongi grumbles, leaving kisses up to your ear and down to your shoulder, making you shiver. "But even infrequent is too much."

"She's been attacking a lot, lately," you respond, unconvinced.

With a sigh, Yoongi nuzzles against you, and you close your eyes, matching the slow, measured pattern of his breathing. You imagine never feeling the rise and fall of his chest again, and you do your best to push away the thought, lest it tug you right down into hell.

"She has been," Yoongi mutters softly. "I have attempted to reach out and see if there is anything we can do to appease her, for the time being. I am hoping that she calls me back."

Thoughts of Seokjin's offer come pouring back, bringing new ideas with them. What if you were able to infiltrate her home, after all? Would she take to you as quickly and easily as the men here have? Could you fake affection toward her in order to get what you want, or to distract her from her crusade against Yoongi? Perhaps there is a way to do it without keeping it a secret from Yoongi.

Beside you, Yoongi shifts, and you watch as Namjoon lifts Yoongi's feet onto his lap and begins to massage them just as he had done to yours. Yoongi sinks into the water with a satisfied groan, and you watch as his eyelids flutter shut and a soft smile creeps over his lips. 

The feelings you have for this man are so complicated, but your heart aches at the thought of losing him. This man who has abducted you and brought you to his home. This man who has played mind games, who has been hot and cold, and who has used money, power, and influence to win your heart, who you should probably run and hide from—get as far away from as you can.

But he is soft and sweet, and so, dreadfully beautiful. He has opened your eyes to new pleasures and has offered you practically anything you could possibly want. How could you ever leave him?

Waking up mid-scream is a jarring experience. At first, you are unsure if you even are awake, or if the night terror has managed to twist your grasp of reality, giving you a false sense of security. Mouth hanging agape around a sound you are not fully aware of whether you made, your breathing is ragged, burning in your lungs. You hardly register the gasps and groans from either side of you, trembling as the mattress shifts and gently rocks you side to side. 

Strong, reassuring limbs wrap around you, pulling you against a warm, firm chest. Then an arm snakes firmly around your middle as lips press against your neck. 

"It's alright, sweetheart; I have you." 

"Don't worry, darling; you are safe." 

You do not feel safe. You close your eyes and see a bullet fired into glass just before your eyes. Taehyung's gruesome smile. Taehyung's limbs dripping with fresh blood. Taehyung's katana. 

"I had a nightmare," you hear yourself whimper. You hear yourself sob. You feel yourself begin to cry. 

Everything feels so distant and disconnected—barely registered as your own body. Have you been crying since you woke up screaming? How long have you been awake? Had you ever fallen asleep?

"You were tossing and turning," the raspier of the two voices says against your shoulder blade. 

"Do you need something to help you sleep?" the softer of the two voices asks, sounds rattling from his chest to your cheek.

"No," you mutter, unsure what he is offering; you do not want to move, you just want to sleep.

"We'll hold you until you fall back asleep," they assure you, voices overlapping and molding into one. 

"We'll keep you safe, darling." 

"You don't need to worry, sweetheart."

Get out and go with Namjoon!

"Just close your eyes and breathe.”

Darling, breathe.

Let's get you home.

Darling, breathe.

Sweetheart, close your eyes. You don't need to see this.

Darling, breathe.

“Sleep sweet, beautiful.”

You feel groggy when you wake, unrested and sore. The sun shines brightly through the curtains, and you wonder how much time has passed as you sit up and stretch. With a deep, slow yawn, you glance around the room, finding no traces of anyone, save for the wrinkled sheet and pillowcases. The bathroom and closet lights are off, and all is silent. 

On the bedside table, your phone sits face-up, and you reach for it, wrapping your hand around cold glass, and clicking the side button to turn on the screen. Not only is it just after 1 PM, but you have a message notification. 

Yoongi: Meeting with the guys in the living room. Join us when you are awake? 

The message came in about twenty minutes ago, so you shoot a message back, just in case it is too late to join them— 

You: Just woke up. Be down in a few!

—and then throw the comforter back to stretch your legs before sliding from the bed, feet hitting the soft rug. You are wearing one of Namjoon's shirts, so you opt to put on some of Yoongi's pants and call it good enough. At this point, you are not worried about any of the family men witnessing you without a bra, far too tired to care. 

You are halfway to the closet when your phone dings in response to your text, and you continue with your task of switching on the light, grabbing a pair of joggers, and sliding your legs through each hole. Another yawn sneaks through your mouth as you shut the closet light off and return to your phone, dragging your feet along the way. 

Yoongi: Looking forward to it ;]

Rediscovering that Yoongi sends square-mouthed emoji has definitely been hard on your heart. How can someone like him—a deadly, sexy mafia boss—be so fucking cute?

As you shove your phone into the pocket of your borrowed pants, you slide your feet into some soft, black slippers and make your way to the main hall. Once you pull one of the heavy doors open, the sounds of voices laughing and talking over one another can be heard, and you mosey over to the staircase. It seems like they have not gotten down to whatever business they had planned to discuss—or they have found something to distract themselves with—which suggests you have no reason to rush.

Your slippers clack against the marble steps as you descend, and you rest your hand over the railing, grazing your fingertips over the polished surface. Once at the bottom, you spin and notice that the front door is open, and there are men standing in the doorway while others are seated on the couch. 

It takes you a moment to notice Jeongguk sitting in Yoongi's chair at the head of the large table, and when your gaze falls on him, your breath hitches, and you stop in your tracks, nearly tripping over yourself. Jeongguk's eyes rove down to your slippers and back up, and he lifts an eyebrow as his teeth graze over his lower lip.

On the couch, Taehyung sits with his arm stretched over the armrest, regarding you with a wide smile. In a flash, you picture that smile shining maniacally in the glow of headlights with his arm covered in blood, and you blink heavily to clear the memory, returning the smile with something more akin to a grimace before turning your attention to the front door in search of literally anyone else. 

Your feet stumble and slide awkwardly against the marble as you shift sideways and turn, seeking out someone who you have not recently seen covered in a stranger's blood. Seokjin is blocking the exit, holding the door open with an outstretched arm, and you grip onto the edge of the bulletproof composite of metal and wood, leaning your weight into it as dizziness pulsates through you, sudden and disorienting. 

"Hello, cub," Seokjin mutters in a voice that sounds far too dangerous for your comfort.

With a plastered smile, you turn your face in his direction, but do not fully look at him. Instead, you get onto your toes to gaze over Seokjin's arm, catching Yoongi's eye, followed by Namjoon's, and then Hoseok's. They are standing on the top landing, smoking what smells like a joint, and they both give you soft, lazy smiles. 

"Darling," Yoongi calls, and only then does Seokjin move his towering limb out of your way.

You swallow a lump of anxiety and squint as you shuffle outside in your indoor slippers, somewhat mindlessly making your way into Yoongi's open arm. He holds out the joint to you, and you take it between your fingers without thinking and pull it to your lips. The inhale you intake is far too much for someone who has not smoked in quite a long time, and it tickles and tugs at your throat and lungs until you begin to cough. 

"Oops," Yoongi chuckles as fingers pull the joint from your grasp and two strong arms wrap you into a hug. You bury your face against the soft fabric of a black cardigan that smells like a musky, enchanted forest. "Took a little too big of a hit, darling. You're going to be quite high, I'm afraid."

With a grumble, you nod against Yoongi and sink further into his hold, teetering between safety and fear. Exhaustion feels heavy in your limbs and you wonder when the images of the gunfire and vehicle chase will stop haunting you so heavily. 

"Now that you are awake, I would like to sit down for a quick meeting," Yoongi informs, rubbing a large, warm palm over your back. "It won't be too long."

You nod against his chest and reluctantly take a step back, turning to reenter the house. Yoongi's arm slings around you, and you allow him to guide you over to his now vacant chair to have a seat on his lap. The rest of the men shuffle over to the couch, and you keep your eyes plastered on the row of knees clad in black slacks, until you realize that there are only ten knees. Someone is missing. 

"Gentlemen," Yoongi says as his arms wrap loosely around your sides. "I just wanted to check in and see how everyone is feeling after the event that unfolded yesterday. Seems myself and Taehyung are the only ones to come out of it injured, which is pretty good, considering."

Your eyes lift to Taehyung, but you do not see any sign of injury. He is, of course, clad in black from shoulders to toes, with only his hands and forearms showing, and a hint of skin peeking between two open buttons. And then your eyes drift, taking inventory of the present men, and you notice that Jimin is missing. 

As the men speak around you, their voices fade in and out. Distant and underwater, through worn speakers over poor transmission. Although you catch words here and there—drugs, docks, Shin, men, plan—everything feels too heavy to conceive of and too featherlight to grasp. The sound of your heart pounding behind your ribs is dizzying, and you sigh, rubbing your palms over your face, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes. 

"Darling?" Yoongi asks, voice expertly sneaking through the smoke and tar of your mind. "Are you alright?"

"Couldn't sleep," you mutter, forgetting for a moment that you are sitting before most of the family men. "Feel so tired. Worn thin."

"If you would rather return to bed—" Yoongi begins, but you shake your head no. 

"I can stay."

Taehyung's voice cuts through the cloud, soft and deep. 

"Are you having nightmares?"

You nod without looking at him, eyes still guarded in the blackness created by your palms. 

"I can call Christopher, if you would like," Taehyung offers, and without knowing who Christopher is, you shake your head. You would rather not have any more men brought into your life, for the time being. 

"Christopher is a psychiatrist," Yoongi clarifies, hand rubbing up to your shoulders and down, along your spine. "You may begin suffering from PTSD. Talking to Christopher could help."

You shrug and mutter, "Maybe."

Around you, once more, the talking continues. Yoongi says he is waiting to hear back from his ex, to see if there is anything they can work out to put an end to everything. So far, the only correspondence he has received is that she wants Hyunjin's head and Yoongi's hand in marriage, to which he has asked for a more reasonable resolution. 

Maybe, you think, he should just fucking marry her and get it over with, even though the thought raises bile to your throat. But which would be worse? A broken heart or more nightmares of gunfire and men getting stabbed through with katanas?

You have no idea how long the meeting continues, but you are so high, you have melted back against Yoongi's shoulder, staring at the high white ceilings, which are also so far up there, that you imagine, at times, there are clouds floating by. Sometimes, they are in the shapes of fluffy little rodents. Sometimes, they are the pointed shapes of weapons. 

A tap on your thigh pulls you from your reverie, and you take in a deep inhale as you sit up, watching all the men stand and shuffle to the exit. Actually, just two men. Only Seokjin and Hoseok leave. 

Namjoon sits on the couch flanked on either side by Taehyung and Jeongguk, who appear to be talking to and around him. As you stay settled on Yoongi's lap, not fully ready to get up just yet, Namjoon's eyes lift, followed by the edges of his mouth.

"How are you feeling?" he asks you, clearly interrupting what the other two are saying, making them turn to face you.

Taehyung's eyes are dark and curious, and Jeongguk appears sympathetic. A chill runs through you at the prospect of the terror twins being soft, and you meet Namjoon's warmth instead, allowing your lips to attempt a smile. 

"I'm..." you begin, unsure how to answer the question. You are not well, but you are unsure whether to tell the truth or a lie, feeling each possibility pile up, caught in your throat. 

"Would you like to have your mind taken off things for a while?" Taehyung asks. 

Although his gaze becomes pointed and a bit scary, you expect this to lead to yet another conversation about you fucking Jeongguk. Taehyung instead reaches into his shirt and pulls out a metal vial, connected to a glittering silver chain around his neck. 

You nod before you can consider what is being offered to you—reach your hand out before you can weigh the pros and cons. What could they possibly be, at this point, anyway? Pros, you get so fucking high that the memories are either muted or become exaggerated and silly. Cons, you become anxious and return to bed, where your aching body is certain it belongs, anyway. 

Taehyung pulls the necklace over his head, leans and hands you the vial of cocaine. The spoon is attached to the lid, which you lift carefully, feeling the warm silver chain resting over the back of your hand. You take a spoonful into your right nostril, and then into your left, and then again into your right. And then you hold the two separate items out to whoever is willing to take them from you.

Yoongi shifts behind you, removing his arm from around your waist, and takes them. As he sniffs up two or three piles of drugs into his pretty face, you stare at the blue velvet couch, thinking about how nice it would be to lay on the surface with all your clothing off. 

"Go ahead, then," Yoongi urges.

"Huh?" you mutter; did you say that out loud?

"Go lay down," Yoongi says. "It is very soft."

Taehyung stands, followed by Jeongguk, and Namjoon turns his body and scoots to the far end, giving you space. Although you have no intention of removing your borrowed clothing, you do stand, feeling heavy and weightless as you regain your balance. Then you take three steps forward and get onto your knees, feeling the cushion dip beneath your weight.

You crawl forward on your knees, feeling your slippers slide past your toes and hit the marble floor, then you fall to the side, onto your hip. The velvet is soft and warm under your hands, and you shift your weight until you are laying down, cheek pressed into the cushion, with your face turned toward the backrest, knees curled to your chest. 

"Comfortable?" Yoongi asks, voice close and soft. 

Your eyelids flutter closed, and although your heart jackhammers wildly behind your ribs, you smile and nod, muttering a soft, "Yes."

"You should relax," Namjoon says sweetly, gently tugging on one ankle to straighten out your leg, and then the other. You allow him to reposition you, missing the warmth of his palm when he lifts his hand away. 

"Can't relax," you whine as you roll onto your back and find the four of them in your line of vision, two seated and two standing. "I can't stop seeing Taehyung stabbing that man with a katana."

Taehyung and Jeongguk chuckle, and Yoongi and Namjoon click their tongues against the roofs of their mouths.

"I told you not to watch," Namjoon mutters in his defense. 

"Where did you get a katana?" Yoongi asks.

The rustle of fabric makes you turn your gaze fully to Taehyung, who towers over you like a beautiful giant. No, like a terrifying god. 

"How do you think I got the gash on my stomach?" Taehyung asks nonchalantly as he lifts his shirt and shows a large, shallow slash across his abdomen. He must not have put on one of the vests. "One of those fuckers had a katana. I gouged his fucking eyes out and it became my katana."

Jeongguk grins widely, looking proud and pleased, eyes on the wound, gazing hungrily. You wonder if he fantasizes about licking it. 

"Have you thought about my offer, buttercup?" Taehyung asks. 

He has dropped the shirt down to cover his tummy, and his hands are resting at his sides. You wonder if he must have caught you watching Jeongguk, surprised by the sudden change in topic.

A deep exhale leaves your lungs, somewhere between a laugh and an explosion of exhaustion. You shake your head. A lie, because you have thought about it. You made yourself cum thinking about it, and then proceeded to think about it again and again, over and over, for days.

Even now, when you are lost in a never-ending loop of dripping blood, blinding lights, and a rain of gunfire, it is there, itching at the edges of your mind. Jeongguk and his pierced nipples. Jeongguk and his pretty scowl. Jeongguk and his fucking noona kink. 

"No," you say, feeling heat rise from your chest to your neck. 

"You should," Taehyung responds evenly. "I think you would both have fun."

Previously, Jeongguk has shied away from the topic, but when your gaze finds him, he is staring down at you with an expression that is difficult to read, yet not at all of a man who is disgusted by the proposition. 

You should, your mind tells you. You should, you should, you should.

You are not in a good headspace for it, and you shake your head, lifting your eyes to the tall, faraway ceiling, instead. 

"Maybe some other time."

A hum resounds, you think from Taehyung, and then the cocaine vial is dangled above your face, held out by Jeongguk. 

"More?" he asks, and you shrug and reach for it before sitting up. 

You are still quite high and not in the need for more. But what else is there to do?

"Sure. More sounds good."

You unscrew the vile and snort two little piles, one in each nostril. Your heart pounds and your head spins, and the others join you on the couch, piled around your bent legs and behind your back, surrounding you in a clump of warmth and black linen. You bury your toes beneath Namjoon's thigh, Taehyung rests his bent elbow over your knee, Jeongguk sits with his hip against your hip, facing you, with his legs extended over Yoongi's lap, and Yoongi's shoulder keeps your head from falling. 

Time seems to speed up and you listen as they talk about this and that, laughing over memories and stories, making you feel like you belong here, like this, with them, just a little more. And it feels nice. Taehyung and Jeongguk smile, and this large mansion feels like home. 

Jeongguk recounts the time he got ridiculously high and killed fifteen men, then had to be brought back by Seokjin on his bicycle, laughing so hard, he can barely get the words out. Tears fall down his cheeks, and you resist the urge to reach up and brush them away.

"You're really pretty, you know that?" you hear yourself saying.

Jeongguk's eyes widen, and he actually appears to blush when he realizes your words were for him. You also feel yourself turn warm around the cheeks, but you feel too brazenly comfortable to be embarrassed. Jeongguk is pretty. His teeth stick out ever so slightly when he smiles, and his features are soft and delicate, yet sharp. Sharp, just as you thought about Yoongi the first time you laid eyes on him. Sharp yet soft, and so pretty.

"Why would you say that?" Jeongguk asks. 

The words feel defensive, but his voice is anything but. He sounds unsure. You shrug and let out a weak laugh. 

"I don't know. Just felt like saying it, I guess."

"Hmm," Jeongguk grunts, scrutinizing you.

"What?" you ask as his eyes sharpen.

"I just can't read you," he responds. "I don't know what you want."

At this, you laugh, sitting up from resting against Yoongi's shoulder. Without thinking, you reach over and swat Jeongguk on the bicep, fingertips grazing over muscle and polyester. Jeongguk's gaze edges on anger, and he looks at his arm, then back to you in disbelief. This only makes you laugh more.

"I'm hard to read?" you ask, still laughing. "You are absolutely cryptic."

"I am not," Jeongguk mutters.

"Well what is it, then?" you ask, high out of your mind and a bit petulant. "Do you want me to fuck you or not?"

Jeongguk's mouth falls open and he looks at Yoongi before his gaze falls down to his lap. 

"I'm—" he begins, but you cut him off.

"Seems strange to me that Tae would keep bringing it up if it was something you didn't want. Unless he is just trying to humiliate us both."

At the nickname Tae, Taehyung lifts a brow, mouth curling into a curious grin that you have to look away from. His elbow remains on your knee, and he lifts his other hand to dance his fingertips over the nape of Jeongguk's neck, making him shiver. Cute.

"I'll fuck you if you want me to," you continue, poking the bear. 

Jeongguk scoffs, then looks back up at you, gaze just as distant and bitchy as all those times before, as if nothing soft had ever transpired between the two of you. The familiarity nearly feels comforting.  

"After you called the prospect humiliating, just now?"

"Not into humiliation, baby?" you tease, watching his eyes widen. "Come on, Jeonggukie, tell noona what you like."

Fire rages behind Jeongguk's eyes and he stands quickly, muttering, "Fuck this," under his breath. 

Taehyung's lips tug up in amusement, and Jeongguk glares at him before turning toward the door and walking to his shoes. 

"I like you, buttercup," Taehyung says under his breath as he sits up, patting your knee. 

You are still giggling to yourself as the two of them slip into their shoes and leave. But as soon as the door closes behind them, your laughter is interrupted by Namjoon turning to you with a grin and saying, "Undress. Now."

"What?" you ask, surprised by his instruction.

Yoongi shifts behind you, sitting against the armrest while leaning your back against him. With each movement, he winces and sometimes curses under his breath—a reminder of the welt in the center of his chest. His pain nearly pulls you from the haze, but Namjoon is turning and getting onto his knees at your feet, and his stare is so hot and hungry, you can only melt beneath it.

"Don't make me repeat myself," Namjoon commands, giving you goosebumps. 

You scramble to lift Namjoon's oversized shirt over your head, careful not to fall back into Yoongi's chest or lean too much weight against him. As soon as you are topless, the air hits your skin, hardening your nipples. Although Namjoon's mouth stays straight and firm, you watch his eyes take in the sight of you, softening for a fraction of a second. 

Cocaine continues to rock through your bloodstream, making you shiver as you hook your thumbs under the waistband of Yoongi's joggers and begin to push them past your hips. You take your panties down too and wiggle from side to side, careful again not to put too much weight back against Yoongi, then lift your legs in the air as you pull the fabric past your shins and ankles. 

As soon as the pants are pulled away, Namjoon grabs both ankles in one hand and lifts your legs even higher into the air, making you gasp. Fingertips trace the space between your knees, along the insides of your legs, down your thighs, to your heat. Then he lifts his hand, releases your legs, and spanks your pussy as soon as your legs spread. 

You flinch and gasp from the feeling, meeting his dark, serious gaze while one leg drapes over the back of the couch and the other slips, sending your foot to the floor. Namjoon's palm slaps you again, fingertips striking your clit, and you whimper, letting the pleasure-pain settle over you in a wave of warmth and desire. 

"On second thought," Namjoon says as he stands beside the couch and towers over you, "I can't fuck you on this couch. I don't want to get it all wet."

"Oh," is all you can bring yourself to say, stunned that Namjoon finally wants to fuck you. 

But why now? In the middle of the day. Could it be from the drugs? Had he taken any drugs? You assume the vial had been passed to everyone, but you are unsure whether he actually did any. 

Namjoon bends, wraps his arms around your center, and lifts you over his shoulder as if you weigh nothing—a measly sack of onions. You squeal from the movement, hands searching for something to hold onto, then you relax, succumbing to your fate. It is Namjoon, after all. Safe, warm, sexy Namjoon. You are certain that you would let him carry you anywhere. 

As you are hauled off to the large, marble staircase, Yoongi follows behind with a smile on his face. You wonder if this is a moment they have talked about—Namjoon fucking you. You wonder if they have plotted it out and planned what they would like to do with you. The thought of being spoken about like that has arousal fluttering between your legs, spreading heat over you, to the tips of your fingers and toes. 

Once you reach the top of the stairs, Yoongi takes the lead. You hear the rustling of blankets, and when Namjoon sets you onto the edge of the bed, your skin presses into soft fleece. 

"It's waterproof," Namjoon informs as he begins to undo his belt, making you suddenly feel shy as you dig your fingers into the soft fabric. 

Yoongi approaches your side of the bed and bends down, then stands with a wince, holding your tub of sex toys. The sight of it makes you gasp, and you gaze between them, watching as they grin. 

"You have a nice assortment, darling," Yoongi says as he lifts the lid, surveying your stash. 

"Which is your favorite?"

What a loaded question with no simple answer. The rabbit is nice. The wand is always a treat. The bullet is discrete and waterproof. The suction toy is mind-boggling. And then there is the array of glass. Toys upon toys upon toys, most of which were bought by the ex who you stopped fucking months and months before Yoongi whisked you away, and probably afforded with Yoongi's money. 

Your mouth opens and closes around possibilities, then Yoongi pulls out the mini purple wand, flips on a switch to bring it to buzzing life, and asks, "How about this one?"

With a nod, you say, "That one is nice."

Yoongi sets the vibrating toy onto the bed beside you, then gets onto the mattress, crawling on his knees to the head of the bed, where he arranges pillows against the headboard. Then he sits back and pats his thighs.

"Come here, darling."

"But you're still dressed," you whine, making him grin. 

Yoongi undresses quickly, biting his bottom lip through the obvious pain written on his face, casting each item to the empty half of the bed. When he is sitting in just his briefs and socks, and a small white bandage wrapped around his right palm, he pats his thigh again, and you comply, rolling onto your hands and knees and crawling past the buzzing toy, straddling Yoongi, eager for a kiss. 

Yoongi leans forward and slots his lips against yours, humming as you suck his lip between your teeth and gently nibble. You miss the way Yoongi tastes and feels—miss the way he sounds. You wonder when the last time you kissed him was. How long has it been since you felt relaxed, like all the world could melt away, with your lips pressed to his?

The sound of garments hitting the floor reminds you that a third party is in the room, and you grin against Yoongi's lips and slip away, trailing your mouth down his chin and throat, to his collarbone and nipple, feeling him tremble and gasp against your touch. Although you are eager to find out what Namjoon has in store for you, one of these days, sometime soon, you would like to have Yoongi all to yourself. 

As you spin and take your place between Yoongi's spread legs, back resting against his chest, Namjoon gets onto the bed, onto his knees, and crawls between your ankles, which he spreads further apart with his hands. Already, his cock is hard and leaking against his tummy, and you lick your lips at the sight of him, flushed and leaking precum from the tip. 

Namjoon holds out his palm and lifts an eyebrow, and you hear the buzzing of your vibrator once more, reminded of its presence beside you. You reach for it, then hand it over, then take a fortifying breath, already feeling nervous excitement for what may come. 

Namjoon, with his daddy kink and his commanding tones. Namjoon and the power trip that he can only exercise in the bedroom. 

With a devious grin tugging at his lips, Namjoon slaps his palm over your pussy once more, and you whimper, attempting to close your legs on instinct. His slaps are not hard—just enough to jolt and tease—but you are not used to being touched this way, reacting more to the act itself than to the actual feeling. 

"You upset our maknae," Namjoon teases as his palm and fingers rub over your labia, spreading you sloppily. 

"He's upset me since the day I moved in here," you groan defensively as arousal courses through you, making you sink back against Yoongi. 

Namjoon lifts his hand and slaps his fingertips against you, making you jolt and whimper, feeling slightly tingly and sore from the repeated strikes. 

"I have to punish you for it," he continues, ignoring your defense. 

Your eyes flutter closed as Namjoon's fingers and palm rub over you, gathering slick from your entrance, making his fingers slide more easily. 

This time, he lifts his hand and slaps your thigh, harder than the other strikes, taking you by surprise. You squeal as your eyes fly open, and Namjoon rubs his fingers over the spot. 

"Too much?" he asks.

It hurts, but already the numbness begins to settle, and you enjoy how it feels, spreading heat throughout you. 

"No," you respond barely above a whisper.

"Do you remember your safeword?" Yoongi asks.

You think back to the first time being fucked in this bed, with Yoongi behind you, holding your hair firmly in his fist, telling you what to say in case he becomes too rough with you.

"Sakura," you mutter.

Namjoon grins, then holds the vibrator against your clit, instantly flooding you with pleasure and making you shake. 

"Fuck," you gasp as you sink into the feeling, wishing that Yoongi would touch you. 

Slap after slap, Namjoon strikes your inner thighs until the skin is a pleasant mix of sore and numb. With each slap, you squeal a little louder and jolt a little harder. The vibrator pressed against you adds to the mix in a delicious tangle, sending you plummeting fast toward orgasm while Namjoon punishes you. 

This time, when his fingertips strike you, it hurts. The slap is much louder than previous ones, and you sob, "Sakura!" desperate for some relief despite how close you feel to cuming. 

The pain on your right inner thigh burns bright and hot, and Namjoon sweetly brushing his fingertips over the sore skin is all you need to feel a strong quake of arousal that pushes you toward the edge.

"Fuck!" you scream, back arching. "Fuck, I'm gonna—"

The vibrator is lifted, sending you crashing back down to earth. You claw at the mattress and do your best not to trash too hard against Yoongi, but you want to scream from the loss of sensation.

"Namjoon, pl—"

"What did you call me?" Namjoon asks through a glare.

"Daddy!" you sob. "Please! Please, I was so close."

"Only good girls get to cum," Namjoon says with a devilish smile. You wish you could slap it from his face. 

"Please, please," you beg, with your words and with your eyes. "Please, daddy. I'll be so good."

Namjoon returns the vibrator to your clit and you moan loudly, tilting your pelvis toward the feeling, eager for more. 

"Yes," you mutter as your eyes flutter closed once more. "Yes, yes, yes."

"What are you going to do to make it up to our maknae?" Namjoon asks, grunting through each word as he sits high on his knees over you. 

The weed and cocaine high is beginning to dissipate, causing a different level of tremble to quake through you. Whereas the pleasure shakes are concentrated in your muscles, especially your thighs, the comedown shakes are only skin deep, and sometimes in your bones. You shiver and meet Namjoon's eye, doing your best to look innocent and sweet while your jaw rattles uncontrollably. 

"I w-wont tease our maknae anymore," you promise. 

Namjoon must switch the wand to a higher setting, because it buzzes much stronger, causing you to tense up and sob through a moan before it is lowered back to where it was, at a more pleasant vibration. 

"What if he likes the teasing?" Namjoon asks, cocking his head as he glares down at you. 

Yoongi's fingertips graze over your arms, blunt nails scraping over raised goose flesh, and you tilt your head up, hoping to see him, but finding his chin, instead, which you smack a kiss against. 

"Touch me," you whine, desperate for his hands to do more than scratch at your arms.

"Do you want to fuck Jeongguk?" Yoongi asks.

You sigh and squeeze your eyes closed, not ready for this conversation. Not when your high is building and Namjoon is towering over you nude and erect with that fucking look on his face.

"I don't know," you admit. "Maybe."

Two fingers slide inside your cunt, and you tremble hard through the feeling, gasping and moaning from the stretch. You want Namjoon's cock so badly, you instantly feel as if his fingers are not enough, despite how good they feel. 

"Daddy," you whimper, squeezing yourself around Namjoon's fingers, which sit nestled inside you but do not move. 

He says nothing, just stares down at you, holding the toy against your clit, watching as sweat breaks over your skin and pushing you closer, eyes intent on your every move, you imagine so he can make sure you are not allowed to orgasm. You know that is what he is doing; you know that as soon as you get close again, he will take the toy away. 

"I don't know the answer," you whine pathetically, squeezing around his fingers, pulling yourself closer and closer to orgasm. "If he likes the teasing, then why did he get so angry?"

"You know he wants to fuck you," Yoongi growls in your ear.

"It's written all over his face," Namjoon adds, slowly pulling his fingers out and pressing them back in before they stop moving once more. 

"The other day, at the pool," Yoongi continues, rubbing his lips over your temple, "he was sad when you ran inside."

"He liked seeing you in your bathing suit, sweetheart. He liked you dripping wet." 

Namjoon's fingers slowly pull out, and your eyes flutter closed. 

"Couldn't take his eyes off of you, darling."

"Who could blame him, though?"

Namjoon's fingers slowly press in, and your back arches ever so slightly. 

"You're so amazing, darling."

"Did you touch yourself when you came back to your room, sweetheart?"

This question makes you gasp, and you meet Namjoon's gaze, watching as that devious grin breaks over his face once more. This man is the devil incarnate, and he is going to be the death of you. 

"You did," Namjoon continues, making your cheeks red hot under his gaze.

Namjoon begins to pump his fingers in and out, pulling the last threads of your sanity and bringing you so close, once again, to orgasm. You whimper and shake your head, but there is no use in denying it fully, unsure if you are able to speak the lie.

"What were you imagining?" Namjoon asks, crooking his fingers up to hit the sweet spot inside you. 

"Ahh—fuck—nothing," you whine unconvincingly. 

"Were you picturing him tied to the bed and struggling beneath you?"

Yes.

"No!"

"Did you imagine how pretty and high-pitched his voice might get?"

Yes.

"No!"

Namjoon's fingers speed up, causing your eyes to roll back, shrouding the room in darkness. You gasp and sob, eager to cum, clenching around his fingers, so desperate for release. When his hand stops suddenly and he pulls the vibrator away, you scream out of frustration, feeling tears prickling behind your closed eyelids.

"Daddy, please!" 

"I'll let you cum when you stop lying to me."

"Fuck, fine!" you shout, opening your eyes and glaring at the tattooed statue of a man before you. "Yes, I pictured him while I was in the shower! I imagined his hard, muscular body writhing against the palms of my hands! I imagined what his voice would sound like begging me to let him cum!"

Namjoon sets the vibrator against your clit, sending a wave of pleasure bursting through you, intoxicating. 

"Go on," he instructs with a smile. 

"I pictured him tied up. Slapping him. Riding him—using him like a toy. Spitting in his mouth."

Namjoon's fingers slide back inside, three this time, and you sob around the stretch, feeling your high build and build, already so close.

"What made you cum?" Yoongi asks as one hand rises to your throat and gently rests over you, applying just enough pressure to make all the dams inside you burst. 

"All of it," you confess. "The sight of him, how I thought he would sound, how I thought he would feel. All of it made me cum."

Namjoon fucks his fingers into you, sending your orgasm crashing over you in a rush. You sob through the pleasure, quaking at the hips, squeezing around him. He does not relent, and as you begin to feel your high dissipate, he switches off the vibrator, leans forward, and laps his tongue over your cunt in large, sloppy ministrations, building your high again. 

He changes the movement of his hand, fucking his fingers upward, building the pressure that always comes before he makes you squirt. You claw at the soft, fleece blanket, digging your head into Yoongi's shoulder, practically begging him to stop despite knowing that every sound that tumbles from your mouth is completely incoherent. 

Liquid squelches around Namjoon's fingers and sprays your thighs, and you scream at the top of your lungs, feeling so consumed by pleasure that you fear your grasp on reality might snap in half. Namjoon growls between your thighs, devouring you like a wild, hungry beast, pushing you beyond your limits and turning you into a frantic, mindless vessel that will not stop cuming, wave after wave, building and crashing, only to build again. 

"Please," you finally hear yourself beg. "T-too much."

"Use your safeword, darling," Yoongi croons sweetly against your temple. 

"Sa–sakura," you whimper, sighing with relief when Namjoon stops. 

"Do you need to stop entirely, sweetheart?" Namjoon asks, watching you with concern knit in his brows. 

You shake your head and swallow a lump in your throat, shivering hard as you attempt to get your bearings. 

"No. Just need a breather."

"Do you need more cocaine?" Yoongi asks.

"Yeah," you admit, teeth rattling around inside your mouth. "The comedown feels like shit."

Namjoon chuckles and leans forward to thread his arms through your armpits and lift you off of Yoongi. A sheen of sweat covers you, and as the cool room air hits your back, you begin to shiver. Yoongi slides out from behind you, and you wrap your arms around Namjoon, nuzzling against his neck.

"I can't believe you made me admit all of that stuff," you whine, still picturing Jeongguk. 

Namjoon laughs some more, and you pull an arm away from him and lazily slap your palm against his shoulder. You feel petulant and pout, "Not funny."

"It's a little funny," Namjoon responds with a kiss to your cheek. "I can't wait to tell Jeonggukie."

"You cannot!" you shout, shoving at Namjoon to get away, angry that he is so much stronger than you—but not really angry, and not fighting too hard. His body feels nice against yours. 

"I won't," Namjoon has the audacity to continue to laugh. "I promise."

Yoongi returns to the bed, climbing in on his side of the mattress and crawling on his knees with his coke vial in his outstretched hand. You have enough strength to hold yourself up, and you finally manage to shove Namjoon away, snickering as he dramatically falls onto his butt and feigns being wounded by your actions. 

One small pile into your right nostril, followed by one small pile into your left nostril. The feeling hits you almost instantly, and you hand the items off to Namjoon, who does the same and hands them off to Yoongi. 

Once Yoongi follows suit, he places the vial onto his bedside table, then sits on his knees on the side of his bed, watching you and Namjoon with a curious smile. 

“How will you fuck her?” Yoongi asks.

Namjoon hums, leans forward to cage you in between his arms, and says, “Great question,” an inch from your lips. 

Your breath comes out ragged as you gaze into the deep, dark eyes before you, eager and a bit nervous for what is to come. 

“How do you want me?” Namjoon asks. 

“Great question,” you mutter, somewhat mindlessly repeating his own words back to him while imagining all the delicious ways he might have you. 

“On your hands and knees?” Namjoon suggests, cocking his head. “Spit-roasted and sucking Yoongi’s cock.”

That sounds good. 

You nod, but beside you, Yoongi protests. “Todays is about you. I can just watch.”

“Nonsense,” Namjoon responds, keeping his eyes on you. “I want you to cum in her mouth while I use her tight pussy. Now get back to your place, baby.”

When Yoongi responds, "Yes, daddy," you can hear the smirk on his lips. 

Namjoon wraps an arm around your back and tugs you close, licking over your lips and into your mouth, which you let fall pliant for him to use as he pleases. Yoongi's hands snake around from behind and paw at you, thumbs and fingers grazing and gently pinching your nipples, and you moan into Namjoon's mouth, who growls into yours in response. 

"Finally," Namjoon moans against you. "You have no idea how badly I have wanted to fuck you."

You nod your head and hum against his lips. "I have some idea."

"On your knees," Namjoon commands, pulling from the kiss and backing away.

Yoongi's hands slide away, and you roll onto your knees, then get onto your hands before Yoongi, glance at his briefs, and pout. 

"Get rid of them."

With a chuckle, Yoongi begins to push his briefs past his hips, bending his knees with a slight wince that he attempts to cover up, then he spreads his legs slowly around your arms. You crawl your hands past his hips and lean forward, kissing inches below the welt on his chest, closer to his belly button, then working your way down. 

The blunt tip of Namjoon's cock rubs over your cunt and you gasp, letting your tongue fall and trace meaningless patterns into Yoongi's skin. The anticipation you feel is vast and insurmountable, and you kiss down Yoongi's abdomen, attempting to focus on his pleasure, lest you lose your fucking mind too soon. 

Yoongi's hands grip loosely at your face and chin, rubbing along your neck and hairline, soft but insistent. You glance up, meeting his gaze as your mouth reaches his patch of dark, trimmed pubic hair and you plant kisses along the right side, barely avoiding his cock while pressing your lips against rough hairs, working your way down, down, breathing in his faint natural musk.

The thought of losing this—his smell, his body beneath you, the sweet noises he makes that you can barely hear over the sound of your pounding heart—fills you with the urge to cry, and you swallow it down, take a deep inhale through your nose, and blink it away.

Last night was a fluke, you tell yourself. You are not going to lose Yoongi. Last night was abnormal, and you are not going to be easily ripped away from the man you…love? Do you love Yoongi? The thought halts your movements, and you hover with your lips barely touching his inner thigh. 

And you would love to ponder this question further—really weigh how you feel and let it settle over you—but Namjoon begins to enter you, and the feeling is so overwhelming, all concept of time, space, and emotion outside of full, stinging pleasure are ripped from your mind. 

The feeling is so intense, you open your mouth to moan and possibly scream, then think better of what you should be using your mouth for, and tilt your head down, swallowing Yoongi's length as far into your throat as you can.

Being stuffed full on both ends is a dizzying, salacious game of tug-of-war. Namjoon continues to work you open on his thick cock, forcing you to moan, making you feel the urge to gag and pull off Yoongi's dick with a full-chest gasp before going back down, taking him nice and deep.

"Fuck," Yoongi grumbles, taking a handful of your tied-back hair and holding your head in place as you swirl your tongue and attempt to adjust to Namjoon's stretch.

"So tight," Namjoon groans as his palm crashes against your ass, making you sputter a squeal around Yoongi.

"Doesn't she feel like heaven?" Yoongi asks. 

Namjoon's hands spread your ass wide, and he slides out slowly, dragging himself along your walls, making the crown of his head and every vein known, causing your back to bow. 

"So worth the wait."

You begin to suck Yoongi's cock with an attempt at a rhythm, still overwhelmed by the feeling of Namjoon slowly thrusting forward, but not quite so drunk with pleasure that your mind feels on the brink of being split asunder. 

But then Namjoon pulls back and snaps his hips forward, fucking you nice and hard, and the feeling is so extraordinary, you wonder if he is hitting something inside you he should not be able to reach. Your voice is muffled but pitchy, and you drool around Yoongi with a valiant attempt at holding your feeble rhythm despite the steady movement of Namjoon's hips making it difficult for you to make sense of the world around you. 

Each thrust forward spears you open, pressing into something deep, deep inside you. It hurts and it feels so good, you can only hold your mouth open and moan while Namjoon grips your hips tightly and fucks you, dragging your lips and tongue over Yoongi's length.

The slap of skin against skin, punctuated by Namjoon's dulcet, breathy moans, and Yoongi's low, grumbly sighs is music to your ears. Determined to please Yoongi, you dig your fingertips into his thighs and slurp and swallow and roll your tongue, eager to make him feel good despite not being in your right mind to do your best. Namjoon's cock is dizzyingly good, but Yoongi, of all people, must understand. 

"Can you get on your knees for me, baby?" Namjoon asks.

At first, you are confused—you are on your knees. But then Yoongi begins to move beneath you, holding your head in place so he can slip his cock free and reposition, and you realize Namjoon was not talking to you. 

Namjoon releases his hold on one hip, then you hear the vibrating wand switch back on before he rests it against your arm and says, "Use this."

You take the wand and reposition it beneath you, pressing the end firmly against your sensitive clit. The feeling is instantaneously too much, and you moan loudly as the one arm anchoring you in place begins to wobble.

Yoongi gently takes your head and guides your mouth back onto his cock, and from this position, you are far more capable of sucking him deep into your throat and bobbing your head. You take cues from Namjoon's rhythm and suck like your life depends on it, eager to make Yoongi cum. 

"Fuck, that's it," Namjoon groans, squeezing your ass in both palms. "You feel so fucking good, baby. You look so good taking our cocks."

Pleasure builds at breakneck speeds, and you gently spin the toy over your clit, feeling the sensation pulsate through you, ready to burst. The feeling of something wet and warm hits your ass, sliding down the cleft and over the hole, and you gasp as a thumb collects the liquid and rubs it over your rim. 

"May I?" Namjoon asks, and you realize he must have spit on you. 

You release Yoongi's cock enough to whimper, "Yes," and sob as Namjoon presses the tip of his thumb into your asshole, stretching you as he fucks you hard and deep. 

The additional sensation is a lot, and you eagerly suck harder, feeling yourself build to the precipice of euphoria. Yoongi's hips slowly, gently begin to thrust, fucking himself into your mouth, and you hold your jaw loose and your tongue flat, allowing both men to use you as they please while you become lost in bliss. 

You hardly have a chance to comprehend that you are reaching orgasm before it is crashing over you, drowning you in the undertow. The hand holding the vibrator falls away, and Namjoon picks up his pace, fucking you faster, spearing you open on his cock while the motion thrusts Yoongi deep into your throat, forcing tears to fall from your eyes and streak down your cheeks. Yoongi's hips tremble, and he pulls his cock out, squeezing the tip. 

"Not yet," he mutters, and you gaze up through tear-heavy eyelashes to see him smiling down at you. 

Your arms give out, and you crash forward into the mattress, still cuming around Namjoon's relentless thrusting and probing, screaming and clawing at the comforter below while he fucks you mercilessly with his cock and thumb. You can hear what sounds like praises coming from Namjoon, but you are unable to make out coherent words, drowning in ecstasy as your sprayed release hits your thighs and drips onto the blanket. 

Namjoon pulls out—both appendages—and pushes you onto your side. You crash onto your hip, and before you can get your bearings, Namjoon grabs at your knees and thighs and spins you around, onto your back. 

Your legs fall spread, and you heave deep breaths with your eyes closed, opening them only when Namjoon thrusts into you once more and presses your spread thighs into the mattress. At this stage, you feel too fucked out and exhausted to possibly cum again, and you attempt to squeeze your muscles around him, urging him to reach his high.

Hands grip at your thighs, hips, stomach, breasts, and throat. Voices praise and groan, moan and whimper. You are too lost to the bliss to comprehend who is where, letting your mouth fall open somewhat mindlessly as the blunt, slick tip of a cock presses against your lips. 

Fucked from both ends and touched all over, you sink further and further, float higher and higher, losing grasp on your physical self. You wonder if it is possible for your soul to slip away completely and dissociate from your body. You are almost certain that it is doing just that right now. 

"Fuck," you hear both men groaning in tandem, both sets of hips losing their rhythm against you.

"So close," one deep voice whimpers while the other groans, "So am I, baby."

It feels too perfect for both men to reach their high at the same time, but you lay and accept it. What are the odds, you wonder, that they could both finish in tandem? Impossible. You must be imagining it. 

"I'm cuming," Yoongi warns through gasps, fingertips digging into your face and neck, holding your mouth right where he wants you until his cock slides, then stops, then spurts, emptying itself onto your tongue.

"Holy fuck," Namjoon whines, gripping your hips and leaning forward just enough to somehow fuck you even deeper. "Fuck, I'm gonna—" and he cannot finish his sentence before he becomes a moaning and convulsing mess filling your sore, sensitive pussy with his release.

Yoongi's cum nearly makes you gag as it trickles back and you realize prematurely that you have to physically swallow it down. Slowly, gradually, you remember your basic motor functions, returning to the physical realm where your brain and body need to work as a pair. 

Namjoon pulls out and flops down on the bed to your left, and Yoongi stretches out on your right. The layer of sweat that covers every inch of you turns cold, and you whimper, reaching uselessly for the comforter past Yoongi, wishing to pull it over the three of you like an enormous taco. Luckily, Yoongi gets the message, and he does exactly as you wish, covering the three of you in thick, soft, cool material that you shiver against until it begins to warm.

"What time is it?" you wonder aloud, feeling exhausted despite the bright sun shining in through the window.

"Perfect time for an afternoon nap," Namjoon responds as he wraps his limbs over you.

"Absolutely," Yoongi grumbles as he leans over you, groaning softly into a kiss with Namjoon before settling beside you. 

You smile through each exhale, feeling yourself sink deeper and deeper into sleep, hoping to have fewer nightmares, this time. 

"What do you mean all dead?" you hear Yoongi ask as you blink heavily out of sleep, uncertain whether you actually are awake or not.

Strong limbs hold you tightly—strong limbs that you are able to easily identify as Namjoon—and you open one eye to glance over the shoulder pulling you close to find Yoongi fully clothed in black, pacing before the large blue couch. 

"But you told me you had them on a plane to America, what—"

"What time is it?" you mutter, but Namjoon responds with, "Shhh," pulling you impossibly closer, as if wishing to guard you against whatever is taking place over that phone call.

"So which is it?" Yoongi practically shouts, "You told me they were fucking safe, Seokjin! So why are all three of them dead?"

The sound of glass and metal hitting the floor makes you jolt, and you attempt to look once more, but Namjoon holds tight, making it difficult for you to move. 

"Fuck!" Yoongi screams, followed by a sob.

Every instinct tells you both to hide and to go to him, and you feel restless in Namjoon's arms, hopeless as you are held firmly in place with every nerve on fire. 

"What happened?" you whisper, but all you hear in response is Yoongi crying. 

"Our insider," Namjoon finally whispers back. "Him and his family…they didn't make it to safety in time."

Hyunjin. The man that the search and collection team was hunting down when they chased you through the backroads and fired on you. The men who shot at you point blank, who Taehyung drove a sword through. Another team just like that got him and his family. 

"Baby, come over here," Namjoon calls, but Yoongi does not seem to move; his sobs only grow louder.

"Does this mean Ryujin is going to back down?" you whisper, feeling like a fucking asshole asking this now of all times, considering a man and his family are dead—considering Yoongi is on the floor, weeping openly about a man who you imagine was one of his friends.

"I doubt it," Namjoon whispers back, and you detect a tremble in his voice. "She never backs down."

With your eyes closed, you let out a shattered exhale, feeling panic rise. She never backs down. And as it turns out, now that the informant is dead, the one thing she wants more than anything is the one thing you are most afraid of losing. 

Take on my knees Stuck with you in your dreams Tell me more, I could die Take on like a beast Fire to the low, lower, low, ah, yeah Don't run away, run away, yeah Come to the low, lower, low Drown in you All the way, all the way, yeah

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as always, please don’t be a silent reader! feedback & reblogs do so much to help content creators! and likes are also appreciated.

a hoseok pov scene takes place between this chapter and the last one, where we follow him through a typical day. you can access his pov here (or learn parts of it in later chapters from the reader’s perspective!)

a taehyung pov scene takes place during this chapter, where he cleans up some wounds and breaks a man down for information. you can access his pov here (or learn parts of it in later chapters from the reader’s perspective!)

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[interesting-interludes]

the comforts of creatures (5)

creature comforts:

↳ material/bodily comforts, such as food, warmth, or special accommodations, that contribute to physical ease and well-being

→ pairing: ot7 x fem.reader

→ genre: supernatural!au, soulmate!au, hurt + comfort + recovery, angst with a happy ending, fluff, eventual smut

→ word count: 4.8k

→ summary: you learn what you are, and your reaction is far from what they expected. as they try to help you feel safe, the boys learn about your triggers, and they try their hardest to help in any way they can.

→ trigger/content warnings: PTSD (self-loathing, mistrust, flashbacks/nightmares) effects of brainwashing, lil’ bit of lore, overt and internalized racism/species-ism (?), vomiting, anxiety, mentions of starvation/food poisoning, mentions of physical abuse, dissociation, mentions of torture, aversion to touch, mc pushes jimin but he’s okay, jimin is an angel, facial/body scars, body dysmorphia/repulsion

→ a/n: thank y’all for your patience :) here’s some more hurt before the comfort lol

past part ← series masterlist → next part

part 5: scars and soothers

“This is you.”

The man is pointing at a detailed image drawn in faded ink. The rest of the page is filled with scripted text and anatomical diagrams.

You can’t look at first, scared of what you’ll find.

When you finally do, you don’t know what to think. There’s the thought that he’s kidding, he’s lying. He can’t be serious.

The drawing is of a creature with tawny-feathered wings extending magnificently in the air. It has the body of a powerful big cat, muscular yet elegant. Its four legs end in sharp-taloned feet. Its neck is framed by a golden mane, looking like a big frilly collar. The mane’s trail travels down the creature’s chest and back, ending in a flowing tail. It has the face of a lion, with white whiskers and deep yellow eyes, yet the regal posture of an eagle.

A diagram off to the left shows the inside of its mouth, lined with row upon row of sharp teeth and protruding fangs.

Looking back up, you search the faces of the men around you. None of them appear to be joking.

You can’t speak.

You’re one of them, one of the creatures they all despised. The creatures that roam the wild lands for easy prey, spreading carnage wherever they go.

No wonder they hated you so much. You’re not even human.

A few silent, involuntary tears fall from your eyes, which are locked back on the page. You wipe them away hastily.

The boys don’t know how to react, all looking at each other with concern.

“What...” you squeak out, voice choked. “What is it?”

“A gryffin,” Yoongi replies. “You’re a shifter.”

Something gurgles in your stomach. You clench your teeth, nails digging deep into the meat of your thighs.

You believe him. You don’t want to, but you believe him. You’ve always felt less than human, like something wasn’t right about you. Like something was just beneath the surface, clawing its way up.

Now you know why.

Jungkook, who’s sitting closest to you, slowly, cautiously puts his hand on your shoulder in an effort to comfort you.

But you flinch at his touch, jerking away.

You don’t catch the look of hurt that flits across his face. He knows you can’t help it, but it still stings to think that his touch physically repels you.

“What did they tell you about atypicals?” Namjoon presses, trying to shift your attention so you won’t look so disheartened by the reality of what you are.

From the way you look at him, he knows that you’ve never heard that word before. Or at least you don’t remember it.

“Atypicals are anything that falls out of the humanic species,” he explains patiently.

Your face scrunches in confusion.

“Humanic as in human,” he elaborates.

You don’t understand why he’s talking like that. You’ve never heard these terms before. In the place you came from, the “facility,” anything that wasn’t human was an abomination, a mistake in the eyes of nature.

Simple as that.

But here, things seem to be a bit more complicated.

Nausea is starting to bubble in your gut. You breathe carefully through your nose as you consider Namjoon’s question.

“They said...” you begin hesitantly.

They’re all on the edge of their seats, desperately wondering what those bastards brainwashed you to believe about their kind, your own kind.

“They said that they were monsters.”

Another pang of hurt thrums through their hearts.

“That...that they deserved to be hunted down like dogs.”

They can hear the pain in your own voice, either from witnessing their cruel behavior, or from realizing that you’ve been the target of it this whole time.

Your stomach churns.

“They said I wasn’t even worthy to lick the ground they walked on.”

They can all hear you choking on your tears, despite your attempts to hide it.

Jimin and Jungkook feel like their chests are going to burst from holding it in, both the sorrow they feel for you and the urge to rush forward and drown you in affection.

Jin and Namjoon have storms raging inside their heads. Namjoon is calculating, trying to decode what exactly their motive was and how to use it to track down the ones in charge of it all. Jin’s mind is reeling with ways to undo the damage they’ve done, mentally and physically.

Yoongi is swimming waist-deep in despair. He can’t help but think of what’s to come. You’ll have to relearn everything. How to shift, how to fight, how to cast. That is, if you even want to.

You feel the newly strung tension in the air, looking like you just realized you said all of those things out loud.

One look around the room, and your newly found voice retreats deep into your throat.

The man called Namjoon, his eyes have darkened, jaw clenched and ticking like he’s grinding his teeth.

The one who tended to your wounds is sitting stiffly in his chair, staring ahead with a new sharpness in his face.

The small dark-haired man has his hands clenched, prominent veins crawling up his arms.

You duck your head down, body stiff with nerves.

“You have to know,” Yoongi begins, voice calm as ever despite the rage just below the surface. “That’s not how most people think. Especially not here.”

Here in the North Regions, atypicals make up the majority of the population. Law enforcement, government, and public works are largely run by them, and prejudice is rarely an issue.

But how could you know that now?

They can all see the change. It’s almost instantaneous, the way your face shifts and loses all semblance of emotion. Just like that, the mask is back up.

Then there’s something else. A slight twitch from your nose, a well-hidden shudder. They can see your throat bobbing.

For a few seconds, it looks like you’re about to say something. Your tongue is moving inside your mouth, and you’re blinking rapidly.

Namjoon is about to utter some gentle encouragement, but a jolt racks through your body, making you hunch over.

All of a sudden you’re vomiting up everything you just ate.

Hoseok, Jungkook and Jimin can’t help but jump to their feet, panicked noises filling the air.

Taehyung’s eyes widen. All his limbs go rigid, paralyzing him in his seat. He feels sick himself.

Jin, Namjoon, and Yoongi all look at each other.

Yoongi thrusts into action, heading to the kitchen with Jungkook in tow since he isn’t good around pungent-smelling things.

Namjoon starts giving instructions. Jimin, paper towels. Hobi, get the mop. Said men jolt into action, scrambling to do whatever they can to help.

Jin’s eyes have been fixed on you for some time now, catching your every move, including all the suppressed flinches and tremors.

He’s at your side in an instant, on his knees to try to catch your eyes. But it’s no use, you’re squeezing your eyes shut like you’re expecting to be hit.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he mutters in his gentlest voice. “It’s no big deal. No one is upset with you.”

As much as he wants to, he refrains from touching you right away.

Eyes still tightly shut, you flinch away from the sound of his voice, twitching with anxiety.

Jin can see you start to spiral, so he does the only thing he knows will work.

“Hey,” he begins, voice firmer than it was before. “Look at me.”

Your eyes snap open, shining with moisture.

“That’s my girl,” Jin says before he can help it. “You’re going to calm down for me, yeah?”

Your eyes desperately search his face, looking for any sign of anger or deception. You find none, not even a hint of disgust, and your breathing starts to slow.

All that’s there is the man who tended to your wounds, watching you with those patient eyes. His handsome face is calm, attentively anticipating whatever you need right now.

Sweat gathers on your skin. That same sensation crawls up your throat, saliva pooling in your mouth.

Jin notices the signs immediately.

“Come with me,” he orders softly, putting a light hand on your back and leading you to the nearest bathroom.

You don’t know what to do with yourself.

You remember vomiting a few times at the facility. Once from eating a rotten vegetable, the mold making it impossible to identify. And once when a handful of keepers had held you down, repeatedly punching you in the stomach, until you gave in and called yourself a mutt.

Both times you were severely punished for making a mess. You learned to hold it in your mouth and swallow it down after that.

Jin guides you to kneel over the toilet. He keeps talking to you, but you only process half of what he’s saying.

“Go ahead, let it out,”

You can feel it creeping up, burning and sour. But something deeper, something almost instinctual, tells you to keep it down.

“Stop holding it in, sweetheart,” he says, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “It’s not good for you. It’s okay to let go.”

Before you can think to suppress it, another wave of nausea surges through your body. The crescendo of it makes you wretch, emptying the last of your stomach’s contents.

“Good, good, just get it all out,” he encourages instead of beating you until you can’t breathe.

The bile is bitter in your mouth, but not more bitter than the dread clinging to your entire being.

He’s not going to punish me, you finally realize. It’s almost an impossible thought.

For a moment, you stay hunched over, frozen. Not sure what to do next.

“Here, come wash your mouth out,” Jin says, helping you stand up on shaky legs.

The sound of running water rings in your ears. You feel the coolness against your tongue, but barely register that you’re the one cupping it to your lips. Numb. You feel like you’re controlling your body from the outside rather than the inside.

“Now, let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

You look up at him for the first time in a while. His face is as kind as it was before, with the same full-lipped smile and warm brown eyes.

The man starts to lead you out of the room, that same gentle hand resting on your back.

It isn’t until then that you realize you’re still in the grimy clothes they found you in. And now the entire front of your shirt is stained with even more filth.

You glance into the living room as you pass through the hallway.

The other men are diligently cleaning the area you just soiled. The small dark-haired man and the muscular man are missing, though you can hear rustling from the kitchen.

The one with the jet black hair and bright face catches your eye, flashing a reassuring smile. It makes you rip your eyes away.

Jin guides you into the living room, and everyone immediately looks your way.

Shrinking, you’re shrinking into yourself as much as your body will allow.

“Someone run a bath,” Jin announces. “I think it’s time our little guest got some sleep in clean clothes.”

The fair-haired one steps forward and exchanges a subtle look with Jin, who’s standing slightly behind you.

“Would you follow me?” the shorter man says, holding out his hand.

It’s the one with the silver-gray hair and warm eyes. You think his name is Jimin. His face is soft and friendly. It asks a silent question: will you trust me?

You don’t take his hand, but you do take a step up the stairs in the direction he’s leading you.

You don’t catch it, but Jimin and Jin exchange a heartfelt glance, nearly ecstatic at the fact that you’re beginning to trust them.

Jimin leads you up the stairs as the rest of them settle things downstairs.

When you reach the top, he guides you down a spacious hallway that’s filled with potted plants and window light.

Every single door, down to the very end of the hall, is open. Whether it’s open wide or just a crack, not one of them is closed or locked. You’re not used to it.

The man, Jimin, stops at a door halfway down the hall and looks back to check if you’re still following him.

You stop a few feet away from him, still keeping your distance, but your expression is open and neutral, waiting on his next move.

He gives you a calm smile, and continues into the room with you behind him.

This room is just as bright and inviting as the rest of the house. White walls and clean tile floors, but this time with a large porcelain tub and a sink with marble countertops.

The man turns to look at you with a question in his eyes.

“Shower or bath?” he asks.

It’s a harmless question, a considerate question. But your mind is yanked back to that place.

Shower. A torrent of fire raining down on you, vision blinded by steam. It comes from every angle, unrelenting no matter how much you scream.

They would strip you down and lock you in a metal stall the size of a coffin. Then the dotted ceiling would unleash a downpour of near-boiling water.

You would bang on the walls, but the water made the metal surface just as hot, the floor burning the bottom of your feet. Minutes or hours they kept you in there, not letting you out until your body was covered in burn marks.

Bath. The most intense cold you’ve ever felt. It’s everywhere, submerging you up to the neck, seeping down to your very bones.

They would chain you down in a tub full of ice, nothing but your head poking out of the frigid water. The cold chains cut into your skin the more you struggled. Your lungs would heave from the shock of it, your whole body shivering violently.

Then they would hold your head underwater until you were bucking like a stuck pig. This went on until you were utterly exhausted, falling limp against the freezing porcelain with nothing but the tight chains holding you up.

You’re snapped back to reality when the man takes a step closer. He’s watching you closely, trying to read your face.

Finally remembering that he asked you a question, you shrug your shoulders and shake your head.

You don’t want either. You don’t want to be anywhere near that tub. You want him to leave you alone.

Jimin guesses that the gesture means you don’t care which one. He figures you’re most likely still weak from malnourishment, and he doesn’t want you fainting and hitting your head.

So he opts for a bath, turning on the faucet. He sits on the edge of the tub, hand under the spout to monitor the temperature.

The sound of running water makes every muscle in your body tense up. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

It’s going to hurt, it’s going to hurt. The fire, the ice, it’s going to burn and sting and cut into your flesh. You won’t be able to escape it.

Jimin doesn’t notice it at first, too focused on adjusting the knobs to get the water not too hot and not too cold, but your breathing has picked up again.

You can already feel it filling your ears, your mouth, rushing down your throat as your head is held down. Your skin prickles from the heat, it quivers from the cold.

The water in the tub continues to rise, and you can’t move. Your body is frozen, feet rooted to the floor as the sound of sloshing roars louder and louder in your ears.

Halfway full, now. It’s coming any second. He’s going to turn on you, throw you down and hold you under.

Burning, freezing. It’ll hurt and hurt and hurt.

Jimin turns his head, and his stomach drops.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, lips pursed like you’re trying to bite back a scream. Fists clenched at your sides, shoulders trembling, as your chest heaves up and down.

Immediately, he jumps to his feet and rushes over to you.

“What is it, babe? What’s wrong?” 

Then he makes a big mistake. He puts his hands on you.

His touch is gentle, nonthreatening, nothing but two hands on your shoulders. But you don’t want it, you’re repulsed by it. Because touch always comes before the pain.

On instinct, your body jerks away, arms moving to push the unwelcome touch away, just get it away. Your hands collide against something, hard.

When you open your eyes, the man is on the floor. Sprawled on his back, looking up at you with wide, slightly watery eyes.

There’s shock plastered on both of your faces.

Jimin’s soft heart hurts a little, he can’t help it. In all the years he’s known you, loved you, you’ve never ever been repelled by him. But that hurt is soon drowned by guilt.

He scared you, he made you feel unsafe. You felt the need to protect yourself and it’s his fault.

You’re staring at your hands in horror, completely floored by what you’ve done. You’re in for it now. He tried to help you and you hurt him. Now they’re going to hurt you even more.

Several sets of pounding footsteps draw near. The others must have heard the thud from downstairs and rushed up to see what was wrong.

What they don’t expect to find is Jimin crumpled on the floor and you standing over him in a braced position, but that’s exactly what they see when they peer through the doorway.

They’re all a little astonished, Jin and Namjoon are thinking deeply, and something in Taehyung’s eyes shifts.

He isn’t proud of it, but a surge of protectiveness washes over him, for his Jimin. He knows it’s unreasonable, unfair even. But it’s still there. And he can’t snuff it out.

A new fear consumes you. You were insubordinate, you resisted. You know what comes next.

A sob gets trapped in your throat as you sink down to the floor, burying your head in-between your knees and using your arms to shield yourself.

Immediately, the same way Jimin did, they all rush forward to comfort you.

“No!” Jimin blurts out, making you flinch and shake violently. “Don’t touch, give her some space.”

They all obey, keeping their distance with concern flooding their features.

Jimin shifts onto his knees, scooting a little closer but still keeping enough away.

“I’m sorry,” he nearly whispers, like he’s talking to a wild, cornered animal. “It was my fault entirely. I shouldn’t have touched you. I’m truly sorry.”

Jimin’s voice has always been soothing, even in the darkest times, and your breathing slows a little.

Jimin realizes that the faucet is still running, and he reaches over to switch it off. Then it comes to him.

He turns back to your trembling form, still waiting for the pain to come.

“You’re scared of the water, aren’t you?” he asks gently.

He doesn’t expect you to reply, he just wants to let you know that he’s trying to understand you, to help you.

You nod slightly.

It shocks them all again. You’re becoming more responsive.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Jimin says with all the sincerity he can muster. “It’s not your fault. I promise I won’t do that again.”

Your shoulders gradually stop trembling, breath coming evenly now.

Jimin looks at his mates and gestures for them to give you some more space so you can calm down.

They all do as he says, except Tae. He lingers in the doorway, his piercing eyes flickering between you and Jimin, thinking.

The two men exchange a meaningful glance. Jimin gives him a reassuring smile and nods his head as if to say “There’s nothing to worry about. I got this.”

Tae gives a slight nod back and turns to leave, throwing one last look at you.

Jimin sees the hint of distrust hidden in that look. He files it away for later.

Turning his attention back to you, Jimin looks at the tub and thinks of a solution.

“You don’t have to get in the tub, okay? We can just...” Jimin opens the cupboard under the sink and takes out a handful of washcloths.

“Like this, see?” He dips one of the cloths in the water, using it to wipe down his face.

“Is that okay?” he asks.

You scan his face. Those big brown eyes are full to the brim with kindness, as if you didn’t just hurt him moments ago.

You nod.

Jimin smiles so big it almost hurts his cheeks, heart swelling as you hesitantly hold your hand open. He puts another cloth in your waiting palm.

“Okay, here’s the soap, shampoo, conditioner. You can wash your face with this. Use whatever you want, okay?”

You look at him, trying to convey with your eyes what your mouth can’t say. He stays there for a moment, sitting with you on the tile, answering your every question with just his expression.

It’s okay. You’re safe here. No one is going to hurt you. You can trust me. I understand you.

Breaking from his reverie, Jimin gets up and moves to leave.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” he says, swinging the door closed.

You shoot forward and grab the knob just before it shuts.

Jimin jumps a little, whipping back around. There’s confusion on his face, then understanding.

“Okay, we’ll leave it open just like this. I’ll be just outside if you need anything, okay?”

You feel the tension release from your chest, and nod back.

Another warm smile, and then he disappears into the next room.

He’s not going to lock you in. Another impossible realization.

Turning around, you stare at the full tub. Your heartbeat skitters a little, but you take a step towards it anyways.

When you dip your fingertips in the clear water, you expect it to be scalding, or cold enough to numb, but it’s neither. The water is warm and calm, it doesn’t burn, it doesn’t sting.

Another breath releases from your lungs.

You use the cloth and soap to wipe down your whole body, shedding your dirty clothes and tossing them aside. Soon the tub is cloudy from the dirt on the washcloth. You even dip your hair into the water and use a little shampoo to get some of the grime out.

You sit there and wash yourself until the water turns cold. Using the counter to steady yourself, you slowly come to a stand, even though your legs are aching.

The sight in front of you is enough to shock you into silence again.

You can’t remember the last time you saw your reflection. You wish you weren’t seeing it now.

The person in the mirror is ugly and pathetic. Her short hair is a mangled mess. Haphazardly cut with a pair of dull scissors, it sticks out in all different angles. Her eyes are blank and lifeless, red-rimmed and surrounded by dark circles. There’s a large, hideous scar across her left cheek, deep and forked like a flash of lightning.

Her body is weak and repulsive. Slouching forward, she’s barely able to hold herself up. She’s covered in scars and marks, all over her legs, her arms, her torso.

You know there are worse scars behind you.

Horrifically entranced, you slowly reach up to touch the scar across her face, your face. Your fingertips meet the textured tissue, and then there’s the pain.

It’s not a physical pain, it doesn’t originate from the scar itself. It’s a pain deep in your chest, spreading and infecting the rest of your body. It maims you, twists your insides, disfigures your soul.

You muffle the silent scream with a hand over your mouth. Knees buckling, you barely have any strength left to keep yourself upright.

You’re barely you. You don’t remember who you were before, but you know it wasn’t this.

A gentle knock on the door. 

You immediately stifle any signs of discomfort, snapping the mask back on with frightening accuracy.

Jimin’s arms poke through the gap in the door. He sets a bundle of clothes on the counter.

“Here you go," his pleasant voice says. “Please let me know if they’re comfortable enough.”

You wait a good twenty seconds before you reach for them. A warm green sweater and soft cotton pants.

You hurriedly slip them on to hide your disgusting body.

Leaning closer to the door, you try to hear beyond the wood. Hushed voices, muted footsteps.

“Ready, love?” a smooth voice sounds from just behind the door.

You flinch away, trying your best to make your hair look less unkempt.

It’s Jin who cautiously swings the door open, greeting you with an affectionate smile.

“Much better, hmm?” he says.

You manage a curt nod, following him with your head down to another room. 

It’s the room from earlier, the one with the massive bed. The rest of them are here waiting, muttering quiet words until you arrive. Then they go silent and set their eyes on you, asking a question you can’t understand.

Why are they all looking at you? You don’t like it, not at all. People who look like them shouldn’t look at someone like you. You’re wrong, inside and out.

They all notice the change. Now your eyes are trained on the ground, head bent and shoulders folding in on yourself like you wish you would disappear.

Jin ushers you towards the humongous bed, encouraging you to settle in under the covers. He tucks the comforter around your body, fluffing the pillows behind your head.

“There, nice and cozy,” he says, sounding satisfied for the time being. “Rest up, okay love? You’ve been through a lot.”

Why are they talking to you like that? You’re disgusting. They should be throwing you out on the streets to fend for yourself like a common rat.

The small dark-haired man kneels down next to you. He hands you a mug of steaming amber liquid, using the bed sheets to shield your hands from the hot surface.

“This should settle your stomach,” he says.

While Jimin was getting you cleaned up, Yoongi and Jungkook were hard at work cooking up a tincture for your nausea. Essence of lavender to help you sleep, peppermint to refresh your throat, a little ginger to ease your stomach, and some of Yoongi’s highest-quality potions to replenish your nutrients. And, of course, Jin stirred in a copious amount of honey to sweeten it up.

You hold the cup in your hands like it’s a ticking time bomb.

Yoongi looks at his mates in confusion and concern, not sure what to do. Jimin catches his gaze, and gestures wildly with his hands. He exaggeratedly mimics holding the cup and taking a sip, and then Yoongi understands.

He gently takes the mug from your hands and holds it up to his nose.

“Let me check if it’s too hot for you,” he says, blowing off some of the steam and taking a long sip. He makes sure to swallow with audible emphasis.

“Okay, it should be good,” he says, handing it back to you.

This time you hold it close to your chest like it’s a precious gem, slowly sipping away at the frothy liquid. 

They all look at each other with a relieved, triumphant expression.

Namjoon steps forward and leans down to level his face with yours.

“There’s water for you over there,” he gestures to a table in the corner, complete with a pitcher and cup. “And the bathroom is the next door over.”

You nod to show your appreciation, still avoiding eye contact.

Jin enters your field of vision again.

“Do you think you can hold down some meds?” he asks. It’s sincere, no seeming deception behind it.

But you still shake your head vehemently. You don’t want anymore pills. In fact, you don’t want to see another pill ever in your life.

“Okay, love,” he says, smiling again. “Just rest up for me. For us.”

You have no idea what he means by that, but you sink into the pillows anyway.

One by one they filter out of the room, casting a last look at you before they leave.

You wish they wouldn’t. Their eyes seem to leave even more marks on your skin.

The door starts to swing shut. Then someone mutters something, and it stops just before it closes completely. 

Footsteps recede, silence settles upon the room.

You manage a few more sips from the steaming mug, eventually setting it aside. The bed is soft and comfortable, but you can’t bring yourself to lie down. 

You sit there, watching shadows dart across the wall, for hours.

a/n: thanks so much for reading!! if you enjoyed it please leave a comment on what you thought of the story/any questions it would mean the world to me!! and if you’re feeling extra generous, please reblog with tags it helps to spread the story around, thank you!! 💖

[softshuji]

10:54PM | HANMA SHUJI  

cw: use of pet names (doll, sweetheart, best girl), brief mentions of violence, briefly suggestive, mentions of possessiveness, likes and reblogs appreciated!

Hanma Shuji is quiet tonight, in a way he never usually is. Usually he's loud, boisterous, flirty and his laugh is a deep rumble that reverberates from his chest. He's mysterious, and teasing and quick to grin at you, his eyes flecked with gold.

Today he's uncharacteristically quiet, sullen you might even be tempted to say. It’s in the way he drags his feet into the house, curses when he trips over the carpet and shuffles to the bedroom, in the way he prods at the dinner you've made, his forehead creased with concentration, his foot tapping incessantly against the floor. You're watching him from beneath your lashes, your eyebrows furrowed as his lips part. He clicks his tongue, shakes his head and clenches his jaw as his knee bounces under the table.

He opens his mouth, closes it again, his fork tapping against the ceramic plate and the silence is almost unbearable in your house that is usually so thrumming with his laughter. You're about to make a comment, reach out a hand to touch him, trace your thumb along the scars on his knuckles when he suddenly stands and stalks off towards the bedroom and you're left staring at the space, at the abandoned plate that's barely been touched. Something stirs in your chest. It starts as a faint flicker of anxiety, a snake coming to life around your heart.

But by the time you've tentatively knocked on the bedroom door, the coil of tension is tight and taut as a wire, digging its way into the lining of your stomach. Your plate sits abandoned with his on the table. 

'Shuji?' Your head pops around the door, your voice quiet and prodding all at once. 

There is no lilting laughter from the other side this time, no teasing. Just a subdued and wordless assent and when you step over the threshold of your shared bedroom, the lights dim, the shadows of the street lights snaking up the wall. 

His back is facing you, his shoulders curved inwards, his shirt falling over the swell of his arms, deep skin flashing a burnished bronze. The hair at the nape of his neck curls towards his ears. 

‘Shuji sweetness?’ You try again, the light from the hallway leaking into the room. Your steps are soft, hesitant as you pad to the bed, running a hand over the duvet pulled up to his torso, his hair spilling in gold and copper across the pillow.

He glances back once, hands tightly clenched around the corners of the blanket, before his eyes drift back to the spot on the wall, his mouth parted. His lips are dry, you realize, the skin under his eyes sallow and pale as he sags further into the bed.

You bite your lip, your tongue heavy in your mouth, the tension coating your teeth. You hear his stomach thrum with hunger and it sends a spasm of concern rushing through your veins.

You lift the duvet and Shuji shivers when the cold air kisses the bare skin of his arms wrapped tightly around himself. His shirt has ridden up and his abs flex with the sudden chill.

You slip into the bed, pull the covers tightly over the both of you and Shuji exhales, his breath coming in shudders. The light from the parted curtain falls in slices on the discarded suit on the floor, a crumpled heap, red spots and blotches on the collar, creases that are sharp as a knife against the clean white of his shirt. You slide your arms around him, your hands finding purchase on the smooth planes of his stomach and the dips in his hips and pelvis that are perfectly curved to fit your palms, as if his body was made for you to fit against.

‘You’ve been quiet today.’ A whisper against the flesh pulled tight across his shoulder, your breath a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades. You press your lips to the bones jutting out, the curve of his spine that curls all the way down and he releases a shaky breath, involuntarily pressing himself against you. 

He clears his throat and his arms slide against yours. ‘You miss my voice that much Doll?’ His voice is hoarse and dry with disuse, sluggish and languid as sleep tugs at his eyelids. 

You hum and your arms tighten around him. ‘You know that I do.’ Any other time, you’d joke about it, tease him if only to hear that deep chuckle rumbling from his chest, but tonight, you only murmur your truths into his skin. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing sweetheart,’ he says and his eyes flick to the ceiling, where a spider weaves a silky soft web, undulating against the fixture in the roof. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell you. He does. But the words are thick in his mouth and his head is a maze of confusion. How does he explain that mass of voices in his head or the weight of memory that is a burden on his shoulders?

He glances once, to the crumpled suit on the floor, to the patch of red that looks more brown now, and he shivers, flinches almost, when your fingers lightly trace a circle on his abdomen.

You can still smell the scent of gunpowder on his neck, the tinge of fire and aftershave, smoke and blood and all of it clings to him like a second skin. Even still, your nose brushes the crook of his neck as you hoist yourself up to slot your chin against the curve.

‘S’not nothing, tell me,’ you say, your voice muffled by his skin, a breathy whisper against the silence. ‘It’s okay.’

His eyebrows knit together as the words churn on his tongue and he feels them out, chews them up before he speaks.

He digs up the memory, lets it hook its claws into him again. 

A baby, a pram, a wail in a park as he walks past. The strange sense of abandonment, the pram facing away from him as the child inside cries, screams its lungs out and Hanma Shuji is rooted to the spot, eyes frozen, locked on the slow shake of the pram swaying in the wind. He considers going over, and his usual sure-footedness suddenly betrays him when his feet waver, torn between staying and walking away. But the crying is so deafeningly loud, and Hanma Shuji feels a little cramped, like his tie is suffocating him and he needs to leave immediately. 

So he does. And the crying recedes as he puts more distance between him and the baby in the park and he wonders at what manner of parent leaves a child and never looks back. And the mountain of corpses beneath his feet laughs as he runs as if to mock his hypocrisy.

‘I saw a kid,’ he says, his voice a faint mumble under the thwack of branches on the window, muffled by the mounds of cotton against him. ‘Just sitting there in the park alone, crying.’

You wait, your thumb brushing the fine hairs on his stomach as it flexes under your touch. 

‘And all I could think was, how many kids I’ve left without parents because I killed ‘em in the next room. Stupid right?’ He hates the words even as they drip from his mouth, hates the self-consciousness in them, hates that you have to hear this from him. He forces a laugh, his shoulders rigid with tension under your cheek.

Underneath it all, underneath the mountains of guilt, an image sits at the back of his mind, and he wonders who this golden-eyed boy is that he often remembers, sitting on a step and waiting for someone who never came. He wonders where the guardians of that boy went, and why they never came back for him, why he grew up in the company of motorbikes and guns.

You tug on his shoulder, and his body comes towards you, his head moving to rest against your chest. His hair tickles your throat, the curls falling forward over his forehead, and in this light his eyes are haunting as they shine, bronze and copper and your reflection swirling in liquid gold. You think you could get lost staring at them, at the molten pooling inside.

‘It’s not stupid,’ you say and bring his knuckles to your mouth to kiss, each one littered with scars and cuts, your lips brushing over the black ink of sin and punishment. You kiss his wrists, the crown of his head and Shuji feels something painful in his chest at the tenderness. 

You don’t say it’s okay, you know it isn’t. You know it can’t be fixed with something like that. You know you can’t unwrap the layers of guilt, the convoluted webbing of who he is, the longing, the abandonment, the way he yearns. So you let him sit with his grief, nurture it and let it spend itself till it withers like a leaf in winter.

‘Don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.’ His lips pressed to your heart. 

You think of the man you met all the way back then. A man that had only just left boyhood behind trailing in his wake. You think of the boy, witty, sharp, quick to smile, and even quicker to grin. You think of that boy turning up his perfect nose at the fathers and mothers who swung kids on their arms between them, out of jealousy maybe, kicking stones at his feet and telling himself it didn’t really matter at the end of the day because what does a gang member need parents for?

And it’s not that he particularly cares. He’s filthy rich now, has more money than he knows what to do with, a partner he’d kill for. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t think about it, the Mother who probably traded him for quick cash, or left him in a coin locker after birthing him in a toilet in some seedy brothel.

You purse your lips and your thumb brushes the fine bones in his spine. As invincible as he is, the life underneath the bravado is fragile. You know he could die any day, that maybe a night like tonight will be the one you dread, where he never comes back. The thought has a lump coagulating in your throat, pressing so hard against your chest that tears prick unbidden at your eyes. 

‘Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that.’ A whisper against the golden wisps of his hair. 

His breath rattles and he shudders as his arms tighten around you. Your hands brush the swell of his biceps, his forearms, thumbs tracing the veins. He is so alive, so big and beautiful. You wonder if he knows that, how much space he takes, how grateful you are for all the infinity that makes him up, the vastness of him. 

‘Don’t leave,’ he says and his eyes snap to you, his features naked. The mask slips in a bare moment of vulnerability and there is no sign of that quick-witted smile, that boyish grin that’s usually so eager to tug at his lips. ‘Don’t leave me Y/N.’ 

It’s a plea masked as an order, a gift. A cat presenting a mouse as a token of love. 

Your eyes soften and the tear track on your cheek burns with the salt of your tears flowing freely. ‘Could never leave you Shuji. You’re mine. You’re my pretty partner in crime.’ 

Your hand moves to cup his jaw and your thumb skims the cut of his cheekbones, high and sharp, his lips, perfect and pink and belonging to you. You press your mouth to the corner and they part, his throat bobbing up and down as his eyes flutter shut, his long lashes kissing his cheeks. 

When he opens his eyes, there is you, only you with your frame outlined in perfect gold, your silhouette a ring of light. 

‘You’re getting soft on me Doll,’ he says and the tension breaks, a crack in the glass that has the sharp zing of trepidation unfurling like a curtain in the breeze. 

You giggle and Shuji’s chest trips at the sound, at the sniffle that comes after. He smiles against your collarbone, the first of the night. It feels almost foreign after a day spent frowning and chewing on his lip. His skin is tight with anxiety still, as if his mouth is only just remembering how to do it.

‘You won’t leave me either?’ You look down at him, his cheek pressed to your chest, hair tickling the hollow of your throat. You hope the nervous edge of your voice isn’t noticed at all.

‘Nah,’ he says. ‘You’re mine aren’t ya? My best girl.’ He grins outright now, moves a hand to grip your hip and pull you flush against him and your pelvis knocks against his and all the while you hope the mahogany brown seeping in through the window hides your face enough not to betray the heat on your cheeks. 

‘So this means we’re stuck with each other then?’ You feign a huff.

‘Looks like it.’

‘Good.’ A chuckle, light and airy. ‘Not letting anyone else have you.’ 

He raises an eyebrow at you and tilts his head. ‘I like this possessiveness in you. It’s sexy.’ 

You swat at him and jab his side lightly and he laughs, a full hearty sound that has your chest bursting at the seams. 

You wonder if it is possible for you to tire of that sound. Without much thought, you find you have your answer already.

a/n: This was an idea I'd been tinkering with for weeks, and I love the idea of writing a shuji that's secretly a little insecure, and fears that one day he will outlive his usefulness to others ( a baby), it was a common practise for mothers with unwanted babies to use coin lockers to abandon babies (you only needed a small coin to rent them) so I went with it, it was something I discovered in a book called Coin locker babies, highly recommend!. This was also secretly for my shuji baby, i figure i owe you a lil present <3

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[huntershowl-moving]

IT ISN'T LONG AFTER PERSEPHONE LEAVES the bath and settles in that the doorbell rings. they nearly jump out of their skin at the sound, how sudden and loud it is. she's half-off the couch and ready to dive for cover when gojo gets up. he is calm, not a hint of caution on his face — though that isn't unusual for him. even if there were danger, persephone suspects he'd smile in its face.

her muscles unwind one at a time as he approaches the door and hefts a large plastic bag into his hand from the person on the other side. seph settles back into their seat with a low huff of a breath. it was more of a physical reaction than a conscious one, and her body fights still, a tight anxiety coiling up in her chest in the wake of being startled by another presence. but it's fine. they're safe. it's satoru's voice in her head that repeats it now: you're safe.

they're silent — and judging by their expression, a little shocked — as he lays out a metric fuckton of sushi options onto the coffee table in front of them. even the most mundane actions are taken cautiously: she waits for satoru to eat before picking up a pair of chopsticks and hunting down an assortment of tuna, yellowtail and tamago pieces to claim for her plate. some nigiri and sashimi, too.

they didn't realize how hungry they were. it's the first proper meal she's had in weeks, maybe months — and their silence as they savor each piece is a testament to that. wild how it feels good to experience food you like instead of scarfing down military rations whenever you get a moment to breathe. and she eyes him, too, the things he chooses from such a large array. tempura somehow makes sense for him; she wouldn't be able to explain it if asked, but it sparks a warm feeling.

they're about to refill their plate when satoru speaks. the chopsticks pause midair. almost robotic, a perfect stillness only achievable by the arms she possesses, the same thing that gives her an edge with a sniper rifle over other prodigies. there are so many things wrong with what he said that she doesn't even know where to start, information falling over itself to be thought about first —

— and they breathe in, because their lungs are burning from the lack of air. how much does he know? part of them suspected he would have investigated over the years, but that part was always an idyllic little remnant of a girl long dead. the rest of her, the logical part, knew it was unlikely he gave them another thought in the wake of everything else that he deals with on a daily basis. curses. cursed spirits. the fucking society.

the tower sounds strange on satoru's tongue. sometimes they forget that that's how the world knows amari fletch: a faceless tarot card left behind at the scene of the unseen's highest-profile crimes, the ones that make an example of someone for the whole underworld to see. it isn't exactly difficult to find out their alias, so long as you know the unseen exists, so it's not farfetched to believe that he did a bit of digging. it's impressive that he made the connection, though.

❝ i — ❞ she exhales again, sharp. it's better if he doesn't know. just lie and say yes. if it's a crime by orders, he won't look deeper. but persephone has never been a good liar, and satoru gojo sees too much, and his shirt feels nice on their skin and they're so fucking tired.

she owes him one hell of a debt for all of this. the least they can provide is an answer. finally, quiet and bitter: ❝ no. hellhound has nothing to do with them. it's — personal. ❞ the random victims, the panic of a new serial killer, the slow-built myth of a cursed spirit who transforms into a wolf with too many eyes or teeth or heads or whatever the fuck each region has come up with for their version. she doesn't care; it all serves her well.

fletch — the tower — covers for her with the police, but otherwise they stay their hand. she never figured out how to thank them for that.

seph's movements are slower now as she acquiesces to the demand for more from her body, picking up a similar collection of rolls and nigiri to sit back and enjoy. before she does, her dark eyes cut over to satoru. ❝ how much do you know? ❞

it may have been years, but persephone hasn't changed, not really.  they still have that same haunted look in their eye, the look that makes them look as if they are consistently backed into a corner, ready for the next attack to come their way.  he can't say he blames them, not with the background that they have.  his mind constantly goes to the arms that were attached to her  ––  the way that scar tissue pokes out every so often, how they make a joke of them, play with the middle finger lighter like it's a joke.  there's a sad way that they carry themselves;  he wants to settle in, keep them safe  ––  even if it's never been asked of him.  even if they have never once asked him anything.

the unseen.  he hasn't found much out about them  ––  he keeps his inquiries small, not enough to actively draw attention to himself.  while he can handle himself, he knows that the organization is enough to scare persephone, and he doesn't see them scare easily at any given moment.  all he knows is that they do some very fucked up things, things that should never be able to see the light of day.   satoru has been biding his time over the past ten years  ––  gathering quiet information, mentally keeping his rage hidden.  he keeps thinking of their brother.  he keeps thinking of the things that have happened to them.  the way that there is compression on their souls. 

heavenly pacts.   he absolutely hates them.  they seem to bring nothing more than trouble with them.  but he doesn't say anything about it to persephone, not yet:  she had already been hard to even reach, ready to bolt.  it hadn't been until he had used a nickname that he had brought her in  ––  and he wasn't keen to shatter their fragile sort of alliance just yet.

thumb swipes a few times on his phone, finding the familiar site that he orders from constantly.  eyes flick to the clock  ––  they close in five, and he's pretty sure the guy is going to be mad at him for this.   however, he makes sure he leaves a good tip when placing the order and hopes that it'll be enough to inspire.  

an hour ticks down.  the doorbell goes off and he buzzes the delivery guy in and makes sure to slip him an extra fifty yen on top of the hundreds that he had already tipped.  when he shuts and locks the door, he tripe checks it, then sets out the buffet of sushi just as the door to the bathroom opens up.  the steam that settles into the room makes him glance up, eyes softening slightly at the way that his clothes hang off of their body.  her hair is already drying in the way that makes him question it, makes him want to tug and see what makes it work.  he refrains  ––  he has some self control.

❝  you know, that's the thing about having money.  all you gotta do is flash a really good tip and they're willing to bend over backward. ❞   slight smile and born arrogance.   really, satoru had tipped well over the limit because it was appropriate.   he wouldn't have imagined even attempting it if he didn't have a steady flow of business there already  ––  the extra edamame that was included speaks to just how much he's actually valued there.

once they're seated, he puts a few pieces of tempura shrimp onto his plate, dipping them into soy sauce before popping them into his mouth.   he lets them sit in silence for a few moments, simply enjoying the food.  he's hungry after everything, and personally, he has learned that sometimes it's the perfect way to break the tension.

❝  so, did the tower put you up to whatever it was you were doing out there? ❞    it's said with absolute casualty, his chopsticks reaching forth to snag a vegetable roll out of one of the containers.