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kjmalfoy · 2 years ago

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Filthy Criminal• 18+ Content

Warnings- Gun Play, Knife Play, Mentions of Stealing, Cursing, Degrading, Praising, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Sex, Spitting, Breeding, Spanking, Rough Sex, Dom/Sub Dynamic, Pet Names (Dollface, Babydoll), Overstimulation, Pantie Kink, Authority Kink.

Summary- Greed powered your veins, taking over your morals. You snuck into your supervisors office, eyes set on stealing his prized possession— until he caught you in the act.

Pairings- Rough!Supervisor!Bucky & Criminal!Submissive!Reader

Word Count- 4.6k

Author’s Note- You can tell I’m down tremendously bad, I will be attending Sunday church after this.

A criminal, a title you became accustomed to. You were one of New York’s most wanted fugitives, nearly top 5 most wanted on the FBI watch list. You stole from anyone, not caring what their reputation held or what their connections were.

If you wanted something, you got it— no matter the price.

Currently, you worked for the notorious Winter Soldier— becoming his corporation’s full-time pirate. Anything Barnes wished for, you got it. But, this time? You were swindling from the Winter Soldier himself.

Recently, Barnes bought a historical dagger from Mesopotamia, the first civilized city on the planet. It was the same blade you had your eyes on since it went on display at the museum— the only downside, your supervisor put the order on before you could snatch it.

Of course, none of that stopped you. Your heart was set on having that dagger, and you were going to get it— at any rate.

Today was the perfect day. The mansion was vacant, along with James’ office. James and a few of his armed guards were attending a business seminar with Stark Industries, allowing you to snatch the dagger before someone detected you.

You checked the surrounding area, making sure none of the guards stayed behind. The halls were clear, the security cameras currently down— giving you the chance to quickly slip into his office without a trace.

His office was simple, with dark curtains and decor— files on files piled lazily on his desk. Your eyes nearly lit up once you saw the dagger— displayed proudly on the center of his desk. The copper blade shimmered in the dim light, the moon reflecting off the stone.

“God, aren’t you a beauty.” You mumbled to yourself, cautiously tip-toeing over to the desk. Your hands jerked as you reached for the blade, the digits of your fingers just barely scuffing the handle.

Your body froze entirely when you felt the frigid metal of a pistol loaded at your head, the thick sound of it being cocked back made you squirm. You closed your eyes, mentally screaming at yourself for getting caught so easily.

Whoever held the gun to your head chuckled behind you, placing a hand on your waist— fingertips digging into your flesh. “Stealing from me, babydoll?”

It was James. You knew that voice anywhere.

“Sir-“

“Speak and I swear to god, I will blow your fucking brains out.” He said sternly, pressing the tip of the gun into the back of your skull— enough to make your head throb from the pain.

You gnawed at your lip, obeying your boss’ orders. You stayed silent, listening to James click his tongue— his foot tapping against the floorboards. The silence was dangerous, the eerie feeling making your skin crawl.

You couldn’t move an inch, your body was paralyzed in panic. You feared no one— everyone feared you, but James? He was by far the most cold-hearted and formidable person you met. He had everyone wrapped around his finger, kneeling at his request.

James was pretentious, defiant, and bitter. He had all the right to be, he was a man of truth after all. James never once spoke a lie, he always crossed his heart— kissing the cross on his chest as he spoke.

“My, my. What should I do with you? I have to punish you.” James insinuated, the grip on your waist tightening by the millisecond.

You opened your eyes, looking at the window in front of you. James stood behind you, his hair was slightly disheveled, his black tie loosened around his neck— the veins in his neck pulsing as he fastened his fingers around the handle of the gun.

You found yourself breathing heavy— getting excited by the current situation. The adrenaline was surging through your veins, electricity coursing through your skin. The way his hands felt against your body made you shiver, the cold metal huddled against your head lighting a flame to every hormone in your body.

“Cat got your tongue, dollface? Or are you too afraid to disobey me?” He asked, his tone flat and gravel— as if he was wishing you would define him.

You scoffed, instantly regretting your decision. “Don’t know what you're talking about, Sir.” You spoke firmly, holding your confidence high— letting it ooze down your body.

“Do you think I’m stupid, Y/n? Mm, let’s talk about your punishment.” James said, his patience completely worn out from your sassy remark. “You’ve been such a naughty girl.” He added on, his voice turning into a sultry growl— his hot breath tickling the back of your neck.

“Punishment? Oh, what type of punishment, Sir? You asked playfully, squirming underneath his grip— kneading your ass against his crotch.

James nearly groaned, a raspy chuckle flowing off his tongue— withering down your spine. “Don’t push it, babydoll. Now, you want my glock or the fucking dagger?” He warned.

Your hormones went into turmoil, heat pooling from your cunt— your slick dripping onto the stretch of your panties. Your head was hazy, unable to process his question fully— leaving you dumb. James scoffed, growing tired of the silence. He drew his hand back, removing it from your waist and using it to strike you across the ass— his handprint painted underneath your pants.

“Fuckin’ answer me, Y/n. I don’t have time for your games.” He demanded, patience growing thin and sexual frustration growing robust.

“Both. God, use both.” You begged out in desperation, finally giving in to James’ demands.

You heard James chuckle from behind you, finally placing the gun aside. His free hand slithered around to grab the dagger, gently clasping it around his palms. “I’m gonna treat you like a fuckin toy, got that?” He growled, dragging the knife down your shirt— ripping the fabric in half.

Your body fluttered, the cold air of the room hitting your exposed back— nipples hardening underneath the fabric of your bra. James nearly went feral at the sight, the deep red color of your bra sending him overboard— wondering if you had panties to match.

“Did you not hear me?” He asked, spanking your ass again— adding force to his palms as he did so.

Your breathing shuddered, watching as James placed the dagger aside— his fingers hooking underneath the waistband of your leggings. “Yes, sir. I heard you.” You exhaled.

James smiled, caressing his large-sized palms along your waist— drawing them down to the curve of your hips. “For such a filthy, scum of a criminal, you have such a gorgeous body.” He degraded, his firm words making you whine.

You choked on your whimpers, roughly slapping both hands over your mouth. James snickered at your innocent reaction, continuing to whisper degrading comments in your ear— hands still ravaging your body. Your body was burning from his intoxicating touch, blood rushing through your veins— your temperature rising hastily.

In a swift moment, James had your back shoved against the desk— his steel eyes devouring your body with a single look. He scanned you carefully, a sinister grimace spreading across his face. “Take off your pants.” He demanded, reaching for the pistol that laid next to your body.

His fingers bandaged around the gun, your eyes watching him intently. James traced the gun down the middle of your chest, gripping the handle with all his strength as a shaky moan left the tip of your tongue. He nudged the gun into the middle of your stomach, leaving a circle indent from the pressure. “Strip, I want to see you.” He ordered.

You gulped down the dry lump in your throat, dragging your fingers underneath your leggings. You pulled the fabric off your ankles, booting them aside— not caring where they landed. You stood bare in front of James, wearing nothing but a matching red lingerie set. James sucked in his bottom lip, shoulders puffing up as he reached for the hem on your underwear.

“These are pretty, babydoll. Take em off and leave them on my desk.” James barked, his pinky grazing the damp spot above your clit— the sweet friction making you moan in delight.

Your eyebrows wrinkled together in humiliation, but nonetheless bowing to his request. You hooked your index finger around the waistband of your panties— pulling them down your plush thighs. Your cunt was completely exposed, your wetness glistening off your thighs, seeping down your legs.

You did as you were told, placing your red panties on the middle of his desk— adding color to the dark mahogany wood. “Good girl, now take the dagger and cut your bra off.” James praised.

You were humiliated. James looked at you as if you were nothing— nothing but a whore used for his enjoyment. You choked down the dry feeling in your throat, reaching for the blade that laid on his desk. You licked your lips slowly, pointing the blade to the straps of your bra.

You sliced the straps in half, letting them slide off your shoulders— leaving the center of the bra. James gawked in lust as you pushed the dagger into your skin, dragging it down the center fabric. You looked at James with wide eyes, giving him your best puppy dog expression— the lace seams shredding underneath the blade.

The lace bra fell to the ground, your perky breast now fully exposed— your body now given to his mercy. James studied your body, his moist tongue rolling over his lips. He wrapped his fingers around the glock, an evil smirk plastered across his chiseled face. James pressed the gun into the flesh of your shoulder, pushing you down slightly.

“Lay on your back, and spread your legs.” He instructed you, not bothering to strip out of his clothes.

You nodded your head, hoisting both your feet on the edge of the desk— spreading your legs apart as you laid on your back. Your warm slick dripped onto his desk, your pussy drenched in your arousal. James’ eyes broadened, his mouth slightly ajar as he watched your juices ooze out of you.

“Jesus Christ, babydoll. You’re fuckin’ drenched.” He idolized, running the head of the gun up your folds. “What are you, a shameless slut?” He degraded, watching how your body reacted to the feeling of his pistol.

Your eyes crossed over, sweet moans spilling out of your mouth— the cold metal of his gun nearly fucking you stupid. “Oh, yes. Fuck, I am.”

James slapped the side of the gun against your cunt, the sound of your wetness filling his ears sweetly. “Mm, that’s my good little babydoll. Now, I’m gonna fuck this sweet little pussy of yours. Stuff it full with my glock.”

You moaned softly at the touch, nodding your head frantically. God, you were so needy to feel him— to feel his gun stretch out your walls, to prepare your pussy for the feeling of his thick cock. James watched you like a hawk, the tent in his pants becoming tight as your body faded against his toying touch.

James brought the gun to his face, flattening out his tongue— pressing the metal against the pink flesh. He hummed in delight, the taste of your juices coating every inch of his wide tongue. His eyes practically rolled back, the taste of your fluids sending him overboard.

You watched James intensely, your eyes following his fingers as he cocked back the gun— the sound of metal bullets hitting the floor made you tremble in goosebumps. “I know you love the adrenaline, but I’d like to keep you in one piece until I can stuff my dick inside you.” He ridiculed, his steel eyes glowing in sinful desires.

You lost your ability to speak, the thought process of forming a sentence completely obliterated. You whimpered in response, giving James the satisfaction of knowing he already fucked you stupid with his words. The cold tip of the gun rushed through your body, the barrel slowly being pushed inside you. Your hips buckled, eyes crossing over together as James pushed the barrel fully inside you.

Your hands excitedly reached for the edge of the desk, digging your fingernails into the wood as he started moving the barrel in circles. A loud yelp flowed off the tip of your tongue, your body melting into putty as James consistently fucked you with his gun— pushing into you until he reached your sweet spot.

Your body jolted with each thrust, the legs of the desk scratching the floor as your body shook. “You like being fucked with my gun, Dollface? Hm, like being treated like my fuckin toy?” James mocked you, watching as your body submitted to him— as if he was of higher power.

Your eyebrows crumpled together, pain and pleasure washing over your core— your hands hopelessly latching onto the flesh of James’ forearm. Your mouth hung open, unable to form words— only broken moans slipping off your wet tongue.

“I’m sorry, babydoll. I didn’t hear you?” He taunted you, moving his wrist— fucking you faster with the metal of his pistol.

Your eyes shot open, pupils enlarged. Your back arched, hips bucking with each ragged movement. “Ah, fuck. Fuck, yes!” You cried out, tears filling up your beautiful eyes.

James smirked, slowing down the harsh pace of his wrist— letting nothing but pleasure take over your body. “Mhm, I bet you do. My good little fucktoy.” He degraded, a mocking pout wiping over his face— watching yours contort at his jabs.

An erotic expression washed over your face, eyes crossing over as your eyebrows furrowed into a thick knot. You felt the room spin, your mind in a deep haze— thought process foggy and wiped out. Your knees gave out, your strength weakened— barely able to keep your legs propped up.

Your body was close, the uneasy knot grinding against your core— your abdomen tightening, muscles flexing as your body trembled. James watched in all his glory, his eyes glowing a dark fury; nothing but the devil peeking through his sinful smirk.

“You wanna cum, dollface? Beg me. Beg for me to let you cum all over my glock.” James spoke firmly, roughly bringing his movements to a halt.

You whined at the sudden stop, a single teardrop streaming down your flustered cheek. The knot in your core was tied tight, your whole body engulfed in an uncomfortable heat— begging to be set free.

“Please, James. Please let cum, I can’t hold it anymore!” You wailed, screwing your bright eyes shut.

“C’mon, babydoll. Tell me where you wanna cum.” James chuckled, refusing to cave into your small and worthless pleas.

“James, baby. Please, let me cum all over your gun. Baby, please.” You begged, opening your eyes; revealing nothing but a dam of tears— letting them stream down your face.

James smiled, his ego rocketing at the sweet sound of your moans— his name flowing off your tongue like fresh vanilla. He pumped the barrel faster, your clear liquids shining through dull metal. “Cream my glock, dollface. Show me what a good little whore you are.” He said, his tough hands clasping onto your chin, calloused fingertips digging into your flesh— patting the side of your cheeks.

Your ears flared in heat, thick streams of blood rushing to your head— making you see stars. The fast movements made your core snap, the tight feeling engulfing your whole body— legs quivering as your hips bucked upwards. The creamy white substances coated the metal gun, taking away from the charcoal grey color.

James sucked his teeth, his eyes memorized by your orgasmic expression. He felt his jeans tightening, his tent growing prominent— his cock nearly bursting through the seams. “I bet you taste good, too bad this is your mess to clean up.” He cocked an eyebrow, slowly pulling the gun from your utilized hole.

He smacked the head of it against your lips, the salty taste of your fluids leaking through your lips. You moaned against your tongue, giving James wide eyes. “Yes sir.” You complied, sticking out your tongue— letting James gag you with his gun.

You worked your tongue around the barrel, sucking up every drop of your cum— engrossed with the taste of yourself. James watched with heavy eyes, forcefully pushing the gun further down your throat. “Mhm, just like that. Gag on it, babydoll.” He chuckled, using his free hand to wipe your tears.

You hallowed out your cheeks, taking the gun to the back of your throat— your tonsils swinging against the barrel. James muttered a small moan underneath his breath, his nostrils flaring as he watched you.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to break you.”

Eyes widened, you looked down— nearly foaming at the mouth from the sight of his erection pressing against the zipper of his jeans. “Mm, you did that to me. All you, babydoll.” James cooed, tossing the gun on his desk— your saliva dripping down the side of it.

James bucked his hips into the crook of his hand, palming the hardness of his cock through the denim jeans. His steel eyes hooded, the friction making his nose flare— jaw tensing as he massaged himself. He looked down at you through his eyelashes, his evil smirk resting lazily on his face.

“You want this, babydoll? Or did my gun fuck you stupid already?” James asked with a mocking tone, his coarse fingers fiddling with his belt buckle.

You licked your lips, eyes nearly popping out of your sockets at the sight of him. “Yes, please. I want it so bad.” You adjusted your body, lifting your foot off the desk— using it to palm James through his jeans.

“That’s my good little babydoll, so desperate for me.” He ridiculed you, pulling his belt from the loops— dropping it to the floor.

You looked up at James, those beautiful blue eyes clouded with a sinister desire— sparks of electricity in his irises. His fingers linked under his shirt, clasping the hem and lifting it over his head— tossing it across the room without care. James worked the button of his jeans, slowly— teasingly pulling down the zipper.

His eyes never left yours, his feet moving on their own as they kicked off his jeans— stumbling with excitement. James’ Ralph Lauren boxers clung to his muscular body, his rock-hard erection pressed against the seems— desperate to feel your warm walls. Pre-cum was dripping from his head, leaving a damp spot on the grey-colored briefs, the arousal on full display.

“My apologies if I ruin these.” James tugged down his boxers, reaching for your pretty red panties and wrapping them around his length.

You nearly choked on spit, watching with desire as James jerked off to your panties. Shaky grunts and guttural curse words filled the office, his pearly whites on display with each hiss of pleasure. His biceps flexed with each pump, aggression tight in his fist— the grip on his cock making his veins pop.

James stroked his cock, his pre-ejaculate adding to the previous damp spot on your panties. “You want this inside you, hm?” His voice was shaky, his sweet pleasure melting off his pink tongue.

“Yes, please. Just fuck me already.” You begged, eyes clouded with nothing but a sexual longing.

James cocked a smile, tossing your panties back onto the desk. His rough hands gripped the flesh of your thigh, pushing your legs against your chest— standing in between you. The length of his cock brushed against your slick folds, your shoulders shuddering together from the tight friction.

With his free hand, he took hold of his shaft— lining it up to your tight hole. James tucked his face into the crook of your neck, a bright smile forming on his face as he pushed himself inside you— your shaky moans trickling down his neck. James nibbled on your salty neck, the taste of sweat and tears coating his taste buds.

His wet lips soothed your sultry skin, sharp pearly white digging in your skin— his kisses trailing up to your jawline. Your mouth was ajar, small measly moans slipping through your swollen lips— being swallowed up by James’ rough kiss. His lips were soft, defining his rough and demanding movements— nothing but sweetness and passion taunting his lips.

His tongue swiped across your mouth, the leftover taste of your release washing over his taste buds. James tucked his hand on the back of your neck, your thick strands of hair tangling between his fingers. He brought your face closer, eagerly diving deeper into the taste of your lips— becoming drunk off your touch.

Your head stiffened, James’ possessive clasp on the back of your neck restricted any movement— urging to keep you close to him. James pulled away, his swollen lips still brushing against yours— watching your lips quiver as you inhaled sharply. “Be a good bitch and open your mouth.” He solicited, nuzzling his lips against yours.

You shamefully obeyed, your tongue poking past your bruised lips— mouth hanging open at his mercy. James smirked proudly, pursing his lips together— using his tongue to swirl his spit around. You looked up into his rich eyes— eyebrows clustered together as you watched his spit drip onto your tongue, swallowing it thickly.

“Good. Now, hold your legs up so I can fuck you like the whore you are.” He instructed, slowly retracting his cock before teasing your tight hole.

Your sweaty palms gripped the underside of your thighs, keeping them firmly pressed against your chest. You could feel his hips bucked against your thighs, his skin smacking against you— red marks coating your delicate skin. James’ cock fucked you with ease, your warm slick coated his girth length entirely— nearly making him unravel.

James let out a trembled exhale, his nose crunched together as your walls clasped around him— squeezing his cock entirely, milking him for every inch he stuffed you with. His brown hair fell flat against his face, the soft strands of hair sticking against his sweaty forehead— his sweat dripping down his body, making his abs glisten in the dark lighting.

With each thrust, James picked up his pace— your body jolting against the desk with every harsh stroke of his hips. “Oh, fuck! Shit, James!” You cried out, pain mixing into the pleasure that overwhelmed your body.

“Fuck, Y/n. Be quiet, I don’t want anyone hearing how much of a filthy whore you are.” James gritted his teeth, slamming himself inside you, burying his cock deep inside your warm walls.

The pleasure was overbearing, your mind melted into putty— his cock truly fucking your stupid. You lazily held your legs up, thighs aching with a tight painful pleasure as James fucked you with no remorse— showing your body no mercy. James pressed his thumb against your bundle of nerves, drawing circles on your swollen clit.

“Oh, James.” You moaned.

James looked at you, danger clouding those rich blue eyes. His movements stopped suddenly, his fingertips digging into the side of your neck— tears forming in your eyes from the violent grip. “Babydoll, keep that pretty little mouth shut or I'll gag you with your own panties.”

His eyebrows furrowed together, looking down at you with mockery— waiting for you to answer him. “Hm, c’mon use your tongue, dollface.” He teased you.

Your lips quivered, a shaky breath pushing its way off your teeth. “Please, sir. I swear I won’t make a sound.” You begged, aching to feel him inside you again.

“Awe, does my pretty little doll miss my cock inside her?” James widened his eyes, giving you a puppy-dog expression. His hands worked the bottom of his shaft, using your slick as a lubricant— slowly pushing the head back into your sex.

“Fuck, James. Shit, I miss it so much, so fucking much.” You moaned, hips bucking into James’ hopelessly trying to feel friction.

James slammed inside you, his heavy balls smacking against your asscheeks— tight walls swallowing every inch. Your body jolted, back arched and chest pressed against James. “God, babydoll. You’re so fucking tight.” He gritted his teeth, bottoming out every inch of his length.

His strokes were intense— aggression buried with every thrust of his hips, forcing nothing but pain and pleasure into your body. You could feel your head spinning, mind getting high off James’ touch— the aura radiating from his body becoming your favorite drug of all time.

You looked up at James with fucked-out eyes, his cold eyes staring into you like a hungry animal. Without say, his body was pushing you into his desk— lips colliding with yours. Your eyelashes fluttered shut, moans being swallowed by James as his tongue danced around yours— tasting every inch of your body.

James bucked his hips stiffly, snaking his arm around your body— pressing the digit of his thumb against your clit, drawing circles against the abused bundle of nerves. Your legs trembled, arms threatening to give out— an overwhelming knot bubbling in your stomach, waiting to snap at his mercy.

“Mm, I want to see you cum all over my cock, babydoll. Cream all over my dick, all fucking over it.” James mumbled against your skin, his hot breath tickling your skin as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

You withered against James, his hot breath making your skin tingle with lust. Your body was punch drunk, intoxicated with the feeling of his cock plowing past your walls— twitching against the warmth of your cunt, aching to release his seed.

James watched as your legs trembled, tight knots tickling your aching thighs. James reached for your calves, placing both legs on his shoulders— letting his sex push into your cervix, hitting a new pleasure. “Fuck, dollface.” He grunted out, pushing lazy strokes into you— chasing out your high.

You huffed in, nibbling on the bruised skin of your lips— your stomach turned flips, body threatening to snap with each thrust. James drew rigid circles on your clit, his neat movements turning sloppy— focused on making you cream his cock.

“Mm, shit. How about I cum in this pretty little pussy? You want that, babydoll?” James muttered out, his breathing broken into choppy huffs of air.

Eyes crossed, you mumbled a short yes.

James gripped your cheeks, the pads of his fingers digging into your flesh— leaving abrasion on your delicate skin. “What was that? Use your words, babydoll.” He said firmly, looking down at you with starved eyes.

“God, yes! Please, James!” You wailed— eager, aching to feel his warm cum inside you.

“Whatever my babydoll wants, she gets.” He grunted out, forcing one more thrust inside you.

You felt your core snap, that tight knot engulfing into pleasure— your entire body absorbing the punch-drunk feeling of his cock, letting your sex cream around his length. Your body jolted with each sloppy thrust, James fucked you through your orgasm— forcing your body to take him until his core unraveled.

James huffed, his chest caving in— shoulders puffing with each heavy breath, sweat dripping down his face. His pale cheeks were flushed a bright red, his body twitching— veins popping as his muscles flexed. James pushed into you, letting his cock bottom out— his warm liquids squirting into your cervix, stuffing your used cunt.

His nostrils flared, pearly white teeth sinking into his swollen lips. “Fuck, babydoll.” He heaved, watching his creamy liquids seep out of you.

James pulled his cock out, watching your body shudder from the loss of him. James used his middle finger, scooping up his cum— stuffing it deep inside you, sure it wouldn’t make a mess. “God, aren’t you a pretty little cumslut.” He admired, rubbing his cum-coated fingers along your folds.

You exhaled, looking up at James with a pout. His heavy palms wrapped around your jaw, his thumb playing with your bottom lip. “Have you learned your lesson, dollface?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes, Mr. Barnes.” You said softly, body worn out— mind still a hazy fog.

James smiled, giving a praising slap to the side of your cheek. “Good. Now, let’s get you cleaned up. You look like a filthy whore right now.”

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marky4l · 3 years ago

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you turn me on

pairing: mark lee x afab reader

wc: 5.9k

genre: smut! w/ plot

warnings: virgin!reader, they’re both hs seniors but 18, soft dom!mark, church girl!reader, praise kink, loads of sexual tension, hints at unprotected sex (no love, no glove)

hi, i wrote this on a whim. hi tumblr

–

you were an enigma to mark. barely out of reach, tantalizing and tempting, an image of grace and beauty and everything he wanted but couldn’t have.

he could count on one hand the number of times you’d both interacted for more than five seconds—significant encounters, actual conversations where you laughed, twirling a lock of hair around your finger and driving him crazy.

one would’ve thought your conversations would be higher in frequency.

he lived, after all, right across the street, and you attended the same high school. the sleepy west coast suburbs didn’t offer much drama or fun to distract either of you, apart from the usual house party (which you were never allowed to go to, though he would find you sipping meekly from a red cup late into the night) and sometimes church excursions, which mark went to solely to lay eyes on you. still, though your conversations were few, your long-lived stares and smile exchanges were much more frequent.

mark considered you his stark opposite. he, a jock, on the varsity baseball team, with two dads and a penchant for breaking hearts. you, just shy of innocent, a church girl with plaited hair, always alone, with the edge of rebelliousness that kept both of you wanting more. you’d turned eighteen over the summer, and, with both of you being seniors, he began to view you in a light that was more than just plain admiration.

“lee, the equation?” mr. woods booms.

he looks up slowly, surveying the equation on the board. he answers quickly. he turns, his eyes flitting briefly to where you sit. you’re already looking at him, pencil eraser gliding across your bottom lip. you’re wearing a pleated skirt, the waistband fattened from the amount of times you’d folded it over itself to achieve the length it was at, far above your knees. your sweater droops down, baring your shoulder. your hair was braided this morning but it’s down now, slightly crimped from the curling. you have gloss on, but you mentioned once how it’s not allowed in your house. you probably swiped it from another classmate. you’re adept enough to be in this senior math class.

your lips stretch into a timid grin. he hides a smile of his own, turning back to the board.

he can’t quite trace his attraction to you. it was an innocent crush on an underclassman back then, but it grew, perhaps because you simply refused to reciprocate his advances. he’s an athlete who drinks—he can get any girl he wants—but with you, the chase thrilled him. thrills him. you’re always leaving him on the edge.

you were like a dream, all his but not his at all. he couldn’t get enough.

lunch brings but more extensive gazes. you’re seated with two of your close friends, whose names mark has blurred from memory. a ham and cheese sandwich today, he notices, and your usual water. you never have anything much, just enough. you meet his eyes in the middle of drinking water and you wink, barely a flit of your eye, before sliding off your seat to deposit your garbage.

beside him, donghyuck throws his head back in a raucous laugh. “we’ll be in college and you’ll never get her out of your head, man.” mark’s heart both soars and sinks at the freezing realization that his best friend is right.

your mother is a strict homemaker. while seemingly warm, she exudes an air of iciness, and mark imagines this doesn’t exempt you. his attempts to set foot inside have always been futile—he presents his own dad’s pastries, they’re taken into the porch table and the door is shut. he offers opera tickets, they’re politely declined. he offers coffee, it’s taken and he’s forgotten. he spots you sometimes, on the stairs by what he presumes to be your room, an amused smile on your face.

your father is a little looser. maybe becausehe’s not that experienced in the field of raising girls, but he’s a little more awkward and unsure. he almost invites mark in for pie but his wife stops him with a brief pinch to the arm, and again his attempt is rebuffed. it’s not until a slow, quiet november night that mark glimpses, for the first time since his crush began and you reciprocated it, you in your natural habitat.

he’s always known your windows directly oppose each other’s, give or take a few feet and inches. he has to move a shelf out of the way to get your window in full view. but out of respect, he’s never actively tried to peek past your organza curtains and into the lamp-lit room behind it. not even his telescope is put to good use for it, stowed away and folded in a box under his bed.

physics homework is what nearly distracts him from the faint blinking of fluorescent white light that taps silently against his window. he finishes the problem fast, getting up shortly thereafter to investigate. he pushes the shelf to get his window in full view and, consequently, finds you across him. for once, your curtains are drawn, but the flashlight you’re holding obstructs you from his view.

he hopes you’d wait, fishing out his telescope and unfolding it quickly. he makes a speedy job of dusting it off, and then he takes a peek, adjusting it to the right, to the left, below, up, up, up, until—

your hair is draped on your shoulders, a lacy white camisole matching your short cotton floral shorts. your arms hold up a piece of paper, onto which is scribbled a message you’d written during his hasty telescope excavation: perv with a telescope much?

he laughs like you’re actually talking to him. you don’t have a telescope so he sticks a middle finger up in a sufficient nonverbal reply. he watches you place the paper down, your hand fiddling with the necklace that rests on your collar. he has a sharp intake of breath when he belatedly notices how obvious your nipples are under the thin cotton of the camisole. you bend forward to write a new message and he gulps.

you raise a new one. just wanted to say goodnight, markie—see you tomorrow. you bend forward to untie the ribbons that keep your curtains drawn and, like a theater show, mark catches the slightest glimpse of your pert ass before the organza censors your room again.

he sees you at school again the day next, and he catches you in a mild argument with your mother over the jeans that sit low on your hips and the long-sleeved, tight-fitting, sweetheart neckline top that shows much to the eye. you twirl a braid in frustration but when you spot him, you’re ushering your mother out in seconds, the car speeding off and you turning to him, braids flying in the late year breeze.

“sorry about that. i’m eighteen and she won’t leave me alone,” you say exasperatedly. “anyway. enjoyed last night’s show?”

“it’s okay. and, yes. quite,” replies mark curtly. “though it was a little short, i do enjoy whatever you put on.”

he’s aware of how dirty he sounds and revels in the flustered state you’re now in, saying goodbye before he can further press into you. your braids swish as you untie them hastily, hiding a smile. he watches you go, smiling satisfactorily to himself.

the afternoon classes are blocked out for the school’s baseball game against another varsity team in the tristate area. mark spots an opposing team member chatting you up just by the bleachers, ergo, planning to make out with you. you smile shyly, nodding along before mark steps beside you and stares menacingly at the opponent.

“oh, hey, man, she’s, uh, we were sort of kinda talking,” opponent says.

“she’s, uh, sort of kinda my girlfriend,” mark lies matter-of-factly, mocking his words. his arm slinks around your shoulders and you feel your face warm.

you nod in silent confirmation.

opponent blanches. “oh. i’m—shit, man, fuck. sorry.” he sprints back onto the main field and mark laughs, adjusting the cap that sits on his hair. you laugh when he’s gone, rolling your eyes at mark’s unnecessary display of possession. he turns to you, hugging you closer. his eyes flit down to your lips, half-parted in a forgotten statement.

“g’luck,” you say instead, shy but whispering with a glint of teasing. “i’m rooting for you…” your hand traces over his hardened bicep, back to his chest, down, down, stopping at his waistband. you meet his eyes again. “…captain.”

you pace onto the bleachers and mark spends a few gratuitous moments torn between reliving your actions and willing his boner to die. it’s not until the general fanfare begins that he reunites with his team, shaking you out of his head for the time being. the baseball game goes well, as they usually do when mark is in the lead and donghyuck, his right hand man, provides a generous amount of good energy, and their side of the crowd is in uproar when the game is finished.

the air smells like sweat and butter popcorn when the score is called and mark lets out a cathartic scream of victory. he turns to you instantly, finding you cheering beside a friend. he salutes and you blow a kiss back, much to his amusement. donghyuck claps him on the back to request a group picture with the trophy. eventually, the game winds down and mark meets you by the bleachers again.

“you were a god,” you say offhandedly as a greeting. “was i your good luck charm?”

“i like to think so,” mark says, without missing a beat. he watches you laugh, throwing your head back and everything. you grab the visor of his cap and tug him closer, pressing a kiss to his jaw. you taste salt.

“see ya,” you say, smiling, and you’re gone, blending into the crowd of students heading off the field. mark touches the place you’d kissed and absently wonders if he could saran wrap it to avoid it getting washed off.

donghyuck jumps on top of him seconds later, and mark is sufficiently distracted by his friend’s boisterous voice and promises of beer and wings to celebrate.

one week later, mark looks up from his book and finds the flashlight against his window again. he hauls the telescope out and after a few moments of adjustment, finds you by the window again, holding up a piece of paper. you’re wearing fairly similar clothing to last time—lacy top, with pajamas this time.

you hold up the paper. i’m going to a church thing this weekend is written on it. you drop it and then hold up a different one. which dress is better? you drop it again and then get up, picking a dress up from your bed.

mark gulps.

you teasingly untie the drawstring of your pajamas and it naturally loosens around your figure, and you tug it off the rest of the way. mark curses, like you can see him. now you’re only in your lacy top and your pink frilly panties. you hold up a third card. call me to offer an opinion, with your house number scrawled underneath, makes up this final card. he’s quick to grab his telephone and dial, and you pick up in the middle of the first ring.

he inhales. “hi.”

you’re standing in the middle of your room, twirling the curly phone cable in between your finger. you grin. “hi. remember, which dress, ‘kay?”

you place your receiver down and then tug your top off, revealing pale pink lace of bra underneath. mark whispers out a guttural curse. fucking hell. you slip the first dress on and it’s clear your mother’s remade these for you, what with the added inches to the hem and waist.

the first one is a long floral dress that ends below your knees and exposes your collarbones. you fiddle with your necklace again and pick up the receiver. “you look really pretty,” mark says breathlessly. “i like this one.”

you hum. “huh. real descriptive.”

“i’m speechless. can you blame me?”

you laugh, and then wordlessly place the receiver down again. you pick the dress off your figure, and mark revels in your bare figure, before you’re pulling a new one on. this one you’ve probably bought yourself and stashed away before it could be lengthened and hemmed—it’s dark red, tight-fitting, with two flimsy straps and a hem that ends at the middle of your thighs.

you pull it down but it rides back up, tantalizingly so. he watches you, entranced almost, watches you flick your turntable to life and sway to the todd rundgren song that starts playing from it, scratchy through the wire of the phone. you’re so far, but so near.

you dance a little more, your swaying causing the dress to ride up a little more. lord knows this wouldn’t be allowed within ten feet of the church’s vicinity. you wore this, you know it and he knows it, to rile him up.

you pick up the receiver. “how about this?”

“fucking lovely. but, i’m awfully biased.”

“thought so,” you say.

“can’t be taken to the house of god in a dress that short.”

“good thing it’s for your eyes only.”

before he can respond, you untie your curtains and hang up the telephone. you’re hot all over, like he’s right in front of you sitting atop your bed letting his eyes roam everywhere. but he’s not. he’s across the street using a goddamn telescope and he still makes you feel like this.

you fiddle with the dress’ hem, then you flop onto your four post bed, grinning yourself to sleep as you pull the covers over yourself.

mark talks to you next after a week. he’s in church, which is an unspoken rarity—as a regular, you’re able to detect the silent surprise on the churchgoers’ faces at the sight of the lee boy here—but clearly, he’s here for you. you clear your throat, and when you pass by you feel your mother’s grip on your arm tighten.

she turns once he’s out of earshot. “that’s the lee boy, isn’t it?”

you nod. “he’s been telling me he wants to attend service more often, mom.” it’s a straight lie, but you have a plan and you want—need it to work. you stroke her arm a little.

“is that so?” meaningful pause. “you’d better be the one to acquaint him with today’s service, then. stay with him, and your father and i will be in the eastern wing.”

you let go and press a kiss to her forehead, then jog back over to mark. your oxfords are tied neatly, and you’re wearing what your mother assumes to be full, white stockings but are, in truth, lacy thigh highs obstructed by your dress. you walk slowly to him, and he’s already looking at you in a way you can only describe as dirty.

mark is the first to speak. “thought i’d start giving church a try.”

“not everyone’s cup of tea,” you respond. “definitely not for me.”

“really?” you nestle yourself beside him, leaving enough space that the other middle-aged ladies won’t start whispering around about your being a supposed whore. you’ve built up a good rep, after all, and you’d hate to lose it to the nosey nellies.

“yeah. it barely gives room to explore faith. it’s like, ‘believe in this or you’re blasphemous!’”

mark chuckles. “i hear that, princess.”

the pet name makes you hot. you smile and roll your eyes, biting your lip. “the service is about to start, so you’d better be quiet.” he buttons his polo when he notices your lingering gaze, and laughs when your expression turns sour at his actions.

the remainder of the service goes on uneventfully. mark says goodbye to you at the front door, two vast and large wooden doors. you’re reunited with both parents. and then your father says, after a steady handshake, “we’ve always loved the church boys. haven’t we?”

your mother nods, visibly pleased.

“how about dinner tomorrow night, son?” he insists, and your cool exterior doesn’t do much to hide how shocked you are at the offer. your eyes switch from mark’s tall figure to your dad’s hunched over one. your mother doesn’t even protest or show any sign of refusal, just smiling and nodding, her grip easy.

“that’d be great, sir. i’ll bring over some cheesecake for dessert, it’s my dad’s latest obsession.”

“splendid.”

your mother asks so many fucking questions, you realize ten or fifteen minutes into dinner. your arrangement has conveniently placed you across mark, with your parents on either side of both of you. the six-seater dinner table is a little wide for just the four of you, but you’re glad for the small personal space you have with mark.

“you play baseball?” you shed your slipper, pinching the hem of mark’s black jeans in between your toes. mark shoves mashed potato into his mouth.

“yes, i’m uh”—he coughs, feeling your foot hike his jeans up—“the captain. great mashed potatoes, ma’am, by the way.”

“oh, please.” your mother is a little iffy around male guests (those your age especially), but she seems more comfortable now. “it must have been quite the journey to get to the captain role.”

“well, it kind of was.” you abandon the attempt to pull his jeans up and let them sag back down to his ankles, but return in full force to stroke his thigh. he coughs again. “but i love sports, almost as much as i love, well, sue me—science.”

“are you a bit of a chemistry guy yourself?” your dad asks, genuinely curious.

“physics is more of my strong suit, sir. in fact, i’m torn between pursuing astrophysics and a sports scholarship. i assume both might bode well for me in the future.”

“true, true,” muses your mother, obviously satisfied with mark’s answers. “well. eat up, mark. i’m sure paul would hate to see his son arrive home hungry.”

“oh, trust me, he’s fine. he always goes on and on about new fad recipes. at some point you get tired of all the spinach pan—cakes!” you leave lasting impression on his bulge, prominent from touch alone, and you resume normally eating the dinner.

your mother’s eyes gaze at you quickly, but mark distracts her with a silly anecdote about his dads. the dinner speeds by nicely, with stories and jokes being chipped in by everyone at the table. mark makes you laugh, your parents laugh, and his parents make a mean cheesecake.

you’re picking at the glob of blueberry on top when your mother speaks again. “i must say, mark, you seem like an extremely nice young man. where are you planning to pursue studies?”

“yale is up there for sure,” he says. “if not somewhere here on the west coast, miss.”

she’s swelling, at this point, with indirect pride, and she has to find it in herself to usher him out politely.

he says he needs to run an errand first and so crosses the street, not to enter his house, where you can spot his dads’ figures through the curtainless living room window, but to enter his car. you watch as he gets in and starts the engine, and then your mother closes the door. she retires to bed early with a forehead kiss, maybe from the exhaustion of cooking and serving, while your dad quietly finishes washing the saucers from dessert.

you think for a second, then run to change into your sleeping clothes.

mark watches his dads close the curtains and he can tell they’re well on their way upstairs. he sighs, trying to register and relive the fantastic dinner that just happened. everything was great, save for (or especially) the game of footsie you’d decided to instigate at one point.

god, you were fucking irresistible.

he’s headed to the nearest convenience store to buy something, but his mind is fuzzy with images of you—smiling, laughing, tucking hair behind your ear, winking when your parents aren’t paying attention.

he leans back and closes his eyes.

it’s during this brief, suspended moment of closed eyes and 10pm silence, where his breath smells like blueberries and his car’s windows are down to let out the stuffy freshener scent, that he hears the rapid footsteps increasing in volume.

he barely has time to open his eyes and investigate—if he did, he might have seen you come out from the back door, round your house, cross the lawn, and eventually the street, in your usual nightwear of lace and shorts—it’s pink this time. but he doesn’t, though, and instead he experiences the auditory sensation of the passenger seat being pulled open and you climbing onto the seat.

but you’re not here to sit beside him and idly wait, no. you’re on him immediately. your hair drapes over the both of you but suddenly your lips are on his, and he doesn’t care about anything else.

the kiss turns into two and three and seven in a matter of seconds. your hands are relentless, roaming all over him, on his chest, his abs, over his shirt, his belt loops, while you harden the kiss.

his hands, much bigger than yours, adjust accordingly to examine the flimsy lace material of your sleeping top. the strap falls over your shoulder and he lets his thumb graze over your barely covered nipple. you shiver into the kiss.

you pull away, then pull him closer to kiss him hard, one last time. you’re both hot and flushed and you can feel your panties dampening.

“bye.” your breaths mingle, toothpaste and blueberry. and then you’re gone, walking with the sort of suave one only gains after striking a makeout session with their hot, older crush.

november flurries into december with a rush of cold breeze in a crude western replacement of snow.

the weather is still humid but mark cherishes the breezy nights anyway, because it means getting to witness your makeshift fashion shows where you show off your short skirts and tight tops before anyone else sees them, lengthened and loosened.

your escapades have grown in promiscuity as of late, ergo he’s begun to tell you what he wants to do to you over the scratchy phone. “wanna flip that skirt up and feel you,” he’d say, relishing in your whimpers, clearly affected by his phrasing.

for all the filth that makes up your conversations, you’re both awfully meek in the halls of school. your interactions are limited to brief nodding and small smiles and long stares, not anything of the overly flirtatious variety. you resort to clutching your biology textbook extra tight when he passes by to somehow release the arousal welling up inside you.

but once you’re alone, there’s kissing—in janitor’s closets, under the bleachers, where his hand sneaks up your skirt and brushes over the lace trim of your underwear or thigh highs.

there’s you humping his thigh like a bunny in heat, in the backseat of his car while he sits back, arms folded behind his head as he watches you turn more and more desperate for climax, obscured by the sheer tint of his windows.

it’s an unsuspecting friday when you pull him aside and into an unlocked supply closet and, in the middle of open-mouthed kisses, ask if he can “please fuck me, markie, my parents aren’t home.”

maybe it’s because you’re so fucking cute—offering your virginity to him now, small whimpers leaving your mouth when his denim-clad knee bumps against the apex of your thighs, or maybe it’s because you’re such a fucking tease—whether it be licking over a popsicle or bending over just for him—but mark could never have found it in himself to say no.

“wore this skirt for me, princess?” his hand never seems to stop fiddling with its hem as you tug him into your room. you bite your lip, rolling your eyes as he latches his lips onto your neck.

“don’t flatter yourself,” you moan, but his smirk against your skin—you feel it—tells you everything you need to know. “shut up.” you both fall back onto your bed, butterflies flapping like wild in your stomach as he hikes your skirt up, revealing your lace panties underneath.

“d’you—d’you like it?”

his eyes are dark. “you’re so fucking”—he inhales, as if to steady himself—“cute.”

he notes, dazedly, that your panties have formed a dark spot from how wet you are.

“i mean, fuck. your first time and you’re already so desperate for me,” he says. his voice is raspy with arousal.

“shut up,” you respond, flustered. “mark, so—i just—please.”

“okay, doll,” he says, like he knows exactly what you’re asking for.

he bends down and presses a chaste kiss to the ribbon at the center of your underwear, before hooking his fingers onto it and tugging it, but not hard enough to pull them down. “this okay?” you shiver when his thumb swipes up your clothed slit, your thighs shaking.

“yes, fuck, it’s okay—mark,” you whine.

“patience,” he orders, pulling your panties down. his thumb rubs sleepy circles against your clit. you’re so delightfully ready for him despite your blatant inexperience, and the thought sends blood rushing straight to his cock. “if you can wait, it’ll feel good, baby.”

you nod, a nonverbal greenlight for him to keep going. “okay,” you add as an extra measure. you peek down to find him staring in between your spread legs and, hit by a sudden rush of humiliation, you attempt to close them.

he pries them open again. “don’t be shy. your little cunt is so pretty, baby, can’t wait to have this around my cock.”

“mark!” you yelp. “stop using such…such…dirty…ahhh—language,” you attempt to articulate the words but he has a finger slowly working in and out of you now.

he grins to himself at how ruined you look after a single finger and some teasing. he increases his pace, witnessing in real time how debauched you look.

“more, please,” you moan, bucking your hips up. “more.”

he laughs a little, but inserts a second finger anyway, slowly scissoring them apart. he begins speeding up his pace until your moans increase in volume and frequency, a glob of slick leaving your cunt again. the sight of your dainty fingers, bunching up the cotton of your pale floral bedsheets—it’s a stark contrast of innocence and dirtiness, and mark revels in the image.

he wants so badly to flip you over, breed you and fuck you hard—but he can’t, not yet.

he likes it, anyway, corrupting you like this. even if you’re the tease. he’s already painfully hard watching you crumble like this, and fuck you’re only growing wetter. “i—fuck, it—wanna cum, mark,�� you say, your voice coming out in a singular pathetic plea.

“shh,” he says. “come on, princess. you can cum if you want to.”

“it—oh, my god, it feels s’good—mmmff! i can’t—it’s—fuck, mark, please,” you’re rambling, your fingers gripping your bedsheets so tight that you have to redirect your grip onto mark’s wrist to slow him down.

your inexperience has allowed you to never feel this kind of peak before: it’s so much all at once.

mark withdraws his fingers, mesmerized by the string of slick that connects them to your core. your hold on his wrist loosens, following his hand as he wipes his digits across your lips before inserting them past his, enjoying the way your eyes glaze over at the sight alone.

you need to have something else inside you—his fingers feel so good, and god it’s just two of them? you shiver at the imagination alone of his girth filling you up, the burn being replaced by pleasure.

you can almost taste it. you think of the real thing, and you need it so bad—your hands are nimble at the zipper of his jeans. he releases a guttural groan at your sudden eagerness, hands finding purchase on either side of your head. “baby,” he grunts. “patience, right? i said patience.”

“i don’t want to be patient,” you whine, your attempts at removing his jeans futile, “i want you to fuck me.”

“y’know, good girls know how to listen,” he emphasizes, pulling your hands away and placing them at your sides.

he hikes your sweater off of you, pausing when he sees your white lace bra to bury his face in between your tits. “can you listen?” you arch your back so he can reach behind, undernath you, and unclasp it. “are you a good girl?”

you exhale. “i’ll be good.”

“yeah, atta girl,” he praises, traveling downwards again. “can’t believe i’m finally gonna fuck this pretty little pussy.”

“fuck,” you whimper. “please, anything—just—god,”

“not my name,” he mumbles before latching his lips onto your sopping cunt.

you’re not sure what it is—if it’s your inexperience or his skill, or both—but having him eat you out feels like heaven. your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly. he groans, but continues to lick at your folds, pushing his tongue into your hole.

mark is extremely good at using his tongue, if his ministrations on your clit are anything to go by. you cant your hips upwards, whimpering. “wan’ you to fuck me.”

“yeah?” he grins, locking eyes with you for a second before diving back in, the expanse of his tongue licking up your wet cunt. you wail out, legs tightening around his head before he pulls away from your pussy. “kinda wanna keep tasting you.”

“mark,” you beg hoarsely, voice worn.

his tongue is back on your clit, two fingers working their way in, and your stomach tightens—the feeling is overwhelming, good and nerve-wracking all at once. you search for his free hand to squeeze it and somehow channel your pleasure into the grip. “pleasepleaseplease, fuck! please!”

his fingers piston in and out of you, the squelch of your cunt loud in the otherwise quiet room. he grins and his lips are shiny with your slick. “cum for me, baby.”

“wait,” you gasp, air knocked out of you. “ah—wait, it’s too muuu—hmmf! i—fuck—!”

you can’t even cry out, your thighs trembling as your orgasm washes over you in unstable, shaking waves. your grip on mark’s wrist is tight, loosening only when you stop riding out your high.

you exhale slowly, blinking your tears away as you gaze up at mark. he stares back, half in awe and half in arousal. “you did so well, sweetheart,” he coos, smiling. he pulls his fingers out, licking over them.

“really?” you ask, grinning. “will you fuck me now, then?”

he grunts, a smirk on his face as he unbuckles his belt. “only because you’re asking like a good girl.”

“i’d hate to be naughty,” you retort, your foot tracing the inseam of his dark jeans. you bite your lip.

“don’t try,” he warns. you watch with curious eyes as he produces a condom, biting it lightly while he removes his jeans and eventually pulls his cock out. your eyes widen.

“that’s not gonna fit,” you say hopelessly.

he inhales. “you’re driving me fucking crazy, baby.”

you giggle as he puts the condom on and then he’s lifting your legs to rest on either side of his shoulders. he kisses your inner ankle and then starts thrusting into you, slowly at first, gauging your face. your eyes glaze over once your pussy starts stretching to accomodate him, brows knitted together.

“good?” he asks, trying to take his focus off of how tight and warm you feel around his cock.

“da—dandy,” you joke, giggling breathily. “fuck, you’re so big, markie.”

“it’ll fit, baby, just relax a sec,” he reassures in hushed tones. he leans down, to kiss your neck and distract you from the stretch that quickly grows in discomfort. your toes curl and you sigh, long and drawn out—and finally, he bottoms out.

he shuts his eyes. one of your legs drops from his shoulder, and you wrap it around his waist, urging him forward. “it’s taking everything in me to not fuck you stupid right now,” he admits breathlessly.

“why not?” you ask. “move, please.”

“why not?” he repeats with a slight laugh, beginning to move. he pulls out and thrusts back in, causing you to whimper. the discomfort is rapidly replaced by pleasure. “why no—‘cause you’re so fucking precious, sweetheart. i’d hate to break you.”

his thrusts are gaining speed, his hips meeting your ass more and more frequently. your lips open in a silent scream, and you bite them closed. “mmmmfh,” you moan. “more, markie. harder, fuck.”

“hear that?” you try to peel yourself away from the pleasure and focus on the room’s noises. all you hear is—fuck. you nod and mark grins, completing the sentence for you.

“yeah?” he licks his lips. “baby can hear it? your cunt is so wet, it’s making so much noise, sucking me in ‘cause it’s so greedy.”

“yea, yeah,” you blubber dumbly. “yeah, want your cock.” his cock is so big, and thick, and it’s stretching you out in the best way, hitting a sweet spot inside you that makes you go dumb. “harder,” you plead, “markie, please, gonna cum, fuck. can’t—i can’t—”

both your legs are wrapped around his waist now, shaking with pleasure as you bite your lip.

mark watches you fall apart, tears in your eyes from the overstimulation. “see, baby,” he begins, his hand dropping to your clit to rub at it. you seize immediately, wailing out and gripping your sheets. “this is what you get when you go around teasing me in your little panties and skirts. you wanted this, baby. so take it. take it like a good girl and cum all over markie’s cock.”

“mark,” you moan. “fuck—please, i, shit, mmmf—!” your whines taper into louder cries when you feel the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. pushed over the edge, you’re finally cumming all over mark’s cock. he buries his head into your neck, groaning as he finally releases in you.

the thought of him cumming inside you sends a thrill up your spine, lips curling into a smile as your fingers thread into his hair and you think of the idea of next time.

–

“thank you again, mark, for helping her out.”

your mother beams at mark, aka your new physics teacher for the summer. her arm is tight around your shoulders as you smile shyly back at him, toying with the hem of your sundress. your mother nudges you, coercing you into saying your own thanks.

“thanks, mark. you’ve been a big help.” you bite your lip as he adjusts his baseball cap, grinning and jogging across the street.

“i’ve gotta go,” you say quickly, extracting yourself from your mother’s arms with a kiss. you flop onto your bed soon after, waiting by the phone.

after all, mark’s going to call soon, and you’re sure he wants you to describe how his cum feels in your sopping cunt.

–

#mark lee smut #mark smut

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aquilaofarkham · 3 years ago

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title: only then i am human, only then i am clean rating: M (canon-typical violence, gore, horror, ritualistic cults, discussions of pregnancy, mild suggestive themes) word count: 9,594 summary: After a diplomatic visit to an isolated commune goes horribly wrong, Alucard is forced to confront a much more monstrous side of himself. Meanwhile Trevor and Sypha try to offer comfort despite their shock.

Written for day 4 of @trephacardweek! The prompt was dirty/clean/touch ❤️

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Wallachia is not a small country, yet its scope seems to diminish with each passing day. Word travels fast whether by horse, wagon, or foot. Rumours and gossip flourish the same as in a noble’s parlour or as crops prosper during a good harvest. And just like a lord with an unshakable grudge or a sudden cruel frost, rumours can change the instant they take root.

Do you know about the new village near that manor?

The one that burned down fifteen years ago?

Well, I heard they actually named it after those black magicians and devil worshippers.

No, that family wasn’t evil. They were always protecting us.

Their last surviving son is a hero.

If only it were so easy to put that much faith into the common people. Not the ones nurtured under a leader who carries a good if not insane head atop her shoulders. He means the tavern crawlers, the goat farmers, the church devotees, those pushing through life with what little they carry in their hands and in their heads. Maybe they did realize how wrong they were about the origins of his village’s namesake. They’re the ones who reached out, after all. Delivered a letter requesting conversation between communities despite their isolation. If lies can spread like the plague, surely the truth can as well. But Alucard has misinterpreted people before, consequences of which turned out for the greater good and the greatest regret.

Sitting on the front porch of a simple yet homely cottage, breathing in the cool October air while surrounding trees of orange and red emit silence, it grants him a sense of clarity. The place was rented only for the night, thanks to an aging groundskeeper who forsake the traditional single inn in favour of better business: multiple cabins used by other hunters and travellers looking for some privacy to pair with their rest. During a two day journey out to god knows where, it came as a blessing. The groundskeeper might have said the same thing about the three travellers’ generous patronage—were he not already aware of their growing reputation. A hunter who carries a slight limp as scars encircle his entire right arm, a man with unnatural eyes coupled with pointed canines, and a clearly pregnant magician traveling side by side would of course raise a number of wary eyebrows regardless of past deeds.

“Not a single monster around these parts so no trouble from either of you.”

Personally, the hunter had heard better greetings from businessmen but the small group obliged his request and slept together like the dead. If Alucard was a more narrow minded man, he would buy the cottage for himself as a retreat from the constant bustling of the world at large. To enjoy peace and quiet as life’s purest vices. Well, him and a few other persons. In reality, he is content with its intended temporary purposes.

Content is an apt descriptor of Alucard’s life as it currently stands. Not quite enough for him to leave his sword and cape upon their pedestals before setting out on a diplomatic mission, but still content with the way things are now.

For the first time in my life, I have absolutely no idea what happens next. I just have this feeling that it’s going to be worth it. He cannot read the future, no one can be they human or vampire. Nostradamus was an anomaly in the annals of history. Knowing that fault, it might have been naive of Alucard to say such a bold proclamation. Yet some divine force must have stopped fucking about to hear him speak those words and actually listened. This life is good, he worked hard for it with more tears than sweat and certainly more blood than both combined. A life protected, but has every possibility of being taken away all the same.

Alucard won’t dwell on that fear, not when current matters demand his attention as representative of Belmont Village. He instead reaches into his pocket and rereads the letter stained with black ink and brown splotches along the edges. Dirty, so dirty. Most likely from the long arduous journey inside an equally ragged messenger’s pouch. It’s not a cry for help as he’s used to receiving but rather a cry for connection, allyship, negotiation. Things every developing village must take into account when it comes to setting up good relations between neighbours. Greta insisted on keeping a watchful eye on things at home, much to Alucard’s fear. Still trying to take her advice of being around the human half of himself as much as his heart can handle, until his planned excuses were scattered to the four winds when two others volunteered as delegates. Suddenly, meeting new people didn’t seem so horrifying.

“We’re ready. Sorry for the wait.”

He turns around at the sound of Trevor’s lackadaisy voice. The Belmont holds himself a little more carefully these days, not as spry or quick as he used to be. Thankfully (and depending on how well he behaves), it will take a good decade or a dozen years before he requires a cane. With Sypha at his side, the two meander onto the porch and shut the cabin door, leaving the key in a discreet location, lest they endure another blundering encounter with the groundskeeper. They seem to glow surrounded by the warm colours of autumn, though it could be due to how soundly each of them rested the night before. Sypha’s is a different sort of glow. Trevor caresses her six month bump, afterwards mimicked by Alucard’s gloved hand once he’s standing. Like rubbing a good luck charm to protect the three of them—four to be exact.

“What did you do with the chicken bones?” He asks Trevor.

“Tossed in a ditch a ways from the other cabins last night. Some wolves or foxes might appreciate them.”

“Do we have enough left for the journey back?”

“We have…” Sypha rummages through one of the burlap sacks. It feels considerably less heavy than when their little troupe embarked. “More strips of dried goat, a pound of sirloin, and a few apples.”

Furrowing his brow, Alucard checks their rations himself. Not that he doesn’t believe Sypha; he’s only curious about this abundance of meat. “And Trevor packed everything, correct?”

“Well, I helped. Something wrong?”

“Just… it’s a lot of meat even after last night’s feast.”

Trevor overhears the conversation as he finishes preparing their horses. “Don’t pin all the blame on me. Pregnancy apparently turns you into a carnivore.”

“Oh… how are you feeling, Sypha?”

“Fine! I promise you I am fine. Just hungrier than usual. And Trevor’s right…” She rubs her stomach, managing to stay light upon both feet. “This little one seems to have an appetite for meat.”

“Good. When the time comes, they will be born healthy and strong. But there’s no shame in resting for another day. I’m sure our benefactors will understand and I will haggle with that groundskeeper if need be.”

Sypha’s eyes narrow, a crease forming between them. Like something rotten passed through or a string of poorly times words sounded inadvertently offensive. “Count your blessings—both of you—that you did not just ask me to turn around and ride in the direction of the village.”

Both men shrink, tongue tied, nervous of the Speaker’s wrath. Neither of them were going to suggest it in the first place, but the months have gone by too quickly. Before there was barely anything, now they see the semblance of a child biding its time. How could they not voice concerns? Even so, they are unable to explain themselves. Sypha scoffs as though pleased with the mild fear she’s just wrought.

“I am riding a horse and spending a couple hours on my very sturdy feet. That is all. You worry too much.”

“Well, it’s sort of our job now.”

Sypha gives Trevor a well-meaning punch to his arm along with a chuckle. Secretly, she adores the added attention, within and without a convenient bedroom where she can truly, unabashedly enjoy it. Doesn’t mean she’s lost the ability to tease, prodding at their most sensitive bits. Trevor glances at Alucard as if to wordlessly say with cocked lips, “thank god she hasn’t lost her touch”. He smiles in return. The dhampir and hunter need to stay on their toes despite these times of peace.

Three horses set off mid morning carrying three travellers in high spirits. Late noon comes and three apples are eaten before the journey carries on. Deeper into the forest they trek, creating a trail all their own through the dying brush. Soon every colour of the season will fade into stark neutrals as snow replaces leaves upon the ground and skeleton branches reveal themselves behind lush foliage. Winter is on its way, swift as the death of nature, which is why this visit must be completed now before Wallachia falls into its deep cold sleep.

Autumn days are short. The longer the ride, the darker the skies. Not quite nightfall yet but far from the familiarity of daylight. Alucard almost reaches into his pocket for the letter again, grateful for his better eyes while wondering if he misread the directions, until Trevor points ahead.

“That what we’re looking for?”

He follows the outstretched finger, settling on a path of lights hovering in mid air. Except none of them are actually floating with no supports. Torches illuminate deep into the woods where it seems few have traversed before. Alucard should have suspected as much; the letter did mention the word “isolated”. Yet nothing this dark, this quiet, or this lonely came to mind. They ride closer over uneven terrain until it’s too much for the horses, snorting then loudly whinnying in protest. Each one fervently digs their hooves into the dirt.

“Easy, girl, easy…” Trevor pats his horse’s neck. Always a man more compliant with beasts rather than people—less of those finicky complicated emotions. He makes the wise decision of dismounting, silently encouraging the others to do the same. Nowhere to go now but onwards still. The horses comply for a couple more feet before stopping entirely.

“Should we—” Sypha begins but Alucard already has her answer.

“We’ll tie them to the trees. They will be fine here.”

The other two agree with one of those statements. As they secure each rein around a sturdy trunk, Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard remain close. Occasionally, hands will embrace hands purely for reassurance. A physical way of saying, “I’m still here. I won’t let the darkness consume you”. Pathways scattered with light are supposed to bring guidance to wanderers, a sense of ease from the tribulations of travel, yet Alucard feels none of that. He brushes it off as merely a symptom of their lengthy journey.

A different light appears at the end of the torches in the form of a human figure. Two more join their comrade, also dressed in the typical rags of farmers, peasants, people of the land. Harmless. Relatively gaunt for their statutes while their bloodshot eyes further betray poor displays of health. These countrymen need sleep, proper bathing, and food most importantly. They seemed deprived of everything, even good blood judging from their lack of colour. It��s lucky they reached out for help when they did.

“Are you from the village Belmont?” The first man hangs his head slightly low, deepening the dark circles beneath his hollow eyes.

“We are. You know me as Alucard. No ‘the’, please. I’ve come with Trevor Belmont and Sypha Belnades as representatives. It said in your letter that you would like to negotiate terms of trade between our communities. Is that correct?”

The people respond with empty stares then look to each other, their exchanged glances brief yet heavy, like carrying out a wordless discussion between themselves. No one can decipher whatever they’re saying despite it happening right in front of them.

“Follow us.”

The dreadful unease returns. Perhaps being led into the unending heart of the forest by strangers who don’t seem altogether there is the root cause. Or the faint stench of something metallic wafting through the stagnant air which Alucard cannot shake nor can he discern where it’s originating. It could be both reasons or more. He wants to voice, or rather whisper, his concerns to Trevor and Sypha. Better them first than saying the wrong thing to their guides. But then Sypha commits her only mistake: she speaks to them first.

“So… where are your community leaders?”

The woods people stop, nearly causing a collision. Their answer to Sypha’s legitimate and responsible nature comes in the form of quivering… laughter? Alucard hears it as such, so does Trevor based on his expression of equal confusion. Before either one can demand the meaning of this, the silence of the trees is broken when Alucard’s arms, chest, neck, and legs start burning.

“GAAH!”

It happened too quickly. He should have heard the other humans rustling in the nearby bushes, following them the entire way. Unable to reach for his sword or transfigure into a wolf, bats, mist, anything his father taught him, Alucard violently sucks in air through teeth and flared nostrils. Smoke and the same smell of metal fill his exasperated lungs. It feels like something is tearing through his clothes to mark itself on his skin—silver chains. No. No, no, no, no. Not again. Not now. Alucard refocuses his mania back to the present. This isn’t only about him. Trevor and Sypha, where they are and if they managed to retaliate. His eyes dart in frantic directions, trying to locate them, widening when he does.

Trevor, always the apt fighter even with weakened muscles and bones, immediately counters with a swing at one of the men’s jawline, breaking it with a satisfactory crack. But his cohorts gain the upper hand by finding that very spot near the Belmont’s shin where a single well-placed kick sends him straight to the ground. Overwhelmed, they hold him firm against the dirt and mud with their boots atop his body. Trevor bares his teeth, angry, rageful, even more so when he sees Sypha.

Holding off her attackers with fire incantations, relishing their screams when they burn, until concern for the safety of her child overrides concern for her own. She briefly places a hand on her stomach to shield it and the woods people take advantage of this open window. They hook a line around her throat, pulling her backwards before binding her wrists so her spells mean nothing and do nothing. Snarling and cursing, her head lobbing in all directions. Alucard has never seen Sypha this overcome with fury, though he never doubted her ability to lose control.

He can’t focus on her forever as something else emerges from the brush, crawling forward on elongated limbs then standing upright. Alucard recognizes these creatures but only from his father’s books—the only place where he ever wanted to encounter them. Ancient vampires, perhaps older than most concepts of time. White skin, paler than fresh snow yet more grotesque, and naked without a single hair from top to bottom. Sypha continues to curse about how she’ll fucking kill every last one of them until one human woman with unhinged eyes finally answers her first question.

“Our leaders are here.”

The three of them remain on the ground before this amalgamation of insane monsters and equally insane humans. Sacrificing their freedoms, their health, and their lives to become familiars. All for a taste of immortality that may or may not be granted unto them. All because they fear the natural inevitability of death, that endless abyss. Alucard would speak every indecency towards them if he were not already occupied with numbing his own pain.

“You could never hide from us,” rasps one vampire still creeping on all fours.

“Not when you announce your home named after Lord Dracul’s murderer.” Another chimes in. Unlike the common blood drinker who can barely keep their selfish ego from growing into a tumour, these vampires seem more cooperative. They speak in tandem like a single minded hive.

“That’s it? That’s what this is all about? You freaks are still angry because your lord ate shit and then kicked it? Well, you’re not bringing him back. Others have tried and even got close but all failed miserably before dying themselves so just give up and go rot somewhere in a fucking ditch!”

Alucard winces at Trevor’s proclamation, thinking about the memories in his childhood bedroom deformed, defiled, and now gone. The moment passes. Trevor is angry, stressed, as he has every right to be. We say things we don’t consider for a second when we’re angry. It’s more important that their lives are being toyed with in a cat and mouse situation.

“We did not bring you here to avenge Dracul.”

“We were never under his command.”

“We follow a different master.”

“The one who bestowed upon us these gifts.”

“The one who made us pure.”

“The one who feeds off the end of a mortal life.”

Sypha calms herself and loosens the restraint around her neck enough to decipher their cryptid sayings. “Death? You worshipped Death?”

“Long way to go for a dusty pile of bones who’d rather take a shit on his followers than give a damn about any of you.”

The vampires suddenly turn on Trevor. They strain their vocal chords into shrill howls, fangs chattering and long forked tongues flicking in and out of their lipless mouths. He glances at Alucard, both their foreheads drenched in perspiration for different reasons. I think I pissed them off.

“Do not speak blasphemy against the master!”

“Lies! Lies! Snakes on his tongue!”

“Killer! Murderer! Killer of Death!”

Piercing through the painful fog caused by the silver, Alucard experiences a moment of clarity. An idea. Risky, perhaps stupid, but stupid is all he can rely on. “Stop!” He yells, hoping to distract them away from his friends, his loved ones. Those he fought for since the beginning even when he didn’t realize it. The vampires pause and listen.

“He didn’t kill Death. I did. I killed Dracula too. I erected a town for humans atop their ashes to spite them. If you desire revenge, then take me but let them go.”

Trevor and Sypha turn to him, shocked. Begging with their gaze. They know of Alucard’s sacrificial nature but hoped he would never resort to it. It doesn’t matter though as the vampires gag then spit out the bait.

“Liars. All of you.”

“We care not who dealt the final blow.”

“Who carried out the killing strike.”

“All three of you are at fault.”

“Your village, its humans, a stain upon our master’s grave and memory.”

“Tonight we carry out his final wish.”

One familiar with his boot on the back of Trevor’s skull starts to plead. “Let us have the half vampire. Please. Give him to us. Feast on the other two. We want him! We want to see if he bleeds like a vampire or human!”

Just as quick as he began whining and raving, his eyes are scratched out by a vampire too fast for the normal eye to catch. He weeps, legs crumpling to the ground in a pitiful display, but doesn’t shriek. Too mad for even that.

“Fools! Mortal sacks of pig blood and shit.”

“He is too strong for any of you.”

“Take the hunter and magician. Kill them with your knives and hands if you must. Leave the traitor son to us.”

Half of the remaining familiars grumble but dare not speak against their masters. Alucard watches as Trevor and Sypha are dragged away to some darker corner of the forest, struggling to the best of their abilities. Then they’re gone. He waits for the shouts, the curses, bones breaking and meat gouged. Frozen, in pain, panicking. His trapped skin reeks of blood and seared flesh. Don’t cry. Don’t cry from the fear or the agony or your mounting rage.

What can he do? What else is there to do? He can use his sword, wherever it lies. He just needs to picture it.

His mind won’t let him. Alucard cannot think of how to save himself. He only thinks of death among those supposed to be his own kind.

“The magician is with child. The hunter’s? Or yours?”

“Matters not. All bloodlines end tonight.”

“Yours.”

“His.”

“Hers.”

“Everyone’s.”

Trevor, torn to pieces. Sypha, her throat slashed. Greta, her blood drained along with the entire Belmont Village. Everyone dead, all because he wanted to be kind again. To trust humanity. The images of what’s to come in the future flash before him, distracting from the vampires’ hideous contorted faces as they laugh and taunt and fill his ears with terrible possibilities worse than anything Alucard can think of. The anger blocks it out. All he can hear is the blood pounding its way into his ears, telling him something different.

It whispers so convincingly. Everything he loves, everything he risked protecting, everything he rightfully earned, gone. There is no question of if; it will be taken away from him, brutal and terrible. Why hold back his own capacity for monstrousness. Why not meet evil with evil. It’s a dirty thing to do. Dirty, so dirty, like the taste of blood from a wicked man.

Alucard waits for the first vampire to lean in before lunging forward and biting open their neck, his teeth elongated to unnatural lengths. The whites of his eyes are replaced with pure endless black while blood seeps into his yellow irises. By sheer untapped strength, he breaks free and further forgets his sword. His claws are faster this way, more unforgiving. The familiars who stayed behind are the first to die as well as the quickest. Lucky them. Their bodies rip easily. Alucard’s own skin tears as well. His skeletal structure rearranges itself both with and without his consent.

He screams the only way a frightened, angry animal knows how. There is only a blood red darkness before his eyes.

Sypha Belnades and her handsome sidekick, often mistaken for a misshapen bear, have done this dance before. Cultists of this, fanatics of that, worshippers of whichever supernatural madman of the month sounds more appealing. They crawl out from the bloodsoaked underbelly of Wallachia like squirming maggots. Everyone's the same, their purposes unoriginal. Only the methods change but even those have become old tricks. If not for the added risk of Alucard, their community, their child not yet welcomed into this world, and their own physical barriers, it might even be boring.

Regardless of how hardened this world has turned them, it doesn’t make the anger any colder or the urgency any less pressing. Trevor’s blood feels hot, boiling through his veins, while Sypha’s fingertips tingle with sparks. He reluctantly watches her captors push her towards a stone slab darkened by the remains of past offerings—presumably. They’ve seen pedestals like this before. It seems so long ago. Helpless children wetting them with frightened tears until someone with a whip and another with magic rushes in and gives back their short lives.

Sypha’s head is shoved against the top, her body forced into an undignified kneeling position. She doesn’t swear or spit or cry out. Nothing will come of that. Her eyes burn and she waits. Waits until she hears the withdrawal of some large blade—an axe or cleaver. Not that it matters when the back of her head collides with the unlucky executioner situated directly behind the apparent sacrifice. Teeth fragments fall to the ground, blood spurts from his nose and eyes, placing the familiars in a state of shock. They expected none of this, less of which the moment when Sypha frees one hand, reaches for the cloak brooch that’s been in her life longer than her own birth parents, and blinds everyone unfortunate to find themselves in her vicinity.

Trevor’s pride is outweighed by his own self-preservation. Disarming the last few with some well-timed kicks and punches is a time honoured Belmont tradition, but he isn’t happy. It’s not enough to break in their faces or crack their femurs; he wants them gone for good.

When a certain last son was still woefully unprepared with a family whip left for him in the rubble of his home, Trevor saved himself on multiple occasions with a knife in his boot. Other and far more formidable weapons fell into his lap, he eventually got better with the whip, but the knife stayed with him to this very moment. He always thought he’d need it one day when circumstances said otherwise. Sometimes well placed paranoia can keep one alive a day more than if they viewed the world as white, not in shades of varying grey. Few things get the job done better than a knife to the gut, back, or neck.

Sypha uses the last of her energy to raze those still alive into burnt artifices made to resemble human beings. She gags on scorched flesh as her knees meet the dirt once again. Barely a second passes before Trevor is by her side.

“Sypha! You alright? Where does it hurt? Show me where it hurts.”

“I’m fine. More tired than usual, that’s all.”

“What about the kid? Our baby, Sypha. Is it—” He squeezes her hand. Sypha responds to his unchecked strength by reassuringly patting his stubbled cheek once she’s standing.

“Also fine. I can feel the devil kicking up a storm. I think they want to fight as well.”

Trevor exhales as though it’s the first breath he’s let out all night. “That wouldn’t surprise me.” Placing his palm over her swollen belly. She’s right. Their little warrior, still kicking, still moving, still alive. They both are, same as him.

Another deathly chorus cuts through the trees. The two of them are used to similar sounds (sometimes being the ones who cause them), but not like this. Trevor feels his bones rattle; Sypha’s heart plummets into her already queasy stomach. It sits there for a disturbing amount of time while the screams and helpless chokes carry on their sickening death rattles, then stop. The comfort of their own survival is short-lived as they remember Alucard, desperate to know his place during the brief carnage. Was he fighting those things? Barely vampires, at least not the sort they’ve come to know.

Trevor and Sypha hurry back to the meeting place of debasement and humiliation. None of them would have thought twice about how they were treated, but it hurt all the more especially after they floated through what was meant to be a hopeful day. Upon arrival, they cover their lower faces, assaulted by air so wretched with death, blood, and other bodily fluids neither one wants to think about. Forced to compose themselves, forced to look at the sight before them.

This is the first time Trevor Belmont of the House of Belmont has ever been stunned into pure silence. Not since the fire.

The ground is soft; dirt and mud thick with blood. Their boots sink into the monster made marsh with every uneasy step forward. Like walking atop bodies until Sypha’s foot unknowingly crashes through a disemboweled ribcage. The shock is too great for her to even flinch. They find more pieces scattered to the ditches and hills. Gutted, mutilated, torn asunder. There is no identity here, nothing recognizable or identifiable. Familiars and vampires meld together in a cacophony of mangled flesh. Organs, bones, it’s all the same. Hearts smashed into pulp, tangled intestines, blackened livers, crushed skulls, and burst lungs. Brain matter scattered across the ground. They all look alike on the inside. The rest of the forest is dry. Here, it rains red. The trees and leaves, dripping. A fat drop falls into Trevor’s eye, snapping him back to the present.

He never witnessed the real fall of Targoviste. Despondent Gresit only supplied him with a brief tasting of hell on earth. Lindenfield was the same, meager and short, yet enough all the same. Enough death and hopelessness. Those forsaken places now have one more in good company, one more addition to their lexicon of horror.

“I can’t find Alucard.”

Sypha’s shaken tone causes Trevor to jump after a prolonged moment of tense and unpleasant quietness. It also helps refocus him. Her voice could bring anyone back from the dissociative abyss. He rejoins her side only to see that she’s not all there either. Eyes wide, unable to tear themselves away while the rest of her body remains immobile, save for the continuous trembling. Trevor follows her gaze and notices a different set of footprints imprinted deep in the bloody soil, neither human nor vampire. Nothing their size or smaller. If he were to place his hand inside the outline, the print would swallow it whole.

“Something else did this. I couldn’t find Alucard, but, but I found those. They were not there before. I can’t find him, Trevor. Everyone’s faces, they… they all look the same. That thing must have... Trevor, he’s—” Sypha fights against herself. Normally so certain in her words and how she speaks, until now.

She recalls that night when the sky above Dracula’s ruined castle exploded with a blinding light. The earth shook, a final war cry bellowed out, and then there was nothing. No Death, no Germain, and no Trevor. The following seconds felt like hours when she had to face the realization of what happened. How she tried to deny and rationalize the inevitable. Not again. Sypha hoped she would never again have to live through such pain. She holds her belly for comfort, perhaps in the last frivolous hope that something, some cosmic sign will tell her that she’s wrong.

Before, she managed to pull Trevor away from a dark state of mind with her voice. He does the same with his hands. Holding her shoulders wracked with shakes, he takes his thumb and rubs her hot cheeks before the tears can fall.

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey, listen to me. We know him. He’d never give up as easily as any of these creeps. I can’t see his clothes anywhere, so he must have gotten away somehow.”

Sypha presses her lips together, tight. She swallows past the lump in her throat and nods; not entirely convinced but it satisfies Trevor. He glances back towards the tracks leading away from the wreckage.

“Let’s follow those. Maybe he chased the beast into the woods.”

“I don’t see his footprints. It might have dragged him away.”

“Then all the more reason to go after it.”

She agrees, though with more doubt eating at her conscience. The beastial tracks thankfully lead them to clean air yet even more tumultuous ground. Whatever left them clearly wanted to lose whoever felt foolish enough to follow. With no second pair of footprints, the thought of Alucard helpless, in a worse state, dragged by some night creature they’ve yet encountered brings their dread to new heights.

Onwards Trevor and Sypha stalk their prey, helping each other over hills and rocks, always questioning if either of them will be able to fight it. The opening of a large cavern suddenly appears behind the dense tree brush. There’s no end, no back wall, only a deep void. Trevor wanders inside first, Sypha close behind, her hands ready. Each finger brimming with the sensation of fire, ice, lightning, anything that will make this monster suffer the same way Alucard did.

Something breathes. The cavern fills with hot air and the same bloody stench. They’ve found it, just as abominable as the carnage it wrought. Grey leathery skin blends into the darkness and with every heavy breath, the cave seems to move alongside its hulking mass. Stone walls can barely contain its massive wings, pointed, sharp, and stretched to their limit over an impossible bone structure. Claws fresh with blood rake at the dirt while the tips of its horns pierce the rough ceiling. Kept in a cage of its own body. Trevor and Sypha prepare themselves, but the one thing they weren’t expecting was the creature capable of speech. Knives scratch their way up its throat with only two short words.

“Go away.”

It’s not unusual for night creatures to speak. One memorable blue fang in Gresit trapped behind ice, warning them about the armies from hell before its head split in two, was the most articulate Trevor had ever heard. Most are intelligent beings, same as they must have been before death, before some necromancer got their kicks from playing with predetermined fate. This beasty speaks again, longer and with more malice dripping off its gore-covered fangs. Every syllable echoes off the cave walls, shaking the two humans down to their very core.

“I said leave. Run. Don’t look at me.”

Since entering its domain, Trevor had the feeling this night creature was different. A tickling sensation in the back of his mind. Call it a hunter’s intuition (or a Belmont’s). Because Sonia and Gabriel raised their children well, no matter how short the upbringing was for one child. The youngest Belmont, so deeply versed with understanding monsters and the ways in which a vampire or lycan or the lowliest fleaman think. Information has flowed back to him alongside the memories. Listening to its voice, the hateful desperation, the way it bitterly refers to these two intruders (still cautious enough to look first rather than leap into something beyond either of them), Trevor finally realizes.

He knows what this thing is—and the knowledge scares him.

“Sypha…” He whispers and grabs her arm before she can take another step. “You’re going to think I’m crazy… fuck, maybe I am crazy… but—”

“It’s him.” They turn to each other, the disbelief just as apparent in her face and strained voice as it is in Trevor’s.

“You knew?”

“When he spoke. I was waiting for you to say something. In case…”

In case we’re both crazy. Maybe they are. There is no explanation, just a gut reaction that festers and boils over until it all vomits forth. Both their heads feel rife, overflowing with blood and violence, maybe the fact that this monster might be Alucard is a delusion. Yet it can only be proven by lowering their defenses. To put their faith in a concept as abstract as trust, companionship, and something like love but far more complicated yet just as wonderful in their cases.

“I said leave.”

“It’s just us, Alucard. It’s just us.” Trevor once thought acts of gentleness were some of the most pointless things in this harsh sad world. Always out of reach, something he would never truly achieve on his own. His older sisters were gentle, his parents (in their own ways) were gentle. Look at where it got them. But admitting wrongness within oneself is a part of human nature. Gentleness comes easy, now and onwards in his life.

“We’re here to help. It’s alright.” Sypha can’t stop how she trembles, reaching her hand out to touch Alucard—if he really is there. She’s terrified and it’s alright to accept that.

“I’ll kill you. I’ll only kill you. I killed them all. I killed them all. I killed them. I’ll kill you like I killed them. I’ll… kill… them all...”

He never does. Never strikes or paints the cave with gore like the outside, not even when feather-light touches drift over his rough skin before settling. Trevor’s fingers are calloused; Sypha’s as well though a bit less so. But they’re both warm, seeping through his tough outer rim and into his true self buried deep inside.

“You are not going to hurt us.” Like her hands, Sypha is firm and soft with her proclamation.

“I will hurt you.”

“No you will not.”

“I will…”

“We don’t believe you.” Trevor slowly rests his forehead between the two horns, unafraid. One more creature he can understand.

“I…”

They’ve seen Alucard transform from wolf to bat then back to himself. A quick process, more ethereal than supernatural. Graceful wisps of smoke similar to streams of incense. There is nothing graceful about this transfiguration. One moment, Trevor and Sypha hold a monster in their arms, dwarfed by his size. The next, Alucard stands before them, clothes torn, baptized in blood. His hair weighed down by that which does not belong to him. They try asking if he’s alright and if he can hear them. It’s nothing but muffled sounds piercing into his throbbing head.

Alucard doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. His only thought is what he did. What he is.

They killed the horses. Why wouldn’t they? No one was expecting three travelers to come out of that burrow alive, so an easy way back towards the village was no longer necessary. The familiars could have spared the animals, if only to give blistered feet a chance to breathe along their crusade, but their masters would have eaten them regardless, pouncing upon the horses to create a massacre like feasting on a second course. Their deaths were preemptive.

“We’re walking,” Trevor declares.

Somewhere between the corpses and their far away home, Alucard regains alertness. He’s been trudging along with the help of two hands which guide him ever forward. Once his eyes start blinking followed by his quivering bottom lip, he feels heavier in his bones, flesh, his heart and soul. Heavy and dirty. What he did was wrong yet also right. He had no other choice, cornered like a hunted animal, but there is always another choice. His own claws were ready for use, his own fangs as well. None of which belonged to that thing, but he did not take advantage of them. Alucard’s mind holds an unshakable conclusion, despite the apparent contradictions swirling in his conscience. He is wrong. He is dirty. Drenched in blood not his, right down to the marrow. No amount of good deeds or erected townships or safe communities will change that about him.

Knees meet the ground again as Alucard breaks one more secret. He weeps, open and inconsolable. His tears used to be quiet even when no one was there to see or hear them. Strands of hair bunched in his hands, breaths shallow and hitched, fingernails digging into his skin until one finally breaks just to stop him from screaming. Tonight, in the presence of two individuals he fought harder than with anyone else to hide this facet from, to maintain his steadfastness and stay as the cold spot in the room, Alucard cries. Cries and cries and cries enough to turn his throat ragged and bloody.

Trevor and Sypha find themselves lost. Not on their current trail, direct as it may seem in darkness, but with someone whom both feel they have abandoned in some form. Neither can ask what happened, why he became that thing. All they can do is lift Alucard onto his unsteady feet and pull him further down the familiar path against the constant reluctance. Trevor considers snapping at Alucard; a firm grip on his shoulders or worse, a palm to his cheek. Brief thoughts, yet all the more strong. The more he resists, the slower they are getting him to a bath and warm bed. Swallow whatever misplaced guilt you have and fucking move.

It would have been an awful, terrible thing to do to a friend. Any frustration towards Alucard dissolves into compassionate pity with every whimper and sob.

Their return to the rest site is not a welcome one. The groundskeeper’s hostility is matched by his incessant questioning. Sypha shields Alucard from his accusations while Trevor tries placating him, holding the man back for their safety and perhaps his own. He’s never been good at playing the middleman during heated tangents despite best intentions while also never starting them. Often enough (or rather too often), he’s put to rest various altercations by leaving more jaw-snapping and testicle inebriating punches than meaningful sayings. And if there were some tangible words thrown about, they were of the hateful variety. Bastard, fuck, and more colourful four letter insults. For tonight, Trevor brushes off his peacemaker skills until the flash of money eventually wins out over talk—as it always does with simple men trying to make livings for themselves in a country where humans in the daylight can be just as terrible as those who stalk the night.

The groundskeeper eyes the bag of coins offered by Trevor. Extra for what is essentially the same amount of time they paid not even a day ago. He takes it, reluctantly, but not before giving them one last caveat.

“And shut that friend of yours up. He’ll scare away my other patrons.”

Alucard is hastily shuffled into the nearest empty cabin. Looking over her shoulder, Sypha stares daggers into the groundskeeper’s back in the hopes they’ll somehow materialize and he’ll feel every prick and sting. Both have gotten used to Alucard’s weeping yet once inside the safe warm confines of the cottage, the enclosed space amplifies his cries, which shows little sign of stopping or quieting down.

Sypha quickly draws a bath, heating the water with the simplest spell she knows. Between his whimpering, Trevor helps peel off what’s left of Alucard’s clothes, heavy and viscous with clotted blood. It stains his bare skin, a grotesque collage splattered across a trembling short-breathed canvas. His tears won’t wash it clean but maybe the bath will. The clothes finally burn to slow ashes in the fireplace. As Trevor runs to fetch new threads, Sypha begins.

A pitiful soap bar is better than nothing at all. She soaks Alucard’s reddened body in steamed water and listens to his haunting lamentations. The only time she gently shushes him is when she wets a cloth and wipes his face, finally reducing his sobs to breathless sniffles. Her hands outline every curve, every crevice, washing out every unwelcome blemish. Alucard cannot stop himself from shivering. He’s still dirty, dirty, dirty. What is supposed to be holy work is made unholy because of him. Blood mixes with the soapy, white bathwater surrounding his naked body like a horrid baptism. At long last Trevor barges through the door carrying a fresh set of peasantry clothes long after the others have vanished in the fire. He thinks about what the groundskeeper said once he paid in more coins and more begging.

“This is the last favour I do for you freaks.”

Freaks, the same thing Trevor called those vampires and their familiars. Maybe the groundskeeper has a point. Not one of them is normal right down to the circumstance of their births. It’s a fact which Trevor has somewhat accepted, though perhaps he should give it more thought. Perhaps not as it might unearth more troubling personal discoveries, just as it has for someone else. He doesn’t bring up this sudden revelation or the comment which spawned it, not with Sypha and god forbid he tells Alucard anything while helping him dress. The better thing would be to say nothing. Take comfort in silence and rest his forehead against the other man’s same as when he wasn’t himself in that cave.

Before Trevor’s head can lean forward, Alucard wobbles towards the bedroom, swallowed by clothes a couple sizes too big even for his stature, and requests to be left alone for the time being. They respect his wishes, waiting by the fireplace now smelling of burnt leather and cooked blood. Just the two of them and Alucard’s sword, having found its way back to them. After the dark void of night overstaying its welcome, morning will come yet no one can think about sleep. Instead, Sypha thinks about his dull blood-tinged eyes; Trevor about the troublesome softness in his voice.

“Did you know he could transform like that?” Sypha asks, uncertain of how the uncomfortable question feels on her tongue.

“He never mentioned anything about turning into bats or a bloody wolf. What makes you think he’d say anything about this?” In all honesty, regardless of his answer, Trevor mentally assumes Alucard never knew himself.

“He saved our lives. Those creatures, those people, they would have done worse to us and the village… that must count for something, right? Why did he react in such a distressed way?”

“Like I said, he’s not one to air out personal details unless poked about it.”

“And are you willing to ‘poke’ him for an explanation?”

There’s an unintentional bitter aftertaste to Sypha’s tone, suggesting he might be cruel enough to actually do it. Until Trevor deflects and metaphorically bounces the query right back in her direction like they were playing an awkward mind game.

“Are you?”

He’s got her there. It’s not to make Sypha feel guilt or to make himself morally superior, but to give both of them some valuable perspective. One step in the wrong direction, one careless word spoken with no thought, and Alucard would most likely crawl further into his self-made shell, refusing to emerge. Time passes as they sit with their options. How exhausting, yet still somehow necessary it is to think about these things.

When the three of them started out, the unknown terrain surrounding Alucard was full of traps both literal and figurative. Trevor, with his then two left feet, was the first to set them off; happenstance which fate eventually twisted into the best decision of their lives. Soon the traps lessened into egg shells. If broken, tensions between them rose as did mental walls but there was no hate, no grudges. Whatever damage left behind was easily swept away.

Time runs out. Trevor and Sypha cautiously inch their way to the bedroom door before peeking through the open crack. Unsure if they’ll step on egg shells or a pit filled with bloodied spikes. Either way, no matter the outcome, they can’t be hesitant anymore. Inside, sitting with his knees against his chest atop the well-used mattress, is Alucard, his upper body covered with a blanket. The door creaks as Trevor and Sypha invite themselves in. A quick glance, a brief acknowledgement of their presence, is all they receive. Alucard won’t look at them, not when they stand before him and not when Sypha asks if he’s feeling alright even while holding her heavy stomach. She should be asking herself that question. Fingernails dig into the loose pant fabric over his knees. Seconds pass before his tongue becomes more complacent than his eyes. Someone needs to talk—might as well be him.

“I never wanted you to see me like that.”

“As… that thing?”

Sypha roughly elbows Trevor for the inconsiderate comment. Exactly what they were fearing. Yet Alucard doesn’t react in any troubling manner. He’s too tired, too spent of all his tears, and too uncomfortable with his own skin.

“It wasn’t just that… thing. How I wept and screamed while you both washed my body. No one should have to witness all of that.”

He despises how his voice sounds. Weak and shaken and the very antithesis of what they know him as.

“We care about you, Alucard. So, so much. Moments like that, it is par for the course. We do not mind and we could never think less of you because of it.”

Sypha can try as much as she wants with her comfort, which Alucard knows is true and tries reminding himself of it. Pure and selfless honesty won’t matter because the very part of him that he’s been fighting against will viciously refute it. The sadness grows, his throat tightens as his eyes glisten with sorry feelings, but forces himself to stay when Trevor and Sypha sit down on either side. Maybe they’ll see it too—the blood on his hands that didn’t wash away. Alucard rubs down his palms and fingers enough to hurt, constantly missing a small spot until realizing how pointless it is. Even when cleansed, he’s always dirty. Dirty, Dirty.

“Get it off… I need to get it off. I need to wash this blood off before it stains.”

“Alucard…” She holds his shoulder, the concern in her voice as worrisome as his sudden behaviour. “There is no blood. We already washed it off, remember? Your hands are clean.”

“No, no, it’s there. It’s still there. There was too much of it, that’s why—that’s why it won’t—I can still feel the blood it won’t—I can’t—”

Sypha’s gaze darts between Alucard’s expression, mixing guilt with fear, and his hands as he ravages them slowly at first then more erratically. His words are incomprehensible; she’s not even sure if he can still breathe normally. He can’t, or it’s getting worse with every attempted frantic syllable. She guides his head close to her neck, trying to soothe him. Fingertips running through his damp hair, tracing the curve of his skull. Things only calm themselves when Trevor steps in and takes one of Alucard’s hands, reddened not by blood but by his constant kneading. Slowly, gently, he repeats the same action, cleaning what has already been cleaned.

Alucard concentrates on Trevor’s careful movements along with Sypha’s rhythmic stroking over his head. He breathes in her smell, listens to the blood flowing through her neck, but does not bite down. Rather than entice him, the sound lulls Alucard into a state of delicate peace. Briefly flinching when he feels Trevor’s lips on each of his fingers, then tongue and the edges of his teeth, but never tells him to stop. His skin doesn’t hurt as much now, nor is it drenched in what he assumed was blood.

“There.” Trevor mutters, removing the last finger from his mouth. Some time ago he might have acted embarrassed. “Is that better?”

A couple more breaths and Alucard feels ready to speak, clear and plain. “Perhaps I should explain everything.”

“Sypha and I have come across cultists like that before. All of them, obsessed with bringing back Dracula. Admittedly, those vampires were new but it’s nothing we couldn’t handle or were surprised by—”

“I’m not referring to them.”

Trevor and Sypha exchange a look as their grip on Alucard loosens. To give him space while he composes himself.

“You both know the story. God created Adam who used his rib to create Eve. Then the rest of humankind followed, starting with Cain and Abel.”

“I am… aware of that story, yes.” Trevor adds to Sypha’s hesitant reply with a nod. Alucard carries on, letting slip a sardonic chuckle.

“I suppose it’s quite ironic. God creates these two perfect humans and places them in paradise, thinking they can do no wrong. Then the unthinkable happens. God exiles them and they start a family. One of the first humans to walk this earth becomes a murderer of his own kin.” Alucard pauses before shaking his head. He and theology never seemed to be on the same page. Especially when he’s not feeling his most holy.

“However, my father had a different theory. Actually, it wasn’t even his to begin with. He acquired the knowledge from a Persian scholar during his travels. They hypothesized that every living being once originated from a form so vastly different from their current one. Something that could only exist thousands if not millions of years in the past. Over time, we eventually evolved until we reached our ideal form. But what humanity and even inhumanity started out as, he called it the original design.”

“So, this includes vampires?” Asks Trevor, surprised by his own ability to follow Alucard’s line of thinking. Still, it sounds no less plausible than a cosmic corridor with various doors leading to different locations in time and space.

“It does, but… he mentioned something different. When under threat or distress, when our powers seem insufficient, vampires are able to revert back to our original designs as a last resort. Our most primal forms… even those who were turned as humans.” Alucard stares down at his open palm, expecting to see nonexistent blood flowing between the lines again. Nothing. “To become a monster of all monsters.”

Just as he goes quiet, Sypha puts forth a genuine query. “How often does this happen?”

“Very rarely. Dracula avoided it at all costs. I’m not certain about the other lords, but we never heard anything. Vampires are inherently powerful, not to mention prideful, so reducing ourselves to these grotesque original forms is unnecessary. Most would rather die than reveal their true selves. But… I was so frightened. Frightened and angry and hateful towards those who wanted to take away everything I fought to protect. I didn’t care about myself, I cared about you, Trevor, the baby, Greta, everyone. I couldn’t control this primal instinct. Now I know, as do the both of you. I know what’s been lurking inside me. The very thing that can rip through my skin at any moment. I truly, deeply, don’t feel safe with myself. Even now I can still feel that thing writhing, breathing, waiting…”

Arms wrap around Alucard’s body, caging him in warmth and reprieve from his spiral downwards back into that dark place which the transformation forced him into. Trevor in front, Sypha behind. Hands cup his flustered cheeks, keeping his head raised, and kiss the space beneath his weary eyes swollen by a downpour of tears.

“No more crying. You’ll make yourself sick.” Trevor’s gentle command is said in good faith, yet shame runs deep. Alucard’s lips quiver once again even as Sypha presses herself firmly against his back and strokes his chest. Her fingers stay over the pounding beat within his ribs.

“This is you. Your immense strength, your powers, your fangs, even that creature, they may take up small parts. But this right here is fully you. And we’ve known you long enough to know that is true.”

Alucard wants to believe it like Trevor and Sypha do. Must be so easy for them. Easy to say and easy to think. Under his breath, barely an audible whisper, he apologizes to the both of them. He can’t. He can’t take their reassurance that nothing about this has changed their perception of him to heart. Nothing in his mind will allow him that luxury of trust, belief, and self resolve. It would be better for all if no one knew what lurked beneath his skin—including himself.

“Sypha… how much are you aware of memory spells?”

“Memory spells? Why?” She asks, despite already guessing what Alucard is requesting. When she sees him hide his face in the recesses of Trevor’s shoulder and hears him choke back tears, her twisted gut eats itself out of worry some more.

“Please… I want to forget. I want to forget everything that happened. I don’t want to know myself.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Trevor adds a caveat to his comment in the form of another kiss. “I know it hurts now, but getting rid of everything is not the solution.”

“Trevor is right. Magic that changes the mind is risky and dangerous. I could take away far more than just one memory. It would be too cruel.”

“No more cruel than what I’ve done or will do.”

“If you’re trying to scare us, you’re doing a piss poor job of it.”

Much like death—both the concept and the scythe-wielding bastard who couldn’t even beat a mortal human in a match—Trevor has never feared the dhampir. Nervous, yes, but once he realized what a sad, lonely man this brat turned out to be, all predispositions fell apart. When he looks at Alucard, sometimes the Belmont confuses him for a mirror. Cracked and warped, but still reflective. Sypha isn’t scared of him either, not since the beginning. Certainly not when she slips her hands under Alucard’s shirt just to draw him closer and feel his skin on hers. There’s no need for magic; he’s already unbearably warm.

“We can make a better memory right now. If you want it and if you’ll let us.”

Trevor’s voice sounds huskier than usual yet more patient than eager. He won’t force anything, nor will Sypha. She seems more than satisfied to keep her hands on Alucard, just so she’s aware of his presence. He ponders it, though not for long. He wants to forget his deeds in any way possible.

More than that, he wants them. Damn what he feels about his dirty, unholy body which they still lovingly praise with the touch of their hands, fingers, and lips. Limbs tangle together like macrame, slow and careful. Alucard, quickly lost in the feeling of them. Sypha’s grown stomach presses against him while Trevor’s scarred hand traces the outline of the first battle trophy across his chest. There is sweat, a few awkward head bumps followed by brief laughter, and perhaps one final tear shed out of pure relief and the overwhelming sensation of being loved. When it’s unfortunately over, Alucard struggles for a steady breath before Trevor and Sypha calm him after taking care of themselves. His hand brushes along Sypha’s belly to make sure everything is as it should be. She catches him and intertwines their fingers, settling his nerves. She’s alright. She’s safe. They all are.

“Rest now. There’s not much time until morning. Just rest…”

Sleep comes naturally. The only reason why Alucard takes longer than the other two by mere seconds is because he enjoys listening to the first few water droplets hitting the cottage window. Maybe, he thinks, hopefully, the rain will wash away all the blood left behind.

#castlevania #castlevania fanfiction #trephacardweek #trephacardweek2021 #trevor belmont #alucard castlevania #adrian tepes #sypha belnades #trephacard #my writing #*cvfic #don't be fooled by the content warnings the ending is very fluffy i promise

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writingsbychlo · 4 years ago

Text

sinner | bucky barnes

word count; 14,861

summary; bucky is spending the one day he get’s to walk the earth freely the way he usually does. normal demon things. then, he meets his angel.

notes; I got carried away, nothing else to say. the pic is pretty much exactly how I picture demon!bucky looking. also, I did not proofread this, because it’s three am. take it easy on me if it’s riddled with grammatical fuck-ups.

warnings; it’s literally called ‘sinner’. you can work out the warnings.

Bucky didn’t mean to run into you, in fact, you certainly weren’t what he was looking for as he wandered the aisles of a grocery store at two in the morning, but he still had hours before the day really began and the fun could really start, but sometimes he’d find runaways or strays who were so high he thought they surely shouldn’t be able to stand, who he could convince to do a little theft, but then there was you.

Here he was, making the absolute most of the first few hours of the one day that demons were allowed to walk the earth, darkness still filling the sky and a cold breeze that was more than enough to make him shivering the coolness of the late-year air, and then you’d strolled in.

An angel on earth, literally.

He’d heard tales, girls so pretty they could bring you to your knees, an aura that glowed and glittered, all things holy and magical, and the absolute opposite of him, and he was drawn to you from the second that you’d stepped into the building. The cashier behind the till was just a kid, snoozing against his hand as the addict in aisle three continues to shove chocolate bars into his pocket, upon hearing whisperings that he should - something Bucky was still smirking about - as he followed you around towards the bread section.

He could see you more clearly now, and you really were gorgeous. Soft skin, covered mostly by hospital scrubs, and he tried to cover his scoff, finding it absolutely typical that an angel would be here working in a hospital, some kind of selfless act, and he wouldn't be at all surprised if you were a volunteer too, just to really rub your altruistic nature into everybody else’s faces. That was the one thing he didn’t understand, he didn’t get how everybody looked up to Heaven and prayed to a God or deity, how nobody thought it odd how they were all constantly being shamed by bars they could never reach, set so high they weren’t even in sight anymore, but then again, he didn’t like to judge.

Not when his own actions would be so heavily frowned upon, but what can you expect from a demon? It’s in his nature.

You were tired, you weren’t paying much attention, a scrap of paper in your hands that look awfully similar to the back of a prescription as you moved through the store, trying to fill your basket with everything you’d need, none the wiser as he tailed you slowly, studying you, trying to work it out. From all the stories he’d heard, angels had left the earth long ago, so long that their existence at all had become something that he’d heard questioned many times in the underworld, and so he couldn't quite work out why you were herein a gas station store in the first few hours of Halloween morning.

He wanted answers, he wanted to get a little closer, confirm it all for himself, and as you spun around to head to the checkout, you crashed right into him, a yelp leaving you as you jumped back, and your eyes finally met his, once you had steadied yourself. One look into his eyes, a quick flicker around the edges of his body as he was certain you could see his own aura, tainted and stained with darkness, before your eyes were going infinitely wider, and the basket in your hands fell to the floor with a crash.

The items scattered around his feet, tins rolling away and disappearing under shelves, and that exhaustion you’d once had was fading away, replaced with shock and fear, and as you took a step back, he took another step forwards, crowding you up into the shelves, a hand on either side of your head to keep you kept from leaving, and a smirk took over as he watched you tremble a little.

“Demon.”

You hissed the word out like an insult, and he feigned offence, before that wicked smirk he knew he was wearing twisted up into a sinister grin, head tipping to the side just a little. “Well, hey there, angel.”

“What do you want?”

“You’re very hostile. I haven’t even done anything to you.” He paused, eyes scanning over your face, closing in on the place where you were nibbling on your lower lip anxiously. “Yet.”

“If you’re going to kill me, then just kill me, demon. Get it over with.” You were shaking now, full-blown fear, and he let out a little sigh, dropping his hands but remaining where he stood.

“There’s no fun in that, is there?” You only scowled, standing strong in spite of the fact that he could practically hear your heart beating out of your chest. “What are you doing here?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means; what are you doing on Earth, on all Hallow’s Eve?” You had the guts to shove at his shoulders a little, pushing past him to begin to collect your shopping back up, and he sank down into a squat, tipping the basket back to the way it should be, and placing the items back within it carefully, waiting for your answer.

“I live on Earth, and I’m running late to get home. Away from the likes of you.”

He handed you back your basket as the two of you stood, having gathered everything you could find, and he let out a low ‘oooh’ in teasing at your words, laughing through it as the furrow between your brows only deepened. “I thought angels didn’t live here anymore, not holy enough for you once it was corrupted with sin, so you all retreated back up to the promised lands, to spit on the rest of us from the clouds.” He sneered it a little, he couldn’t help it, but you avoided his eyes, shoulders sinking as you shrugged.

“Yes, well, that would be spectacular and all, but they don’t let halfbreeds into Heaven.” He waited, walking alongside you as you moved towards the counter, and he would laugh at his own image if he could see himself now, but somehow, here he was, wasting the only day of the year that he was free to walk around the surface and escape from the depths of the underworlds by helping you pack your groceries. “My father was one of them, and my mother was not. I’m just a cast out. Earning my way.”

“Interesting.”

You only deadpanned, punching your PIN into the machine a little more aggressively than he thought would be normal for you, but then again, you were on edge, and even with your soured mood, you still wished a cheery goodnight to the kid behind the register that made him sick with the amount of earnest goodwill lacing your tone. “What do you want from me, if not to kill me? Is this part of the thrill for you, to make me let me guard down and then to kill me?”

“I don’t want to kill you.”

“All demons want to kill people.” You stopped short at the door, and he almost bumped into you, close to dropping the bags in his arms as he avoided the collision, raising his brows a little bit as you glared at him, before snatching your backs from his arms and taking a wide step back from him.

“I see I’m not the only ones with misguided ideas about the other.” He tried to take a step forward, but you twisted away from him, protective of your groceries and your life. “Not all demons want to kill. Some of us just get our kicks by convincing people to commit petty crimes and scaring kids on Halloween night. Well, that and stealing candy from babies, obviously.”

He could see the way you tried to suppress your amusement, but your lips flicked up at the sides, and you dropped your shoulders, seeming to give in. Your eyes rolled slightly, before you were moving once again, clearly trusting him enough to let him walk you over to his car, and he held your bags for you as you opened it, loading them into the trunk before slamming it shut, leaning against the cold metal. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, demons can only come up to the surface on H-”

“No, I don’t mean here.” You waved your arms, making a large circle that he supposed was supposed to represent the Earth, before you were pointing at the building behind you both, shaking your head. “I meant here. Like, the grocery store. Surely that’s wasting your one day.”

“Well, I met you, didn’t I, angel?”

“Stop being so.. flirty.” You shuffled uncomfortably under his stare, your true nature showing through, and a shock of thrill and excitement raced through him, tucking some hair behind your ear, before you shook him off.

“Can’t help it. It’s in my nature. Lust, and the other ‘deadly’ sins, as such.” You didn’t reply, and as much as he hated to admit it, you were the most exciting thing that had happened to him in decades of Halloweens, so he gave in, moving a half-step away for you again to give you your space. “Not much to do at this hour, except kill people in alleyways. But, that’s not really my style.”

“I see.”

“Can I be brutally honest with you?”

“Have you lied to me, already? We’ve only known each other for twenty minutes. Then again, you are a sinner.” He chuckled at your pathetic jab, but shook his head in denial, soothing you a little.

“Your life sucks.”

“It does not!” You crossed your arms over your chest, foot stomping a little, and it was an adorable display of anger if he was being true to his thoughts.

“Yeah? Let me guess, you’re wearing scrubs so I reckon you work at a hospital or care facility, probably a volunteer too, or you do some kind of volunteer work to fill your time. You took a night shift tonight to cover for someone else, because you just can’t say ‘no’, even though you should’ve been inside keeping safe from ‘the likes of me’, as you put it, and I bet you’ve never even been kissed. You’re pure, completely and totally, you probably have a routine, oatmeal for breakfast, Church on Sundays, bible on the bedside table.”

You gaped at him, jaw hanging slack now, and he reached a finger up to push it closed, and you soon formed an irritated pout in response.

“So, did I get anything wrong?”

“No.” You grumbled it under your breath, gritted out angrily, and he only laughed in response, winding you up further. Your foot swung out, colliding with his ankle before you even realised you were doing it, and as he bent over, crippled to grip at the sore patch in pain, your eyes went wide, fear suddenly flashing over your features again. I’m so sorry! I don’t know why I did that!”

“That would be wrath.” You shook your head, stepping away from him, and he could only nod in response, grin getting wider as he watched realisation flash across your features. “How did your first sin feel?”

“It doesn’t count! It was just a kick to the ankle!”

“Yes, in anger. That would be wrath, angel. It’s not that bad, trust me.” Your eyes were glassy now, and he placed a hand over your jaw, calloused pad stroking over the skin of your cheek as he tipped your head upwards. “See? No lightning strikes, no plagues, no punishments. And don’t you just feel so much better now that you’ve done it?”

“A little bit.” You gave in, letting his corruption really take place, and your eyes dropped down to find his, tearing your gaze away from dark and glittering skies. “I’m not a sinner, though. I’m good.”

“Yes, but this day is bad. Nobody is looking today. You liked it, I know you did. Don’t you want to try another sin? Just on this oh-so-evil day, and tomorrow, you can go back to being a good girl. Be bad with me today, angel?” You didn’t reject him, not right at once, and he took that as a good sign, your breath hitching as he stepped a little closer, enough for him to be able to taste the coffee on your breath at the short and sharp puffs you let out. “Have you never wondered? Which one have you always wanted to try, late at night, when it was just you and your thoughts? Is it pride? Gluttony?” He leaned in, enough to brush his lips with your own, your breath hitching in your throat. “Is it lust?”

“Sloth.”

“What?” He snapped back a little, not sure he’d ever really expected a response from you, and he felt a gleeful fire burn through you as you took your first step away from holiness and more towards him, just at the simple admittance, to both yourself and to him. Swallowing thickly, he watched as your mind spun, processing your own words, before you were seeming to settle on them with confidence.

“I have a routine, just as you said. I get up early every morning, and have breakfast, and do some work. I volunteer at a shelter and I do rounds at the hospital even when it’s not my day in, just to pray with those who want some company, but some days I don’t want to. I’m tired, and I want to sleep in. I want to lay in bed until late morning, and fake calling in sick to work just to have a day off, to do anything I want.” You had your own smile now, something brand new flickering through your eyes, and as you looked at him, and he laughed breathlessly at the confession.

“So, do it.”

“I-” You seemed to remember who you were, and where you were, then disappointment took over. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s wrong.” He sighed, hand dropping down to your waist, pulling you closer into him, and he could feel the steady thumb of your racing heart against his chest now, and he wished his own would react at all, but it had been so long since he’d felt anything from the organ that he’d almost forgotten he had it at all.

“If it’s so wrong then why does it feel so right?” You had no response to that, rendered breathless again, and he took his chance, pushing the boundaries a little further. “Give me this one day, I bet we can fit all seven sins into this day, when nobody will notice your sins when mixed with all the demons roaming the surface, and if you don’t like it, then I promise you’ll never see me again, and you’ll never have to think about it.”

“We can stop at any time?”

“Whenever you want.”

You hummed under your breath, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, before caving and offering him a nod. “Big words for someone who only has twenty-one hours left of the day to keep his promises.”

“Well, then, we’d better get you home, angel. You have a big day coming up, and I know just which sin to start with. Let’s get you that late morning you’ve always wanted.” You merely sighed out, contented and happy with the thought, before you were nodding, and turning around to get into your car. Nodding to the passenger side, his grin only grew as he took the offer, climbing in beside you, and settling into the plush leather as the vehicle rumbled to life.

After an exceedingly long sleep in, one where you’d actually then continued to just lie in your bed for upwards of an hour after the daylight had forced away your grogginess, you were left peering out of the window, staring down at the city below from the high-windows of your apartment, the bustling streets with a chaos that didn’t reach all the way up here to the serene quiet, and your lips flicked up at the sides as you remembered the comment that the man who’ already managed to flip your world upside down had made as the two of you had finally made it back to your apartment at almost four in the morning

‘Top floor, huh? Trying to get closer to heaven, or just in it for the workout?’

Turning onto your side, his lips were parted as he slept, slow breaths and a sight rasp following his breath each tie, but not quite a snore. As he was asleep, you had a chance to really observe him. You’d never met a demon, before, you knew the rumours, of course, and some of them were more tame, auras of darkness and a twisted kind of ugly that made you repulsed. Of course, there were also the wilder ones, horns and hooves and rotting flesh, but he was neither.

When you took him in, you decided that he was actually kind of beautiful. Scruff lining his jaw that made him look a little wild - something that was bound to be intentional - and the colour of his eyes flashed through your mind once again even if they were coed now. The colour was burned into your mind, not a glowing red, or all black, but instead the kind of soft blue shade that the ocean looked on a misty morning at the beach, grey clouds overhead that were the calm before the storm.

He was taller than you, much taller, and his frame almost filled your bed, broad shoulders pushing you to one side, further over than you’d ever slept before, even on the large piece of furniture, but he’ insisted that he wasn’t sleeping on ‘no damn couch’, and in your exhaustion and excitement, you’d simply waved a hand as he kicked off his shoes, crawling under the covers beside you. The comfort had been inviting, you’d never experienced such a thing before, but it was oddly peaceful to share a bed with someone else, to feel their warmth creeping over to you as well, the steady thump of a heart or the rise and fall of a chest with every breath, and you hadn't realised how lonely you were until right now.

“Stop fuckin’ starin’ at me.” You huffed, watching as that peaceful expression became a scowl, and he rolled over towards you a little, cracking an eye open to peer up at you. “What?”

“Nothing! You’re just not like what I thought a demon would look like. I’m taking it in.”

He sat up a little, running a hand over his face, before shaking his he'd to try and clear a sleep-muddled brain. “Yeah, well, you’re exactly what I expected an angel to look like.”

“I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or an insult.” Despite the bickering going on between you both, his movements had caused the blankets to lip down, a chill coming in to claim you, and you shuffled a little closer to him, seeking out more of the warmth you’d become addicted to in the last few hours of sleeping beside him.

“It’s neither. Just a statement. Innocent, pretty, that whole weird ethereal vibe that draws you in. That's you.”

“That sounds like a compliment to me.” You all but sang the words, and he rolled his eyes, a grunt leaving him, but he made no move to distance himself from you, and so you knew it was all in false anger.

“I’m revisiting the idea of killing you.” His eyes flicked up to the large clock on the wall, studying it for a second, before turning to look at you incredulously. “I thought we were sleeping in? It's eleven.”

“I normally get up at six! This is late for me, very late.”

He only shrugged, pushing back the covers and standing up, letting you wrap yourself in them a little more, before he was patting down his pockets, searching for something in the jeans that had been abandoned on the bedroom floor. A cardboard box and a lighter, and he was balancing a cigarette between his lips.

“Open a window!”

He only glanced over at you, raising his brows, before stepping across the room to the large panels of glass, clicking off the lock and pushing one open, before flicking on the lighter and igniting the tip. He held it between two careful fingers, a repetitive motion as he brought it up and down from his lips, lips curling each time he expelled the smoke, and it was a weirdly hypnotic scene to watch.

The sound of the traffic and bustle from below was now reaching your ears, muffled and distant but you could still pick it up, the bitter smell of smoke still making it over to you, and your nose scrunched up a little, before you were holding the blanket closer to yourself, and making your way over to stand beside him.

“You’re staring at me like you’ve never seen a cigarette before.”

“I have!” He chuckled a little at your eager enthusiasm, heat rising to your cheeks with your embarrassment, and you shrugged as best you could, from where your hands were pressed to your chest to hold the blankets closed and keep your warmth in. “I’ve just never..”

“Smoked one?”

You only nodded, and he seemed to consider it, taking an extra-long drag, before he was pulling the dwindling stick away from his mouth, flipping it between two fingers, and bringing it to your mouth. He had an expectant look on his face, nothing pressuring or judgemental, simply apprehensive, waiting to see if you’d take the offer before the flickering orange reached his fingers and burned him. The taste was lingering on the air, and you leaned in, lip parted and he grinned, placing it gently on your lower lip, pushing forwards until the edge of his finger was brushing your lips, and he gave you a nod.

Sealing your mouth around it, you took in a deep breath, dragging the air through the device, and the heat that coursed through you was enough to make you pull away and cough, a tingling and burning in your throat and lungs as the smoke clouded out around you, dissipating in the air, and you once again flushed with embarrassment, but the laugh you anticipated hearing from him never came. Instead, he looked almost proud, and you didn’t have a chance to question it, before he was taking the last breath himself, stuffing it on your window frame and ignoring your complaint, before flicking the butt out of the window and closing it once again.

“So, what are we doing with the day now?”

“Hm, well, I promised you all seven. One down, six to go. I’m hungry, so let’s go with gluttony next.” His eyes twinkled a little, and you thought about the sparsely packed fridge you had, just enough simple necessities to get you by and be healthy, nothing that could be deemed even remotely gluttonous, but you were excited to experience it, nonetheless. “There’s a diner near here, we’ll go for breakfast.”

As promised, you are allowed to take even longer, the longest shower you had ever taken in your life, until the entire room was so filled with steam that it felt like a sauna, and you were pruning up. You didn’t even bother to make your bed, instead opting to just lay flat on it for a while, still in your towel as you listened to the demon you were - for some unknown reason - trusting, as he moved about your living room and tinkered with your things.

When you were finally ready, you didn’t care to make the bed, or put on sensible shoes with laces, or even do your hair properly. Instead, you wore a hoodie, and your comfiest flats, and just ran a brush through it, and you’d never felt lazier in your life. You had spent every day doing yourself up to standards and making sure you were being sensible and rational, the proper attire for a day at work, running around a hospital and doing everything you could for everyone else, and nothing for you, and today, you’d texted in saying you were sick and weren’t coming and you’d relaxed, truly relaxed, for what you felt may be the first time in your life.

As promised, you were given a filling breakfast, with more than enough leftovers for a week’s worth of breakfasts, but you didn’t take any of them. At first, it had bothered you, watching as the waitress stared at you both with a little bit of judgement, a little bit of shock, and a little bit of amusement as the man opposite you had listed off dish after dish, until you’d been moved to a bigger table just to accommodate it all. With a bite of it all, you’d worked your way through the dishes, and the drinks, a sip from all of their wide range of coffees and milkshakes, and by the time you’d finished and enough food to feed a small army had been wasted, you were wandering out into the carpark with a wide grin on your face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this full.”

He turned to look at you, beaming as you spoke the words as though they’d been a compliment, and you began to pat your pockets down for your keys, a wave of panic washing over you when you couldn't find them. A moment later, there was a jingling, and you followed the sounds, to find Bucky waving them at you, smirking around the straw in his mouth as he finished his milkshake, tossing the to-go cup in the vague direction of the trashcan.

“When did you even take those? How did you take those?”

“I’m not exactly new to pick-pocketing.” He shrugged, holding open the passenger side door for you, and you hopped up inside of it, grinning as he rounded the car, and it would seem that he was taking it upon himself to drive. Once he was inside of the car and starting it up, his hands were fiddling with the dial for the music, changing your classical music station over to some soft rock, and while it was unfamiliar to you, you tried to settle into it.

“You’re different.”

“We’ve covered this.” He mumbled, fingers tapping against the steering wheel to the song that was playing, and you turned a little more towards him straining against the safety belt across your chest, and not missing the fact that he hadn't bothered with his own.

“No, I just mean, you’re gentlemanly. You held the door, paid for breakfast, didn’t try anything with me last night, even though we shared a bed. It’s admirable.”

“Well, firstly, I didn’t pay for breakfast.” Your face paled a little, realising you’d essentially stolen the meal, but then again, you shouldn't know better. When he told you to go ahead and that he’d been right behind you, you hadn't questioned it, and now, that felt like it was slapping you right in the face. That’s where innocence gets you, you supposed. “Secondly, as I said, we already covered this. You do know there’s, like, tiers for this shit, right?” You only gave a short laugh, turning to look at him a little, and you could already feel your own mischief bubbling up within you.

“You mean the seven circles of hell?”

“Oh, you’re so funny.” He was grumbling now, pretty-coloured eyes rolling in his head, and you continued to snicker away to yourself, but didn’t miss the little flicker of his lips into a smile, that he did his best attempt to disguise as a simple twitch, but you knew better. “No, not the ‘seven circles of hell’.” He imitated your movie as you spoke, a scowl taking over your features at the poor impersonation, but it was quickly washed away. “More like, privileges, I suppose? Those down there because they’re not pure enough to go to all things good and dandy go down below.”

“So, how does it work, then?” He cast you a little glance, studying you for a second, deeming you to have a genuine interest, before one shoulder was raising and falling in a simple shrug.

“Those who are, like, the bad kind of bad get it, well, bad. People who killed for fun, the people who hurt others for their own enjoyment, people who do, y’know..” He didn’t have to say it, your face screwing up as you thought about exactly the sort of people who would count as ‘bad-bad’ and he nodded. “No privileges for them. They just get to suffer.”

It went quiet for a second, and you could practically see the cogs working in your new friend's mind as he tried to sort his thoughts out.

“Then, there are people who did bad things, but it’s not serial-killer bad, y’know?”

“Oh, like tax-fraud and grand theft auto?” He let out a laugh this time, entertainment shining through.

“Technically, yes. I don’t really know how it all divides up. It’s just my job to punish people who need punishing, I don’t ask questions.” That caught your attention, and you perked up slightly, ignoring the fact that you’d pulled into your building’s parking lot, and that the rest of the journey was over, the car coming to a halt, but instead, you were more intrigued about finding out more from the man before you.

“You punish people? The bad people?”

“Yeah. I suppose you can consider today my day off.” He grinned, moving to climb out of the car, and you struggled to follow him, falling into step beside him.

“But, doesn’t that make you good? Getting justice and all?”

“I never said I wasn’t good, angel.” He cast you a look from the sides of his eyes, a little put off by the insinuation you’d made. “I’m created in hell. I don’t really have a soul, or anything that would let me into Heaven. Besides, I do enjoy doing some of the things that would get me cast out.”

“Like what?”

You regretted asking the question from the second you’d asked it, a smirk taking over his features, and he turned to you in the doorway, finger under your chin to hold your face up towards his as he leaned down a little, breath washing over your face as your heart froze in your chest. “Like fucking.”

He watched you, heat crawling up your cheeks as your eyes went even wider, and he grinned, eyes flicking down to your mouth, licking over his lips for just a second, before he was pulling away.

“We can get to that later, though.”

He was ahead of you, long legs making wide steps as he crossed the lobby to the elevator back up to your apartment, and you had to race just to catch up with him. “So, do you have horns?”

“What?”

You slipped in just as the doors to the elevator were closing, and he scowled, clearly having been hoping he’d be able to cut you off, and you almost wished he had, because you'd forgotten just how cramped his large frame made the small box feel. “Y’know, like-” you lifted up each hand to the top of your head, index fingers sticking up as the rest of the fingers curled into a fist. “-horns?”

“Do you have wings?”

You felt a little taken aback by his sneer, lips pursing as you realised he’d taken your joke the wrong way, and you passed by a few floors in silence, before he let out a deep sigh, shoulders slumping slightly.

“No, I don’t have horns.” He looked around the ceiling of the building when you stepped out of the elevator, a hand on your arm to bring you to a halt in the corridor, and he must’ve deemed it safe, before his fidgeting stopped. “I have something, but it’ll freak you out if I show you.”

“I can handle it.”

“I don’t think so, angel.” You huffed, and he continued on, car keys being used to find your house key, the door swinging open, and you followed after, complaints spilling from your lips as you did, and you caught the door as it swung closed, before it had a chance to hit you in the face.

“I can handle it! You're underestimating me!”

“Am I?” He was making himself comfortable once again, already going through the contents of your fridge, pulling back with the carton of orange juice, and you cringed as he popped the lid from it and took a swig right from the bottle. “You’re just a half-angel. You can’t take it.”

Anger boiled within you, and you weren’t sure where this side of him had come from. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

You gaped, jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest as he finished off the orange juice of your own that was supposed to last you all week. “I’ll have you know that I’m a lot stronger than you think. I work in a hospital, okay? I can take whatever twisted shit it is that you have to show me. I can take a lot of things, alright, pal? I think I do pretty well for myself, actually! I mean, if you haven’t noticed, you’re standing in my penthouse apartment, drinking orange juice that I bought, after recklessly driving my fancy car, so screw you. I can handle anything you could throw at me and more, you’re just rude.”

His head tipped to the side, and you let out a ragged breath, not giving him a chance to speak, before you were continuing;

“And, for that matter, I think I’ve done pretty well all around. I have a great job, and I do good work there, and I have spent over two decades avoiding the likes of you, living all on my own, so this little hitch that came in the form of you doesn’t matter, because even after today, I’ll still be doing pretty damn good. ‘Can’t take it’, yeah, well, you can shove your freaky demon thing that you refuse to show me somewhere that the sun doesn’t shine, okay?”

You huffed out, and he crossed his arms over his chest, neutral expression cracking out into a wide grin. “That was a great speech, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, well, thanks.” You were confused, caught off guard by the praise after you were given, your mind still spinning.

“You seem pretty happy with everything you have here. Would you say you take pride in it?” You almost retorted, a witty comeback at the tip of your tongue, before you realised what this had all been about, your shoulders slumping, and you dropped your head into your hands, a weak laugh on your lips and you climbed up onto one of the stools at your kitchen island.

“You got me all worked up into a rage for pride?”

“You’ve achieved some pretty amazing things in your life, and you should be proud of them anyway, even if it’s not for sin.”

You paused, eyes meeting his own, and for a second, the whole misconception of an angel and demon sitting across from one another being the kind of thing that would end worlds seemed to fade away, you were just a regular man and a woman, sharing the moment and sitting together on a lazy morning. He cleared his throat, looking around the room, not for anything particular, just to take it all in, before coming back to look at you, with something else in his eyes this time.

“Well, that’s another one crossed off of the list, anyway. I’d say we’re making pretty good progress.”

You only hummed under your breath, but he seemed to catch onto your hesitation, raising a brow at you. “Kinda’ have an idea about greed.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Do you think, maybe, you could take me there?” He stilled, the hand he’d been using to rearrange the salt and pepper holder in the middle of the marble countertop between you both fell flat.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s hell. It’s literally Hell.” He was adamant on this one, not the same kind of cocky attitude he’d had while fracking pride out of you, but this was more just a complete close down on the situation, and he didn’t even have a flicker of emotion as you glared at him, standing strong in his decision. “You can’t handle it.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m not fucking with you this time, angel.” He stood up, rounding the little countertop to stand before you, and he rested his hips against it, one hand coming up to cup at your face gently. A thumb ran over your lower lip, his eyes tracing his own movements, and you pulled back from him a little, too angry to let him hold you so tenderly, even if something deep within you was craving that kind of contact and affection with him. “Too dangerous.”

“But I want to.” You pouted at him, ignoring the little smile he gave to you as you did, and he forced his gaze back up to meet your own, shaking his head.

“What if you get stuck down there, huh? Time works differently. If it passes midnight, you won’t be able to come back.” The thought did send a flash of fear through you, and he seemed to notice it, thinking that the argument was over. “Besides, down there is where everyone else gets to show their real faces. Where you’d see mine.”

“You could just show me now, and then I wouldn’t have any kind of surprise.”

You didn’t expect him to go for that, to buy it, and you gasped a little as the man before you changed. Soft and fluffy brown hair was longer, brushing around his shoulders in strands that weren’t tied back into a bun, faded blue almost entirely taken over by black irises. His eyes were sunken a little deeper, some teeth a little sharper, jaw a little more defined, giving a much more dangerous look, the kind of intimidating you were sure was done purposefully to scare those who needed to be scared, crafted in the bowels of hell to torture the people who deserved it.

A deep pink and puffy scar ran along from the middle of his cheek and into the stubble on the right hand of his face, emerging further down along his neck. The sleeve of his left arm seemed to strain a little more now, shining metal poking out from underneath, a mixture of battered metal and shining steel, metal digits forming a fist as you stared down at the appendage.

Reaching a hand out towards him, he huffed, pulling it away from you, leaning the entire left side of his body out of your reach. “What are you doing?”

You ignored him, taking the hand in both of your own, and the coolness of it sent shocks along your nerves, goosebumps rising on your skin. He let you lift it, inspecting each finger carefully, gears shifting under your touch each time a finger moved, and he sighed as you lifted the hand, resting it over your cheek again, the same way he’d had it only moments ago, when it had been under the illusion of flesh and blood. “You still don’t scare me, Bucky.”

He let out a laugh, a breathless one, before he was closing the distance between the two of you, lips meeting your own, and a small squeak left you as his mouth pressed to your own carefully. It was all entirely new to you, feeling his other hand find your waist, nails scratching lightly at your skin through the material of your shirt, before you were placing your own hands on his shoulders, grasping at his shirt as you moved your mouth with his own.

It was slightly awkward, and slow, and you could feel yourself fumbling, but as your eyes slipped closed and you matched his rhythm, you found everything within yourself slipping away. You hadn't quite realised what it would be like, to have another person pressed up so close to you, and to know how it felt when their eyelashes tickled your cheeks the way his were know, that feelings within your stomach like fireworks were going off was making you feel lightheaded, gasps for breath each time he pulled back, twisting his head, noses bumping, before softly swollen lips were finding you once again.

It was of their own accord that your hands slipped from his shoulders to his neck, one travelling even further into his hair, gripping tightly as you pushed up into him, almost falling from your chair as your legs went weak as you tried to stand a little, and he turned you around, lower back pressing into the cool marble for support, before a low growl sounded out. It reverberated along your entire body, and you trembled a little under his hold, teeth dragged over your lower lip, before he was pulling away.

You were chasing after him, feeling his grip loosen on you and you whined, catching his lips again in a little kiss, a chuckle breaking it as he backed away enough to rest his forehead on your own.

“Don’t be greedy. I’ll kiss you again, later.”

“Or, you could kiss me now?” You teased, letting him lift you up to sitting on the countertop, and he wrapped your legs around his waist, thumb smoothing over your cheek as he felt that same embarrassed warmth flood your skin. He pressed a kiss to the underside of your jaw, using his nose to tilt your head back, before he was nipping lightly about the pulse point along your neck, and you weren’t in control of the sound that left you as he did, or the way your thighs tightened around his waist.

“I could, but, I thought you wanted to go to Hell.”

“I do.” You mumbled, before realising fully what he’d said, and you pulled him back by a handful of his shirt between his shoulder blades, darkened eyes finding yours in a curious gaze. “I do. Are you serious?”

“You have to promise to stay by my side.” You nodded, vehemently, a wide smile taking up on your face. “You also have to wear a watch.”

“I thought time worked differently?” You teased, and he rolled his eyes, taking your chin between his thumb and a metal forefinger, cutting off your laughs with a short kiss.

“It does, that’s the whole point. We need to know when to get you home.”

You only nodded, dropping down and disappearing, searching through your drawers and cabinets until you found the device you were looking for, checking its display against the wall clock on your bedroom wall, and thanking your lucky stars that it still displayed the correct time. You were attaching it to your wrist and waving it at him proudly as you reemerged, and he held his hand out for you.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Well, you only live once, right?” He huffed, fixing you with a pointed stare, and you burst out in a series of little laughs at your own words. “Well, some of us only live once, anyway.” He took your hand in his, barely letting you swipe up your keys before you were following him out of the door and back towards the stairs, stumbling over your own feet slightly. “Am I going to have to die for us to get there?”

“What? No. Why would you think that?” The crackling in his voice was amusement, and you shrugged, letting him guide you through the door that said ‘staff only’, and at this point, you’d stopped even questioning his actions.

“Well, I don’t exactly see a lot of portals to hell on my day-to-day travels.”

“It’s like a door that only demons can open. On this day, of all days. Sorta’ like a magnet, you just think about it, and it pulls you to where you're supposed to be.” It wasn’t exactly a description that set you at ease, and as you made it to the top of the staircase he was pulling you up, you were met with the sight of the sprawling skyline, the sounds of a busy city filled with people who were none the wiser to your current situation going about their mundane lives below, and even after today, you know you’d never be that same mundane person again.

Stepping out onto the roof, you were in awe, never having ventured up and gotten to appreciate it, and while your apartment was high up and the view was the same, it was more the experience that was leaving you speechless.

“Are you ready?”

When you followed the sound of his voice, he was standing on the edge of the building, hand held out to you once again, and you weren’t sure when you’d ever slipped away from him. You wandered over, nausea sweeping across you as you leaned over the edge to look down, the people on the streets below looking more like specks in the distance, and you pulled back rapidly. “To jump off the roof? That’s seriously the way to go?”

“It’s the fun way.”

You scoffed, knowing he was just doing it to mess with you, and he took your hands in his, guiding your gaze back up to his face. Wrapping your arms around his neck, and you held on tightly, feeling him grip your waist, pulling you in close.

“Just trust me, angel.”

For whatever reason, you did. You had full faith in a man who’d you’d only known for twelve hours, feeling him inch the two of you towards the edge, up onto the ledge, until you were precariously balanced, and your heart was threatening to beat right out of your chest. Pressing your face into his neck, his grip on you became bruising, and then you were falling.

The floor fell away, and you were racing downwards, hair whipping around your face as your eyes squeezed shut, that floating feeling becoming more like you were being dragged down. It was cold, biting cold, and utterly terrifying, and then it all just stopped. There was ground beneath your feet again, blood wasn’t pounding in your ears as you found yourself upright once again, and you were only dizzy from the way you’d held your breath, not from tumbling such a distance, and you forced yourself to exhale, slowly.

When you pulled away from him, the hand stroking soothingly up and down your back then stopped, and he lifted it to smooth down your hair instead. Whereas in your apartment, he’d seemed out of place and daunting in his own skin, now, he seemed to fit in perfectly. Shadows cast across his face made his features stand out, strong and bold, and instead of being scared you felt protected by his presence. It wasn’t nearly as loud as you’d expected it to be, and it was the exact opposite of what you’d pictured.

Instead of burning pits of fire and tortured screams, it was much like what Earth was, buildings and pathways and doors along each one, a reflection of the home you’d known so well, just with a little more destruction. He seemed to already know exactly what you were thinking, smirking his eyes a little, but you just accepted it, taking it all in. There was a bump against your lower leg, something soft that made you jump, and the man holding you chuckled. Turning, you watched a little cat run away. It had a torn ear and was missing an eye when it looked back at you, before it was dating through an open door before it closed, and you gaped a little as you lost sight of the orange-furred little critter.

“That was a cat.”

“Well, yes.” He deadpanned, hissing at the way you pinched his arm roughly for his words, and he mumbled under his breath about being careful before you ‘inadvertently achieved wrath’. “Haven’t you ever heard about cats being the guardians of the underworld?”

“In, like, Egyptian mythology, maybe.”

“Yeah, well, all myths and fables come from somewhere, right? Everything you’ve heard is just one interpretation of the same thing. Like versions of a story.” He offered, and you felt like every answer you got became all the more confusing, like you had no real idea about the world you’d been living in at all, until now. “C’mon. We have much to do, and little time.”

“What are we going to do?”

“You wanted to come here, that’s your choice.” He shrugged, and you gave him a blank look, as though you had any idea about what you were supposed to be doing. He seemed to pick up on it, a smile on his lips, before he was slinging an arm over your shoulders, and beginning to guide you away towards a door only a few down from one that you’d seen that little orange cat disappear through. When you got into the other side, you were in the hospital, the time seeming to move differently, everything around you flying by at super speed. “What’s the worst thing you ever witnessed in the hospital?”

“What?”

“The west thing. One of your patients, something you remember because it was just downright evil.” It took you a moment, but the worst one came to mind, and you felt sad witnessing it all over again.

“There was this man in here, once. Both he and the kid across from me were my patients. The kid was a car crash victim, both parents died, he was on life support, we were doing everything we could. If the kid died, he would have been the organ donor. The man smothered the kid in his sleep, we didn’t realise until the autopsy was done, by which point the guy had fled.” You shrugged, and he asked for the date, to which you mumbled, that day burned into your mind to last forever.

With a wave of his hand, that same speed that had been dizzying to watch as it moved like a movie on fast-forward was now frozen completely, and with a click, there was an entirely new setting.

Easter decorations, all around the hospital, Mercedes at the reception desk still had her hair dyed blue instead of her usual fiery red, the colour had taken a good couple of years to totally grow out; somehow, he’d taken you right back to the night that it had happened. Rainy, filled with clouds, water swilling around your car, and there was a loud storm outside. You remembered because it felt fitting, and it almost felt comforting when you’d cried in your car about it all before being able to drive home that night.

“Which room?”

“I, um, room three-oh-four.” You guided him through the halls, completely in awe of the way it resembled your place of work so clearly, and yet nobody could see it at all. You could see yourself, a younger version, standing behind the nurse's station and covering your yawn with your hand, a file in your hand as you tried to focus on it, and it was shocking to see it from such a different angle. You froze up a little as you approached the room, the two opposites, and you felt your heart crack a little at seeing that little boy alive once again, even if it was just barely. “That’s the guy.”

He followed the direction of your finger, a head of black hair in the bed across, idling himself on his phone, and Bucky stepped into the room, a sneer on his lips. Glancing at the name across the chart, he couldn't quite see it, but you already knew it anyway.

“Brock Rumlow.”

“Sounds like an asshole kinda’ name, already.” You could only nod, and just like that, Bucky was moving the timeline forwards again. Day to turned to night outside, you watched as he disappeared for a second, only to reappear a moment later, and then there was night becoming day, and he was taken to surgery, and the day flew by, bodies flying in and out, the flash of your own floral-patterned dress as you move in and out throughout the day, and then, a week later, he was leaving. It slowed, you watched as he went, following him right out of the hospital and into a cab, and he was none the wiser as in this turn of events, you and Bucky joined him.

It went by again, years flying back, Bucky’s eyes moving as he somehow seemed to see and understand every moment, before suddenly, it was all stopping. You were out of the cab, but when you left it, it was a firetruck instead. The building before you was burning, thick plumes of smoke curling up into the air, windows were broken as tall flames curled up and roared into the sky. Sirens were wailing, and water was spraying, and you could feel the heat even from here.

“Building fire.”

“Hm?” You twisted to look at him, and the demon beside you motioned up to the building.

“That’s how the universe got even with Brock Rumlow. He stole organs from a child, and he got trapped inside his apartment. He’s down here.” You felt your breath get stuck in your throat as he said those words, before you were finding his hand, gripping tightly with both, and his fingers curled back around your hand, before he was sighing, loudly. “Do you want to see him now?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, everything around you seeming to go into slow motion as he dulled the sounds, before you were pressing yourself into him a little more, feeling his lips brush against your temple as you let out a breathless laugh.

“I’ve thought so much about what I would do if I ever saw him again. Give him a piece of my mind, tell him how bad of a person he is, make him feel bad. Now, though, I’m not all that sure I could control myself.”

“Who says you have to?” You peered up at him, eyes wide, and he shrugged, cupping your face with both hands as he watched panic begin to take over you. “He’s a child killer, a selfish prick, he deserves everything he gets down here. This is a place for punishment, and maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

“Okay.”

He took your hand, the closest door to the two of you opening back up, and just like that, you were back in the stone hallways, crossing over to a wooden door, bolted from the outside, and as his hands wrapped around the handle, it changed, simplistic designs shifting to that of one you’d expect to see on a little farm cottage, before he was opening it up and ushering you inside.

“Where are we?”

“His Hell-scape.” The door scratched against cobblestones as it was pushed shut behind you. “Germany, early nineteen forties, the precipice of modern medicine. It’s cold, and he’s fled from the war, he’s taking shelter in a little farm cottage. He needs surgery, and you’re about to perform it. There’s a kid, who could donate the blood, he’s sitting over there by the fireplace.”

Just as he said that, the door swung open once again, and there he was, stumbling inside as blood seeped between his fingers, and just like that, for the first-ever time in one of these scenarios, he was looking you dead in the eyes. He begged for help, and the little boy by the fireplace looked up, wide eyes and he was on his feet, dashing over to you. He cleared the table, helping the man to lie down, like the good little soul he was, and you ushered him away upstairs. With a knife from the kitchen, you sliced open the front of his shirt, watching as blood oozed out of several bullet wounds across his front.

Blood spewed out, and for a second, guilt washed over you as you hesitated in your motions to save him, but then you were remembering everything he’d done, and you could feel the presence of Bucky behind you, the scene you’d relieved as you watched the evil take place, and you felt no regret as you pushed a finger against one of the wounds. Hard metal met your finger, blood-curdling screams from him on the table as you pushed it even deeper, before pulling away, and making sure that he was looking you in the eyes as he did.

You weren’t sure if he was able to recognise you, or whether he was completely engrossed inside of this illusion, but you swore you saw something pass over his eyes, seconds before he was passing out. Little feet were coming down the stairs, and the boy was there again, watching rivers of blood dripping into puddles as they ran from the tabletop, a teddy tucked safely in his arms as he looked up to you again.

“Are we going to save his life?”

“No.” You hummed, wiping your hands on a rag, and it was shockingly different to see the way the boy whose eye colour you’d never seen before looked, how young he really was, and you took him by the hand as you guided him up the stairs. Tucking him in and brushing the hair back out of his face, you pressed a kiss to his forehead, and he fell asleep before your eyes, chest rising and falling of its own accord. It wasn’t real, you felt it slipping away under your fingers, and when you made it back down the stairs, the man on the table was dead, hand hanging limp, and it all slipped away.

Darkness filled the room, the features melted away, and he guided you back to the corridors, tears sliding down your cheeks as you left it all behind.

There was concern on his face when he looked at you, but you didn’t care, because you were pulling him in by a fistful of his shirt in order to press desperate and needy kisses to his lips. He reciprocated, humming happily as his hands found your hips, smoothing around towards your back, one warm and one cold as they pressed to you, and your wet cheeks pressed to his, gasping breaths as you sought out comfort in his touch.

“Are you okay?

“I’ve never felt like this before.” He pulled back, whining a little when you kept pressing up into him, and he pushed you back a little bit, ignoring your complaints. “It’s a rush, and it felt bad but only for a second, before it felt right. Not to hurt someone else, but to serve justice. I love saving lives, I do, but that felt incredible. It felt like closure.”

“You officially checked off wrath, angel.”

“I don’t think you can call me that anymore.” You teased, and he shook his head, pulling you in close enough to brush his lips against your own. It was a fleeting kiss, something that left you desperately craving more as you burned up from the inside out.

“You’re always gonna’ be my little Halloween angel.” He grinned, trying to wipe your cheeks dry.

“I think I’m checking off envy, too.” He beamed, raising his brows in silent questioning, and you gave him a lame shrug of your shoulders in response. “I just don’t think I could go back to my regular life and be happy now, knowing there’s so much more that I could be experiencing. My job won’t be fulfilling when I know how much better it would be to do yours, and be here. I hate that you don’t worry about anything, that you haven't spent your whole life worrying if you're good enough to get into somewhere only to spend the rest of eternity keeping up those standards. I wouldn’t have to be anyone but my true self here, and now, I’m not even sure if I know who that is.”

“You could find out, though.”

“Also, there’s a girl over there who keeps looking at you and I don’t like it.” He glanced over his shoulder, noting the pretty demon who was waving at him, tight curls and red lipstick and she looked like she was straight out of the world war’s era, but then again, everybody down here seemed to be fixed in some kind of time period or another.

“Envy doesn’t suit you, angel. You much more suit pride.”

His fingertips pressed into your sides a little, tickling you lightly, and you grinned, mind leaving her as you came crashing back into a world where only you and he existed. Dipping down, his nose brushed with yours, and you closed the gap, sighing out happily when you felt the rough prickles of his beard under your palm, the other hand sliding down to rest on his chest.

The tip of a tongue traced your lower lip, and you gasped at the feeling, before his tongue was pressing through the parting and into your mouth, a needy noise slipping from you before you could control it, leaving you feeling like you were floating within the clouds as you fell even further into him. You were pressed up to him now, bodies colliding, and what was once slow and sensual suddenly felt like it was rushed and frantic. Mouths meshing, growls and whines shared between you both and you were ruining the neat bun in his hair as your hands were pushed into his mouth.

His hands were exploring too, further than they’d ever been, one solid and one fleshy and then there was a warm palm gripping tightly at your ass, squeezing the flesh there roughly, and you keened up into him even further. Metal lifted you up, your legs fastening around his waist automatically, and you could feel him moving as you gripped onto him roughly. One hand digging nails into his shoulder as the other tugged on a fistful of his hair, a ragged moan leaving his lips as the two of you stumbled through the nearest doorway. Bedsheets found your back, and you were breathing clearly again as a hot mouth travelled along your jaw.

Stinging skin, drags of his teeth over heated flesh, and you were living in a world you’d never been in before as you felt those same hands now dip underneath your shirt, beginning to push it up as he adventured further.

“Where are we?” You mumbled, eyes fixed on the low hanging lighting extension from the ceiling, and he pulled back from the mark he was working to leave on your collarbone, an incredulous look on his face as he peered up at you. Swollen and shiny lips, half-lidded eyes, and a slight shine to his skin that paired with his messy hair made him look even more sinful than he usually did.

“My, uh, my room?” You sat up a little more to take it in, and he leaned back from where he was balanced over you, letting you take it all in.

“How convenient that all the doors you need are so close together.” He grinned, shaking his head in a way that made you think you were missing something, and he pulled you to sit up a little more, the haze over you both clearing slightly.

“Sweetheart, most of the doors work like the entrances, you just have to think about where you’re going, and you go there.”

It was like your world was clearing up, and as he knelt back, you moved forwards enough to settle into his lap, a soft giggle leaving you when you felt his hands come down to grip at your ass to keep you balanced, a smirk on his face as you did. “I was kinda’ expecting, like, bones on the wall, dungeons, dark, flickering torches, the whole shebang. I’m almost disappointed that it looks like a normal bedroom.”

“You have a bad habit of believing stereotypes.” He muttered, leaning in again to take your lower lip between his teeth, tugging on it lightly, and you keened up into him, finding the mattress either side of you dipping a little as he held himself up over you. “And I thought that after everything we’d done today, you’d have reconsidered it all.”

“Well, after all we’ve done today, I still have one sin left to complete.”

He grinned, nodding his head before his mouth was closing over your own. With one warm hand gently pushing up the edge of your shirt, you let him take it, sitting up just enough to let him peel the material from your body, before he was kissing along your neck, licking and sucking his way along the flesh until it was stained with blotchy red marks that would blossom into purple bruises sooner or later.

Then, as his fingers brushed over the delicate skin of your ribs, he was letting out a breathy laugh, pulling away once his lips were grazing the edge of your bra.

“Angel, I gotta’ be honest with you. I really like you, I do, but this bra is awful.”

You looked down at yourself, head clearing for just a second, before you were groaning, shaking your head as you looked down at the garment strapped to your body. “I don’t own any other bras! They’re practical, they support me at work. I’ve never really had a reason to own fancy underwear."

You were popped up on your elbows, and he grinned wickedly, metal hand undoing the catch with a simple flick of his fingers, and then it was falling loose. “Bet you’re wearing cute little white cotton panties, too, huh?”

You could only nod, feeling a blush beginning to climb onto your cheekbones, and it was a feeling you were rapidly growing familiar with while being in his presence.

“You drive me insane, in all your innocence. Am I the first person to get near your sweet little cunt? Tell me I am, angel.”

“You are.” You were breathless, everything from the way his lips curled around the words, to the sound of his voice, right to the way his eyes raked over you in a way that could only be described as predatorily, made your body burst out in flames, craving something you didn’t even know, but you just knew you needed him to keep going, to continue with whatever it was he was doing, because he had you floating on Cloud Nine.

“I’m gonna’ take such good care of you, I promise.” As he pulled the material away from your chest, that heat was spreading down, along your neck, and yet you didn't feel anything but powerful under his gaze. You’d never expected to have this kind of life, after hearing from your mother what had happened to your father for his sins, you were determined not to follow that path, but now, you wanted it all. You didn’t care about standards and responsibilities, you just wanted to drown in the way his tongue was dragging along your stomach as he left wet kisses along your skin, until he was mouthing at the place just above your jeans, soft skin teased with lips and teeth, until he was popping the button on your jeans carefully.

He took it all, stripping you down and taking his time, mumbling praises into your skin until there was nothing else clad on you, except for the slip of cotton over your core, and he was kneeling back at the end of the bed, two large hands palming at your thighs, and he licked over his lip, dragging the lower between his teeth roughly.

“Fucking hell, angel, you’re drippin’.” A single digit, lifting to brush over your covered folds, and as you were touched so intimately, you couldn't help the gasp that slipped from you. “Ruining your panties, sweetheart, soaking right through ‘em.”

“Please.”

He looked up as you whispered the words, eyes already blown out dark with lust, the grey-blue colour you so deeply adored was almost entirely gone, and it was like the tension in the room shot up even further. “Do you even know what you’re asking for, angel, or do you just want more?”

There was a teasing undertone laced in his voice, and you would’ve commented on it, snapped back at him for his taunt, had it not been for the way he lifted that finger up, knuckle brushing over the pulsing bud between your legs, and then he was circling it, a dull pressure applied, and your hips left the bed as your back arched. “That! I want more of that.”

“So fucking pretty, all needy and beggin’ for me, already.” He switched his positions, instead of a knuckle, it was the flat of a finger, and you were already shaking under his touch as your entire body lit up with fireworks. “Are you sure you want to do this? Once we do, there’s no going back. You don’t want to save yourself for someone special?”

“I’m already with someone special.”

His motions paused, before a slightly bashful smile took over his face, and you giggled upon looking at him, sitting up enough to take his face in your hands, moaning against his lips as he picked his movements back up, just to drive you crazy. “You sweet-talkin’ me, angel?”

“Nobody would ever believe me if I could make a demon blush.”

“Just something about you. Don’t know what it is, but you drive me crazy.” He whispered, closing the distance as you continued to test him, a sloppy kiss that was more collisions of lips and tongue, and you could barely keep up. You were so focused on the way it felt to be utterly surrounded by every inch of him that you didn’t feel him move until the barrier of fabric was gone, tearing meeting your ears and then there was nothing between you both, a calloused finger gathering the wetness you’d built up, slick on his finger, and your breath hitched as the tip of that same warm digit traced your entrance.

Anticipation, anxiety, and slight fear washed over you, and he seemed to sense it, from the way that you tensed up, before he was pushing you back down to lay in the bedding, body pressed to your own. You were tugging at the shirt on his shoulders, whining a little, before he let you pull it up, holding himself up long enough for you to strip it away.

“Let me open you up, okay? Get you ready, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Stealing a final kiss, he distracted you, the way a finger slipped inside was something entirely new, your closed eyes snapping open again, and he let out a long and deep sound into your mouth, feeling every inch of your walls clamp up around his intruding finger, wet and velvet and enticing. He pumped it slowly, a wince on your face at the pull at your entrance, before you forced yourself to take a deep breath, focusing instead on the way his lips felt on your skin, and the way it felt when your bare flesh was gliding over his.

Erotic, sweat built up that made your skin stick against his in the most arousing way, the dips between his muscles shining, making everything about him stand out even more prominently, and you had never allowed yourself to consider a man as particularly attractive before, but now you were seeing through a whole new gaze, you were certain it couldn't get much better than him. Sharp jaw, pretty features, broad shoulders and a mouth to give up all innocence for, you couldn't even blame yourself for giving everything up to him.

There was a curling of his finger, the blunt nail dragging over your walls, and a shudder ran along your entire body as he did, a cry of his name leaving your lips, and suddenly, the final puzzle seemed to click into place. There was something romantic about offering yourself up to someone like this, something incredibly intimate about the way it felt to let yours be this vulnerable under someone else’s gaze, and you had never felt anything like this in your entire life.

A twisting in your lower belly, muscles clenching, and then another sting, a second finger sliding into you with ease as you all but dripped for him, the pain far more tolerable and even a little bit pleasurable this time around, before you were stretched around two thick fingers, barely processing the words he was offering to you, because your vision was going fuzzy and you felt like you’d left all forms of reality that you’d ever known.

Hands clenched in the sheets, tugging them roughly as you stiffened, and a soothingly cold hand pressed down on your chest, you hadn't realised your heart was racing and you were dragging in desperate breaths until the weight of the limb forced you to calm down. Bringing a hand up, you clung to him, frantic for some kind of grounding connection as you felt the rest of your inhibitions slip away. It felt like you were breaking down that final gate, like you were bursting from a cage, freedom and liberation and a feeling you’d never had before but were already addicted to the taste of.

Your throat stung, eyes burning from unshed tears, before he was pulling those fingers from you, an obscene slurping finding your ears, and you weren’t sure when your eyes had rolled back, or when your body had left the bedding, but when you collapsed back down into the soft cushions, with deep and raspy breaths, and forced your eyes open, he was licking crudely at his fingers, watching you carefully, something between caring and cocky stitched into his features.

“What just happened?”

“You just had your first orgasm, baby. How’d it feel?” He wiggled his brows, a smile that made you laugh, and you were still trembling, forcing yourself to relax as you melted into the blankets and untangled your fingers, surprised you hadn't ripped them entirely.

“I loved it.”

“Good.” The tip of his nose bumped against your own, and yet he never granted you a kiss, swerving away just long enough to settle himself between your thighs. “So much I want to do to you, so little time.”

He tutted to himself, and the denim of his jeans brushed over your sensitive centre as he dipped his head down. You weren’t sure where to focus, whether you were meant to fix your attention on the way his lips seal around one perky bud of a nipple, or the way you were meeting him roll for roll as you ruined the front of his jeans, material growing damp with your juices as you pleasured yourself, broken noises let out into the air as he abused your chest, switching between your breasts until he was satisfied with the way he’d left your skin spit-slick and shining.

A hand in his hair, you dared to take control, sick of waiting, and just wanting to get to the main event, what you did now know, and you needed it more than you’d ever needed anything in your entire life. You hadn't felt truly alive, or comfortable in your own body, until this moment, as he brought you to life and made you see stars, gave you things you’d never even known existed.

“Bucky, please. I can’t take waiting any longer.”

“Okay, angel. I got you, I know what you need.” He managed to peel himself away, a cool breeze sweeping in where he’d once been before he was stripping himself down of the remaining garments covering his body, and you felt your mouth go dry as he was finally revealed to you. He may have been crafted in hell, the epitome of sin and debauchery, and you weren’t surprised that so many people gave up on their purity to give in to lust, because you were just as weak as the rest of them as you looked at him.

Toned and tanned flesh, tapering down from broad shoulders to a narrow waist, defined muscles, sinewy skin and prominent veins, before a hard and leaking cock as bobbing in the air before you. He seemed to know you were admiring him, taking in every detail and committing it to memory, because he flexed a little, a look on his face that you were oh-so-familiar with, before you were reaching out to him.

He was happy to crawl into your arms, lifting your legs onto his waist, sticky pre-cum smearing across your thigh, before he was dipping into your wetness, gathering it up as he rocked his length against your folds, shared breath turning to pants as his forehead rested to your own. “Before we do this, I just wanted to say something.”

“Hm, don’t tell me you secretly have a tail that only comes out when you cum.”

He shook, his entire body wracked by the laugh that he let out, and he pulled back far enough that you could see the sparkle in his eyes, before he was shaking his head, a series of pecks pressed to your lips between muffled giggled from the pair of you, until you managed to calm down. “No, sorry to ruin another one of your predetermined opinions on demons.”

“I’ll get over it.”

He delivered a particularly sharp thrust, the tip of his cock bumping your clit, making your jerk in his hold, and you encouraged him on quickly, the scrape of your nails along his back making him hiss out. “I wanted to say that I haven’t felt like this in centuries, you’ve flipped your whole world upside down in just twenty-four hours. I wanted you to know that this is special, between me and you, just so you don’t regret it in a few days, when you think about us, when you're back home in your fancy apartment and living your normal life.”

“I’ve never felt more alive than when I’m with you.”

He took the compliment, not bothering to reply, but leaning in to take your lips with his own in a passionate kiss, as another hand slipped between your bodies to line himself up, before he was inching into you, taking his time and making sure not to hurt you. When he saw your face screw up, his hand caught yours, fingers weaving together and pressing back into the mattress, confirming that he was with you, an apology for the pain and a promise that it would go away without him even having to speak.

As his hips finally came to press to your own, you were holding back a sob, the wide girth and length he had were far more than his fingers had been, and while you’d stretched to accommodate him, it was still a new struggle, and you let out a low breath, feeling the soft presses of pecks along your cheeks and jaw, as he waited patiently. There was tension in his body, from top to bottom, feeling his muscles clench under your hands, and you rolled your hips experimentally.

A shot of pain, a whimper from your lips, but you weren't sure if that sound came from the sharp pain or the heated pleasure, a burst of it from within you, and your jaw dropped, and he let out a ragged sound, face pressed into your neck. “Holy shit, angel, you’re squeezin’ me like a fucking vice, tightest damn pussy I’ve ever known. Perfect, just like the rest of you.”

You grinned, hating the way that his filthy words could slide right into something endearingly sweet that had your stomach flipping and your heart skipping beats, all within in a split-second. “You can move now, it’s okay.”

He only gave a short nod, before he was doing as you offered, pulling back just enough to press back into you, a shallow thrust that didn’t offer much, drawn-out and delicate, but then there was another, stronger and faster, and he moved slowly, inch by inch each time, until he was pulling himself from you almost completely, and sinking back into your sodden heat.

“Oh, fuck.”

He bit down on your shoulder as you swore, cursing himself under his breath, tongue lapping over the spot. When he raised his head, there were wisps of brown hair plastered to his forehead, messy and tangled and you thought he looked stunning this way. Pink flushed cheeks, wide eyes, glistening skin, it was almost angelic, and there were certainly bits of him that made you question his allegiance, but then again, in the span of just one day, he’d made you question absolutely everything you ever knew.

Deep and fast thrusts, and you could feel every throb, every drag of him within you, each time he pulled away just to sheath himself within you once again, and you could feel your own throat stinging with the continuous loops of noises that you were letting out for him. He shifted, slowing for just a second, before one of your legs was being hiked up from his waist to his shoulder, and then, it was getting even better.

You thought he’d shown you the height of pleasure, that the feeling of being connected with him in such a way was all that it could be, but then he was reaching all new depth that made you scream. You couldn't take it, the continuous pounding on that little patch that made everything go blank. Stars in your eyes, white noise that barely let through the sounds of his loud moans and sobs of pleasure, but you could feel him coming undone atop of you, the way his pace faltered and his arm gave way, pressing you into the bed as he lost all semblance of self-control.

He was fucking into you without mercy, and you knew you’d be sore in the morning but right now you needed more. Your heel was digging into his lower back as you came unravelled once again, a peak crashing over you that was ten times stronger than the first had been and you were clinging to him like he was your only lifeline. Fingertips were digging into his flesh, nails raking red welts into his skin and he was growling and grunting, before gripping you with a hold so tight it was bruising, and a whole new kind of warmth washed over you.

His heavy-weight collapsing onto you was enough to warm you from the outside, but then he was spilling deep within you, a broken sound that tailed off at the end as his voice cracked, and you decided that in that exact moment, if you never got to experience anything this good ever again, you’d always cherish exactly how it felt to be marked and claimed as his, to know that no matter what, a little piece of your heart and soul would always belong to him, and him to you.

When he finally stopped moving, he didn’t pull out, but instead, rolled the two of you over until you were cushioned against his chest, and cheek pressed over the racing heart under his chest, and you grinned to yourself at knowing that you could make his heart do that, the organ he hadn't felt used in so long was now in overdrive under his ribs, and it was all for you. It wasn’t love, it couldn't be, it had only been a day; infatuation, curiosity, adoration, a range of emotions flooded through you but it was the possibility of something entirely new, and you thought it was perfect.

Clearly, he was feeling it too, because when you finally moved away from him, his eyes opened again, a weak sound of protest coming from him as you removed yourself from his body, laying down beside him, and sitting up a little, offering him a smile as he watched you. “Don’t leave yet. Stay with me a few more minutes.”

“I’m not going anywhere just yet, don’t you worry.” He was put at ease by that, you could see it from the way his shoulders slumped, and the breath he let out, before his arms were circling your waist and he was collapsing down against you.

You may never get into the version of ‘Heaven’ you’d always believed you were destined for, but this was more than that, it was everything you never knew you needed. Bringing a hand up to his hair, you wove your fingers into the damp strands, and he rumbled blissfully at the feeling, nuzzling further into your body as he did.

The rough stubble on his cheeks tickled you, made you want to shove him away and laugh out loud, but you wanted to hold him and comfort him more, the man overwhelmingly clingy after being intimate, and you treasured it. You had no experience to compare anything to, he was the master here, and you were learning everything, and you were sure to him that was like learning to walk while he was running marathons and doing hurdles, but he was patient and kind, and it was just another thing you’d assumed wrong about him.

Twenty-four hours ago you were someone completely different. Pure, and innocent, and completely unaware of the world you were a part of, and now, you never wanted to go back. He’d made you a promise that everything could be forgotten by midnight if you didn’t like it, but you wanted these memories and these moments burned into your mind forever, never to be taken away from you, so you’d always live in the time that your life changed for the better.

“So, I get it now.”

“Get what, sweetheart?” His words were given to you in a whisper, from where his cheek was pressed to your stomach, and you continued his hair, enjoying the happy rumble he let out as you did. The watch on your wrist showed the time, and you watched as he checked it, letting out a disgruntled little huff, before he was squeezing you a little tighter once again.

“Lust. Why so many people give in to it. That was incredible.”

“It only gets better. Didn’t want to break you on your first time, though.” He pressed a kiss to your skin, snickering as you scoffed at his words, and then he was pulling away far enough to sit up. You could see the scarring along his left shoulder so much clearer now, metal meeting flesh, bound with red scarring that marred beautiful golden skin, and yet his imperfections only made him seem even more perfect to you. “Maybe next year we’ll explore some more.”

“Next year?”

“Halloween is almost over, sweetheart.” You let him crawl further up your body, searching for your lips with his own until he wound his way home, and you flopped back into the pillows, taking him with you, breathless laughs expelled into both mouths until he was pulling away. “Mhm, no. When you kiss me like that, we get carried away.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, I like to think I can hold out, and I don’t think we could get everything I want to do to you done within six minutes.” He sighed dramatically, before rolling off of you and onto the bed beside you.

“What if we had more than six minutes?” He twisted his head studying you for a minute, before his lips were parting, and he was pulling your hands from where you were picking at the loose threads on the bedsheets, and he was bringing your knuckles to his mouth, gentle kisses pressed to them.

“Don’t speak in riddles, we don’t have the time for that.”

“What if I stayed?”

He sat up a little more, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “You know if you stay, this is the only place you’ll ever end up. Even if you left next year, even if you decided not to be here anymore, while you still have your life. You’ll never get into Heaven. You only have three minutes to make a decision that’ll decide the rest of your life.”

“I think I’ve already made it.” Something eerily similar to hope flickering between your eyes, and you only gave him a sweet grin, before his face was cracking open in a wide beam, and he was lunging at you again. “What did Heaven ever do for me anyway? I think I’d much rather stay and be a sinner here with you.”

He bumped the tip of his nose against yours, before moving down to press a sweet kiss to your lips, pausing for long enough to speak; “Maybe, but you’ll always be my angel.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader smut #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes/reader smut #bucky barnes marvel #bucky barnes sebastian stan #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x reader smut #sebastian stan/reader #sebastian stan/reader smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x you smut #bucky barnes/you #sebastian stan bucky barnes

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thatonegreyghost · 4 years ago

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I feel like being extra today, so have some California gothic(SoCal edition):

There is no rain. There is never rain. If it comes, it comes when everyone is inside or asleep. Roads flood and swimming pools spill over and there is half a foot of water on every corner. Then it dries and its gone forever. There is no rain.

There is something in the ocean. You can't see it, because you aren't far out enough for the water to be clear, but it doesn't matter; anytime you do go far out enough, it's too deep to see the bottom. There's a ledge where the sandy floor drops into a steep cliff; young kids who are brave enough to swim out the ten feet to reach it dare their friends to jump. You see fishermen on the pier and the beach, and even though you've never seen as much as a piece of bait on the shore, you keep your distance to avoid a hook in your foot. The water glitters with flecks of gold; when the waves crash, the sand is stirred up enough to reveal the precious metal. You've heard stories about people jumping off the pier, but you never see it happen. You love the ocean. Maybe you'll come again when there's less people. There's something in the ocean; maybe one day you'll actually see it.

The air around LA is dirty. Its orange and gray and disgusting. Breathing it in makes you feel nauseous, dirty, depressed. When it rains(it never rains), you can see all the skyscrapers, and the mountains! The mountains are so clear. It only lasts a few days, and the smog is back. Time slows down on the freeway leading into downtown. You sit in traffic, staring at the license plate ahead of you. Its been ten minutes since everyone stopped moving. You look up at the skyline; has it always been that orange? Someone honks behind you, and you turn your attention to the road. Its been five minutes. No one's moved.

There's a fire somewhere. It makes sense; you got a lot of rain that winter, and the summer was predictably hot. You wake up at three in the morning; on the coast, because you smell burning, in the hill, because a neighbor is pounding on your door. The sky turns red, and when high schoolers leave their third period, they can't see. Nothing gets canceled except for sports. There is ash in the pool; it will stay for weeks until the first home meet.

"Coyotes are back" the sign says. You think of your dog, a good sized dog that can protect itself. You think of your neighbors dog, a scrawny thing that would get snatched in an instant if it were left out at night. You think of your friend's cat, and how the only dead cats you've ever seen are mauled on the side of the road. Coyotes are back. You don't think they ever really left.

The lights went out last night. You know this because your alarm went off at two am instead of six, and because of the blinking 12:01 on your clock. Your fan is still going at least; without it, you would be smothered to death by heat, heat that builds and builds and builds until its cooler outside than in. The pools are open for the summer, but unless you know friends or family with one, you'll have to pay. You think that's kind of cruel, but say nothing. You're too hot to think.

There is a June bug in your house. Its July. There is a June bug in your house.

A gun shot goes off. No, wait, that was a firework. You wonder how your neighbors got those fireworks, the kind that bang instead of whistle and shriek instead of scream. You hope they don't go to the hill to set them off. There have been enough fires in recent years. You hear the bang again. You count the weeks to the fourth of July; three weeks to go. You'll get some sleep in a month.

There is nothing in the dark. Absolutely nothing. You know this because the night makes you feel safe, because it is cool and refreshing. There is nothing in the dark. You walk faster anyway.

A tourist from the Midwest complains about sunburn. You laugh; you don't get sunburn. You can't remember the last time you had sunburn. Sunburn is what happens to outsiders, or those with less melanin. You stare at the strawberry blonde whose face is as red as her hair. Even your white friends aren't so pale; living here, you've absorbed the sun into your skin and the golden warmth into your smile. Outsiders say you are beautiful. Insiders know why.

Disneyland is too expensive. You can't afford it, you don't want to go. You still think fondly of your past trips. Knott's is smaller, more local, but a yearly pass is a fraction of a Disney day ticket. You go to Knott's with friends. You don't regret anything. You say you should go again. You still want to go to Disneyland.

Southern California is its own state. Outsidrrs say "NorCal" and "Frisco" and wonder why locals stare. See's Candies are everywhere, every city has at least one. SoCal is dry and arid and has such a different climate from up north. There are forests in the north. You have never seen them.

There are abandoned train tracks everywhere. You want to walk along them. Your parents and friends say no. You ask why. They say its dangerous, they say there are coyotes on the tracks. They never say you might find a homeless camp. They don't need to; you already know. The homeless aren't dangerous. You stay away from them anyway.

You are chatting with an online friend. They say the snow is bad. They say their parents hate them for coming out. They say they don't feel safe at night because of the things outside. You are shocked. You know thses things can happen, but you never really believed they could before now. You tell them you are sorry. You try to understand what their life is like. You can't; you don't understand how their life is so different, yet they live in the same country as you.

LA to San Diego is 3 hours. LA to San Francisco is 8 hours. You have been to San Diego before. Its very nice. You've passed through it on your way to Mexico. You don't like coming back from Mexico; border patrol is scarier on that side. You worry that you will answer a question wrong and you will be kept on the wrong side of the border. You are a US citizen. You think about San Francisco. You've never been. It sounds lovely.

Your friend has a green card. You don't care; your friend is the same age as you, you met in elementary school. You hear a person in power talking about deportation. You are nervous for your friend. Your friend is a good person, their family is nice. Your friend wonders if they should take the citizenship test. You say nothing.

As a child, the police scared you. No one told you to be afraid of them, you just were. Now, you are still scared. At least this time, you know why.

You keep a bottle of baby powder in your car, right next to the beach towels and a scrubbie brush. "To get the sand off." You say to the questioning looks from the out of towner. You think they are visiting family. Most of your family lives here, and you don't remember who the outsider is related to. They gawk at the ocean. Its just the ocean.

Big Bear is pretty. Its always pretty. In the summer there's camps and in the winter there's snow. You go up for the day, once a year; its why you have a sled you never use.

Fourth of July is pretty cool. You get fireworks from the local high-school or local church, and you spend two hours setting them off. The pictures and video don't come out right, but it doesn't matter. You know this is a holiday celebrating America. You only care about the colors, and in the back of your mind, if someone might accidentally start a fire.

#california gothic #i feel extra today #fire #ocean #coyotes #pets #mountains #snow? what snow #california is really big #fuck the cops #border patrol is scary #tw; animal death #tw; gun mention

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tamagochiie · 4 years ago

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a line without a hook | part three.

part three. “merely tolerable, really.”

chapter synopsis. Had you known freedom tasted like this, you wouldn’t have bothered to form an attachment with Mr. Ackerman. Was there really a point in what you were doing?

word count. 7.5k

tags. swearing, angst, tones of misogyny

notes. This is a very late post, and I apologize for that, but I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. As for the upcoming chapter for this week, there may been another delay. I’ve been swamped with a lot of assignments and its my finals week, so I hope you all understand :/

back to master list

<< part two. | part four. >>

Your mother always told you gossip to women is like honey to a swarm of flies: you can catch more of them depending how sweet the scandal is. But she never thought to tell you what it'd be like if you were the honey, that the women would stick to you, drinking the life out of every little thing you do and unpack it together with their girl friends over afternoon tea and biscuits.

Your name, along with Mr. Ackerman's, had travelled from one tongue to the other in the last four days.

Each story are more intricately fabricated than the last. You heard all sorts of things, too many thing to keep track of — something about Mr. Ackerman's family background and more so yours, but you didn't want to pay heed over something that didn't come directly from the man himself.

And just the other day, while you commuted to town to deliver Reiner's forgotten lunch, you overhead a group of women whispering that you were already singing with the church bells.

You had shuddered at the thought and assumed it was something your mother must've cooked up given how she easily melted at Mr. Ackerman's feet when he came to visit a few days ago.

You and Mr. Ackerman were both aware that his visit, and all the kind and loving words he had said before you and your family, were merely for show. And that it was for purpose of sweeping your house clean of all trespassers and violators of your freedom.

But nonetheless, even with a letter that came to heed you of his visit, you were still left utterly speechless.

Mr. Ackerman had strolled into your cozy home, he hadn't been swathed in his usual drab choice of clothing, but settled with more pleasing fashion that didn't say,"I'm pessimistic and moody, and I've got a reputation for killing for sport".

He had been bathed in shades of blue, but still leaned on the darker side of the color spectrum. It had been a good change save for his signature cravat, and it led you to wonder just how many he owned.

You came to the conclusion he owned quite enough to be stitched together and make a thick and long blanket to last through the winter.

However, what had left you gobsmacked and rapidly blinking in succession was not Mr. Ackerman's slight change of style, but the little smirk across his lips while he spoke to your mother. His tone hadn't been clipped and did not drip in annoyance, but was a twinge softer — completely out of pocket for a man with a reputation for being dark and brooding.

Sasha, on the other hand, had been easily tickled in pure curiosity by Mr. Ackerman, poking and prodding him with peculiar and rather personal questions. You had expected he'd yell at her, seeing he'd be the kind of person to do that.

But he didn't snap. It was obvious his patience had been wearing thing, so he kept his replies quick and short just like his temper.

Pieck never spoke a word, but had instead observed the exchange as she sat on the couch, sandwiched between Connie and Jean while your mother had done her best to entertain Mr. Ackerman in small talk even though the man reeks of disdain for it.

Though Mr. Ackerman had successfully wooed your mother, and probably the rest of your sisters and Connie, Reiner was anything but.

Your brother protectively glued himself to your side, glaring down at Mr. Ackerman with a vexed look plastered across his scruffy face. Unfortunately, Reiner's attempt to be intimidating had fallen short and made you not only you, but Mr. Ackerman, suppress a stifling laugh.

Regardless of your brother's wishes, Mr. Ackerman's visit had been deemed fruitful. Your mother's eyes as well as her heart completely set on Mr. Ackerman and Mr. Ackerman alone.

To which both requests you firmly nodded and smiled at.

But your smile had been quick to fade.

You agreed to this little sham because you admired your freedom, but ever since Mr. Ackerman's visit, despite no men coming to bother you from the early hours of the morning till the late afternoon, you find yourself anything but free.

Your mother, the seventh circle of your personal hell, has taken it upon herself to berate you—tells you to make more of an effort on your appearance. She'll comment on how you sit, how you speak or how you eat, and every other thing you do.

You may have been liberated by the lusting grips of men, your mother's iron clad hold on even the thought of you being a few steps away from marriage is much tighter, and much more stubborn than you ever imagined.

So you spend your days hidden in your room, away from your mother and the rest of the world.

Sometimes you'll read or stare out the window, and when you do decide to step out of your little bubble, you'll be sure to check if the coast is clear from any possibly ambushes from your mother.

Though the only time you really do go out is to check the mail to see if Mr. Ackerman has written to you — he has not — or spend some time with your great love, your horse, Maria.

But for the most part, you plant yourself on the couch right up against window sill with your back slumped on the wall and legs sprawled out. You stare outside, not really looking at anything in particular.

Maybe the chickens.

You heavily sigh, fogging up the class as you gaze idly, twirling the ends of your hair. You grow jealous of the chickens and the roosters because at least they have their freedom. Their simple minds and their simple lives; the lay eggs and crow at dawn.

Damn chickens, you seethe in thought.

There's a faint knocking on your bedroom door that cease your internal tanget. You turn your head as the door creaks open, revealing your sister, Sasha, poking her head out between the gap. A friendly smile adorns her pink lips as she holds a plate of food in her hands.

"Can I come in?" She asks, already stepping inside. "I brought you food. You've been cooped up in here for too long, I thought you might be hungry."

You chuckle and motion her to come in.

Sasha moves briskly and steps inside before shutting the door behind her. She tiptoes across the room and over to you. She lightly taps your foot to make room and you swing it off the couch.

She places the tray between the two of you. A few loaves of bread, some grapes, and other fresh fruit that you assume she's stolen from the batch Reiner's supposed to sell.

She swipes the loaf of bread, breaking it in half and hands you the bigger piece before chewing her's down.

"You alright?" She asks, her words muffled by the bread. "Mamma's gotten under your skin, hasn't she?"

You bob your head, humming in response as you eat the bread bit by bit, taking your time.

Sasha follows your line of sight, checking to see what you've been so keenly staring at. Only to find that it's just a bunch of chickens running around.

"I'm overwhelmed," You confess breathily. You pull your legs up to your chest and rest your chin onto your knees. "I don't like the feeling one bit."

"Is it because of Mr. Ackerman?" Sasha looks at you with concern outlining the softness of her face. You don't really reply, just lulling your head in thought. "You surprise me, you know."

"I do?"

Sasha hums delightfully as she takes her last bite of her bread before moving onto the grapes.

"For someone who admires her freedom and never spared an interest in even the thought of forming an attachment, you latched onto Mr. Ackerman rather quickly." Sasha had always been mistaken for an idiot at a surface level, but she's a lot more perceptive than people give her credit for — than you give her credit for. And for once, you hated it. "One could even say that it's a bit...odd. But you've always been off, so maybe it isn't so out of the blue."

"Oh, how you read me so well," You say, sarcasm oozing from your words. You take a quick bite of bread.

"What's he like?"

You shrug your shoulders, pouting in thought. "I've only ever met him thrice," You point out, laughing at the curiosity avidly pooling from her eyes. "There's not much I can judge. If anything, I think you'd know more than me since you've pummeled the poor man with one too many questions."

Sasha takes the tray of food and scooches closer to you before putting it on her lap.

"But that's different! You've gotten first hand experience. Is he really like all the rumors?" She asks, a little too keenly. "Is he really as mean as they say? Because when he visited the house, he seemed too stiff for comfort."

You snort and are quick to cover your mouth to keep the bread from spilling from your lips.

"Mm, well, Mr. Ackerman is man of few words and very few expression, but he seems...genuine?" You don't mean for it to come out sounding like a question, but the more you speak, the more you're hit with the realization you know absolutely no idea who the man is.

All you're really left with is his hatred for attention, and your mutual need for peace. Everything else you try to think of comes up short.

Mr. Ackerman hasn't written a letter to you since his visit. It's not like he said he was going to, but a very small and naive part of you thought he would.

Sasha continues to rain down on you with more questions, but it isn't as persistent as you'd expect her to be. Its either her line of concentration snaps too quickly for you to formulate a response, or she's just too excited to hear more.

You answer what you can until you can no longer think. Eventually you're too tired to talk about you and the subject of the conversation shifts to Sasha.

"Hey, Sasha," You carefully speak between chews, minding the grape in your mouth. Sasha's eyes, still colored in hunger as she takes another loaf of bread, darts to look at you. "What about you, though?"

"Hmm?"

"You and..." You shift in your seat and lean in. "You and Nicolo - are you two really - Oh! My God, are you alright?"

Sasha nearly chokes on her bread. Clenching her fist, she beats her chest to help soothe the burn in her throat, coughing for air.

"Sasha!"

"I-I'm fine!" She finally says, swallowing thickly. "Sorry, yes, I'm fine."

"Do you need water?" Sasha shakes her head as she rests her hand on your shoulder to keep you still in case you choose to leave. You move even closer to rub her back to ease her, but once she does, a smirk plays across your lips and chuckle stumbles from your lips. "So, I guess it's true. You and Nicolo really are —"

"Shut up!" Sasha interjects, her head snapping up to look at you with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. "Please! I've had enough of mamma pestering me about this— ever since Pieck decided to tattle on me! If you're going to being just as annoying as her than—"

"I won't be!" You argue, your tone playful and lilting. "I'm only asking, and you're taking forever to say anything!"

"Well, fine! Alright." Sasha sharply huffs in defeat as she tosses her bread onto the tray and sets it back onto the couch. "Yes, okay, I suppose I might have feelings for Nicolo, but I don't know. I can't tell."

"You can't tell...?"

Sasha lets out another breath as she slumps against the wall. Her head tilts up to look at the cracked ceiling before looking back down to you, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she picks the right words to convey how she feels. She nervously twiddles her thumbs while doing so.

"How do you even know when you like someone?"

You blink at Sasha, taken aback by her question while she looks at you eagerly.

You realize, after a few breaths, you don't have a definite answer because unlike Pieck, you've never really experienced the feeling yourself. You always lived vicariously through fictional characters you read in novels, and Mrs. Bloom's sweet story of how she met her husband.

But other than that, you come up short—you can't tell at all.

"I think I'm the wrong one to ask." You confess, causing Sasha to look at you quizzically as confusion stirs in her mind. "I haven't really found the answer myself, I'm sorry."

Sasha sighs dejectedly.

"It's best to ask Pieck, isn't it?"

"As me what?" Pieck's voice, delicate and laced in curiosity, has your heads turn to the bedroom door.

It seems you were both too deep into your conversation to hear her knocking.

Pieck stands by the door, her olive green dress flows in the gentle window coming from the opened window, her hair into the usual messy, low ponytail that falls down her shoulders; her eyes heavy-laden with sleepiness.

Your eyes trail down to her hand, finding a pile of letters tightly held in it.

"Pieck, what's that?" You ask, dismissing her question with a question.

"Now hold on," Pieck hides the letters behind her back, pressing herself against the door to create even more distance—as if the wide expanse of the room wasn't enough. "What's the question?"

Sasha rolls her eyes. "It's silly."

"Well, if it's from you, I'm sure it is."

Sasha grumbles at Pieck's sarcastic retort, and you watch as your two sisters begin to bicker.

"If you're going to be an ass, I won't tell you." Sasha crosses her arms and twists her body away from Pieck and towards the window, her eyes falling to the clucking hens.

Peick nimbly trots across the floor and over to Sasha's side, crashing into her and quickly wrapping her arms around her shoulders, nosing through Sasha's hair bunched up in a high pony as she rests her chin onto her shoulder.

"Go away!" Sasha growls, her face contorts a sour expression as her attempts to shove Pieck off fails.

"Oh, c'moooon," Pieck coos, peppering kisses over her little sister's cheek, "won't you tell me? I hate being left out, especially when it's the two of you."

Sasha grunts as she tries to pry away from Pieck, but only to be caught in sloppy kisses on the cheek and the temple of her forehead. Though Sasha visibly shows disgust, even you can see that she loves being showered in affection from Pieck.

Pieck, being the eldest and holding the most responsibility, had always held you both with great love and adoration.

"Alright!" Sasha yells in surrender, tangled in the arms of her sister and somehow in a headlock as Pieck sits behind her. "I'll tell you, I'll tell you! Let me go and give me room, please."

Sasha elbows Pieck away from her, giving her enough space to breathe, and you snatch the tray off the couch and onto your lap to keep it from falling.

And as Sasha begins to explain her little dilemma, Pieck comfortably sits herself behind her, propping her chin back onto her shoulder and winding her arm around her waist as she listens intently. Pieck's gentleness doesn't go unnoticed by Sasha, and you watch as she sinks in the hug.

Pieck clicks her tongue, her eyes look at you as she falls into a thought, not deep enough to overthink and get carried away as she finds the answer.

"Hmmm, love and likeness can be complicated, but only if you let it be." You tilt your head at Pieck as she continues on her train of thought. "But you can tell if you like someone if you enjoy being with them and find their company pleasant. Do you find Nicolo's company pleasant?"

Sasha mindlessly hums in thought as her head lulls back on Pieck's shoulder.

"I do, actually." Sasha admits without hesitation. "I think..." She takes a beat to suck her teeth as she continues to think about it a little more, "I like the food he makes and that he, well, never seems to be bothered by me..."

"He's always so kind—like his eyes. His smile's nice, too, I suppose. Whenever he speaks, whether it's about food or well, other things, I can't help but listen."

There it is, the shimmer of affection in her light brown eyes and the oh-so-subtle smile across her lips. You almost miss it, but the world stills around you as you're caught in her bubble.

Pieck gives you a knowing look, smiling playfully.

Without saying a word or even slipping a sound, you and Pieck come to the agreement that Sasha'll have to come to her own realization that he loves him. The question is when she'll arrive at it.

Sasha brushes it off, not wanting to muddle herself any longer. She plucks the letters from Pieck's grasp and eagerly swifts through the pile while humming thoughtfully, completely ignoring Pieck's groan of disdain.

It's the usual; a couple of people from your father's family, inquiring when you're to sell the estate, one from your distant aunt from your mother's side that never bothers to actually visit, but diligently sends letters whether it be rain or shine, and one for —

"You've got a letter!" Sasha chirps, snapping her head up to look at you before shoving it into your hands. "It's from Mr. Ackerman! He's finally written to you!"

You throw your legs over the edge of the couch, sitting upright and fixing your hair as if Mr. Ackerman's just right there, watching you as you open his letter with shaky breaths and nimble fingers.

You quickly but carefully open his letter, scanning through his words and your eyes bulge out of it's sockets.

"What's it say?" Pieck inquires, excitement dripping from her lips as she scooches closer to try and peak at the letter. "Will he be visiting again?"

You shake your head.

"Well, don't be shy!" Sasha whines, "What is it?"

You open and close your mouth, blinking frantically as your shock still rides through your body. "Mr. Ackerman would like me to visit him at his estate next Tuesday."

When your mother heard news of your presence being requested by Mr. Ackerman, she took it upon herself to teach everything you needed to know about being "prim and proper". She stole your remaining days of peace and prepped you as best as she could.

When it came time for you to leave, she was adamant that you opt to take horseback instead of taking the carriage. All, especially your brother Reiner, were completely against it when they noticed the storm clouds reeling in. But your mother was deeply rooted in her stance, firm like a tree that not even the wind of your brother's disdain could change her mind.

So there you stand, having been caught in the rain, dripping from head to toe as the Smith estate towers over you, as if it's ready to swallow you whole in one go. You have to crane your neck back in a particularly painful angle to get a good look of the entire building, and you’re sure you’re only seeing the very tip of the iceberg.

Your mother warned you it would be much larger than you were used to - you just never imagined it to look like something out of a book.

Shivering and tightly wrapping your coat over you to trap any warmth you might have left with one hand, you swiftly knock on the door with the other. A shuddering breath escapes you when the door creaks open, revealing a servant to greet you in.

“Ah, Miss,” The servant’s eyes widen in fright, flinching back. His gulp is audible even with the thundering behind you. He scans you from head to toe, and he doesn’t bother to mask his sneering at your drenched frame and all the mud collected at the hem of your skirt. “You must be Miss Blouse, yes?” You greeted him with a sneeze, and briefly apologized. “Come quickly before you catch a cold.”

But your second and most aggressive sneeze yet tells him you might already have one.

“He’s been expecting you,” Is all the servant says before guiding you down that hall.

You rub your eyes, wiping your hairs sticking to your face as you take in the sight before you. The air in the estate is chilly and deadly quiet - enough to hear the sound of your clothes dripping with water and to catch the servant clicking his tongue at you.

You hold your breath; you didn’t think the estate could get any bigger, but it does. The hallway is vast and seemingly endless; portraits of many different men and women - all who you assume were probably family members of Mr. Smith because of the signature blonde hair and blue eyes - canvas over the great walls.

Giddiness tickles down from your chest and into your stomach as you trail behind the servant, your arms swaying to the side with a little skip in your step. You try your best to catch a peak at every room and hall you pass by, but everything moves in blur.

You can’t tell if you’re tired from your travels or if it's the pace you’re walking in. You take deep breaths, trying to pull yourself together as the servant ushers you into the drawing room.

“Mr. Ackerman will be here shortly,” is all he leaves you with, not bothering to spare another breath.

You’re surrounded by more paintings and books, but a particular painting catches your eye. It’s a portrait of a woman relaxed on a chair; she looks nothing like the ones outside. She has soft features and kind eyes, her lips supple and plump with an endearing smile. Her dark hair flows down to her shoulders, framing her face.

You squint your eyes, inching towards it with your hands clasped behind your back to avoid reaching out to touch it. The longer you stare, you find a weird sense of familiarity in her. But you just can’t -

“You’re wet.” You snap your head towards the gravelly voice to find Levi standing by the door with his brows pulled down in horror. “You’ve tracked in so much rain water, I thought a dog had stalked in.”

“Oh, I’m quite fine - achoo! Thank you for asking - achoo!” Your feeble attempt to shoot down his sarcastic remark is embarrassingly interrupted by your persistent sneezing. You wipe your nose with the back of your glove, earning a look of disgust from Mr. Ackerman. “Excuse me, I got caught in the rain.”

“I couldn’t tell,” He clips with a tight lip. “You could catch a cold -”

“Achoo!”

“It seems you already have…” Mr. Ackerman groans, and you find yourself picking at your fingers in embarrassment, your head lowered to the floor. “Follow me, I’ll give you something to change out of.”

Mr. Ackerman wastes a single breath, nor does he allow you to. But instead, with the utmost jaded expression on his face, he turns on his heels and leaves the room, expecting you to follow. You have to admit, with a fuzzy feeling buzzing in your head and the sudden sensitivity to the ache in your bones, it takes you a moment to pick up what he says and follow suit.

Has it always been this chilly?

A tremble in your damp coat, exhaling tremulously as you trot down the hall behind Mr. Ackerman. Your struggle for warmth doesn’t fall on dear ears, but it does motivate him to pick up the pace, up the winding steps and into another hallway.

Your shoes continue to click against the marble, passing by paintings and statues; for a moment you mistaken yourself to be wandering around a museum and not someone else’s home. But your head is spinning and you can’t appreciate the art even if you wanted you - you can’t even glance at a painting without wanting to vomit.

Mr. Ackerman comes to a jagged halt, causing you to nearly stumble against him. He glares at you over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” You mutter before stumbling a few steps back to give him space.

“Wait in there,” He instructs dryly, “and I’ll get someone to help you in a bit.”

“Oh, I - I don’t understand -”

“You have a cold,” He points out, “and I don’t think you’ll appreciate it if it were me helping you change out of your clothes.”

Your cheeks flush and your heart paces quickly in your chest; embarrassment overwhelms you and you wish the ground would swallow you up. He’s too direct and it makes your knees a little wobbly along with the rest of your body - you’ve turned into jello.

“Just wait in there and there’ll be a maid to bring you clothes. I’ll meet you again once you’re done.”

“Oh, uh, thank you.” You whisper, your eyes finally snap from the floor and meet Mr. Ackerman’s same old arid visage, but there’s a tenuous, unfamiliar gleam in his eyes you can’t seem to read.

He sternly nods, but just before trodding off you call after him, “Mr. Ackerman?” Your voice hushed and trembly.

“Yes, Miss Blouse?” He watches you expectantly, his head faintly tilting to the side. “Is there something else?”

Ironically, despite Mr. Ackerman coldness and indifference, you can feel that he cares - his warmth. And you can’t help but feel dangerously eager, a little selfish even, for wanting more. You can’t help but want to push further, but you’re reminded of the rumors and prefer not to push your luck.

“Thank you,” You say with a smile, a genuine one that catches him off guard, but not that you can tell with your glossy eyes. “Thank you fo - achoo! I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Ackerman.”

There’s a very, very subtle blush that spreads across his cheeks that reaches the tips of his ears, and maybe if it wasn’t for the odd lightly in the hallway, you would’ve caught it. But once again, Mr. Ackerman thanks his lucky stars and gulps, “Don’t mind it too much,” and spins on his heels before striding down the hallway.

You watch till his footsteps fade and his slender frame disappears as he turns the corner before finally looking at the door beside you. You stare at the door knob, your hand fidgeting over it before finally taking it in your hand and opening the door.

You gasp in awe, your eyes going round - the room can eat your house in a single bite. Even the bed that sits at the center, headboard pushed up against the wall, is bigger than the one your share with Pieck. Maybe bigger than the bed your mother and father shared.

You step inside, pushing the door shut behind you before twirling and taking in all the green and gold in the room. You’ve never seen so much gold - you’ve never seen gold in general, but here you are completely surrounded by it.

The strident knocking on the door causes you to still, staggering over your feet to find a familiar face greeting you with a cheerful smile, balancing a folded pile of clothes in their hand.

“Hange!” You squeak in shock, nearly losing your balance.

“Miss Blouse,” They playfully salute to you before entering in completely. “I saw you come in earlier and Levi said you’d be in here, so I thought to help. Though he did oppose, I'm not one to follow orders anyway.”

They cleverly wink at you, stretching their arm out to hand you the clothes and you meekly take it.

“How are you feeling?” They ask, taking a seat on the bed, “You can change over there, behind the partition,” They point to the other side of the room where it stands beside the window, and you quickly shuffling behind it.

You finally peel off your clothes, finally being freed by way your damp clothes and the way it clung to your body. You sigh heavily, tremulously.

“So, how are you feeling?” Hange’s voice echoes in the room from where they sit. They lean back on the heel of their palms, lulling their head bad carelessly as they wait for your response. “Levi said you might have a cold, and luckily for you, I’m a doctor.”

You hum in response, your focus directed on changing your clothes as quickly as possible.

“I’m, uh, I think I’m okay,” There’s a tingling in your skin and an unbearable ache in your bones. Your whole body feels sensitive; you’re not sure if you feel chilly or too warm. But you don’t want to be a burden, especially since you’re already borrowing someone else's clothes.

Whose are these anyway? You can’t imagine these are Hange’s, it’s way too small.

“He said you were sneezing!” They say, their voice slightly raising. “That you were sneezing a lot.”

“Probably just allergies!” You try and laugh it off, hoping Hange doesn’t press any further. But much to your displeasure, Hange isn’t one to simply let things go.

But the moment you step out from the partition, tying your hair up to keep from staining the dress, Hange strides over to you, placing her wrist onto your forehead and hums.

“You’re sick.”

“I’m fine.” You press.

“You’re a liar.”

“I'm not!” The whine that escapes your dried lips, takes enough energy from you to have your vision grow spotty and have your knees give in. Hange loops their arm around your waist and you slump onto their chest for support. “Right, maybe I am a liar,” You admit breathily, your eyes fluttering shut. “I’m really sorry, this is extremely impolite and my mother would kill me if she found me like this.”

“Never mind what your mother says,” They sigh before helping you over to the bed, “nothing good will come of thinking about what your mother says,”

You laugh softly, finding irony in their words.

The cushions are warm and comforting, pulling you into ease as you’re swayed by your need for rest. You try to combat it by blinking away, but drowsiness overtakes you like an unrelenting storm and you fall perilous to it the second your head sinks into the pillows.

You're greeted by a sharp, persistent ache in your head and a stubborn throb in your bones. You moan in discomfort and writhe beneath the cotton bed sheets.

You feel something cold dripping down your head, but before you can reach to check, you feel a wet cloth being placed on your forehead. You crack your eyes open and draw a bitter breath to find Mr. Ackerman towering over you. His brows pulled into a deep line of focus and his eyes colored in determination as if its taking all his verve to adjust the way the towel sits on your head.

He looks down at you and his expression softens.

It softens?

"You're awake," Mr. Ackerman notes. Maybe its the sickness, and that you're probably imagining it, but does Mr. Ackerman's tone sound a lot gentler? Its almost as if he's concerned for your well-being — almost as if he's worried and relieved you're finally awake. But his face remains unreadable, devoid of emotion. "You've been asleep for quite some time, but your temperature seemed persistent. Hange said as long as the rag is frequently changed then you should be better. How are you feeling?"

Does that mean he's been changing the rag? He said it should 'changed frequently' —

You arch your back when the ache in your bones come back stronger than ever. You whine in pain and drown back into the mattress.

"I don't feel too well," You croak, swallowing dryly.

"Do you need water?"

You can only nod.

Mr. Ackerman swiftly reaches for the glass of water that sits on the bedside table. You try and sit up , your bones feel like chalk as it grates against each other. You try to take it from him, but he raises his free hand to stop you. “Let me,” is all he says to you before bringing it up to your lips.

Baffled, you still drink it.

Your thoughts are still too foggy to draft a single thought. But all you is know your heart’s drumming in your chest and your breath is hitched in your throat for an entirely different reason that’s far from your cold.

You sigh in relief after a few gulps, muttering a ‘thank you’.

“Mr. Ackerman, you said that I’ve been asleep for quite some time,” You recount, looking at him puzzled, “How long have I been asleep?”

“Two days.” He replies flatly, as if he's not bothered by it at all.

“Excuse me?”

Mr. Ackerman hums as he falls back into his chair grabbing the book beside him before opening it up to the page he left off.

“You needn’t worry,” He eases without looking up to meet your eyes, as unbothered by the worry screaming in your eyes. “I’ve already written a letter to your mother the moment you fell asleep and informed her of your current state.”

“And what did she say of it?”

“She deeply apologizes for overstaying your welcome, but is pleased to know you’re in good hands.” Mr. Ackerman turns to the next page before he crosses his legs. His eyes flicker up to look at you to find irritation seeping out of your through eyes narrowed at an empty space on the floor, chewing on the inside of your cheek “I assured her that **you are in good hands, Miss Blouse.”

“I’m sorry,” You apologize again for the umpteenth time as you stressfully run your fingers through your hair. “My mother must’ve planned this in hopes that I may grow closer to you.”

Mr. Ackerman cocks his brow at you, “Are you blaming your mother for your cold? Shouldn’t you be blaming the weather, or that you rode on horseback on a rainy day?”

"I cannot blame my mother for my cold or the weather, but I can blame her for scheming along with it." You sigh, leaning your head back onto the pillow, "My mother is an opportunist, so she must've seen the rain clouds as her 'moment to grasp'. She was adamant that I take horseback and not that carriage. My mother is many things, but most importantly, she's a scheming woman."

Much to your surprise, Mr. Ackerman smirks at your words. He smirks.

He licks his thumb before turning the page of his book, his eyes ghosting over the words without much intention to actually read.

"What are you doing?" You ask, twisting to face him, your hand tucking beneath the side of your face.

"I'm reading." He isn't.

"Here?"

"Would you rather I not keep you company?" His grey eyes blink away from the page and up at you. "Isn't this the whole point of your visit, to get o know each other?"

"W—Well, yes, but I didn't think you'd take our proposition quite literally." You voice falls soft at the end of your sentence and you feel yourself shrink in embarrassment.

"How else are we to make them believe we've formed an attachment?"

"Oh, well—"

"Is my company a bother?"

You shake your head. "Is mine?"

Mr. Ackerman chuckles and if it weren't for the whirling of your brain, you would've caught it. "Merely tolerable, really. You best get some rest, Miss. Blouse."

When you awaken again, it’s a little later in the afternoon and the sun is harshly bleeding through the glass window and casting over your face.

The first thing you notice is not the freshly changed rag resting over your forehead, but the empty chair that Mr. Ackerman sat himself earlier. You pout and you feel a little disappointed.

Disappointed?

What?

You prop yourself up on your elbows, drawing a sigh of relief. The smell of fresh sheets permeate your lungs and your tilt your head back before tilting it back up again.

Through your hooded gaze, your eyes scan through the room. You finally appreciate just how beautifully decorated it is. Shades of complimentary greens canvas the room and soft golds accent the room here and there. It’s ingrained in the walls and on the doors, and coloring the the bed posts, too.

With nimble fingers, you peel the covers off and a wave of cool air washes over your body.The floor is just as cold when your feet meet the carpet. You shuffle around the room, nosing through things but never really touching anything. You're too scared you might accidentally break something.

But the thirst of your curiosity has yet to be quenched, so you find yourself straying out the room, trotting down the hall and twirling around the space gleefully.

The estate is something written in the books. If it wasn't for the dreary, unsettling air hanging over you as thick as fog, the feeling would be magical.

Too busy to play make believe in your head, you find yourself too far off the path. Everything looks the same, and you eyes widen in panic.

Think, think, think, you chant inwardly, twisting your head around for something familiar.

Panic rises from your chest and lodges into your throat, and the last thing you need is to fall onto Mr. Ackerman's bad side.

But before your knees can shake in such unnerving trepidation, faint whispers echoing down the hall and towards you pull you from your thoughts. The voice are so faint and low, you nearly mistaken it to be elves.

You listen intently and follow the source, passing through a few more paintings and doors to lead you to a fragment of light bouncing off the wall and onto a door left ajar. You come to an immediate standstill when you recognize the voice — it's Mr. Ackerman.

Every inch of you tells you to turn around and walk away, but you aren't your mother's daughter for nothing. So the greater part of you belonging to her tugs you close, stealing a peak through the little gap as you hold your breath.

"When did you hear of this?" Mr. Ackerman's voice is gravelly, laced in annoyance. You hear him sharply huff followed by the sound of a hand slamming against the table, causing you to jolt in place. "How long have you known?"

"Not long," The unfamiliar, gruff voice says, and Levi grumbles. "Be thankful I'm telling you now and not waiting any longer. How could I with all your dallying? Since when have you taken any interest in marriage?"

"I haven't." He clips, tone dry. "The point is —"

"The point is, he's back and the last thing you need to do is wasting your time in courting a woman. Honestly, Levi, since when have you been so reckless?"

"Erwin," Mr. Ackerman grits, "my personal affairs have nothing to do with you. Who I choose to spend my time with has nothing to do with you."

"It has everything to do with me!" Mr. Smith seethes, yelling in a whispers. "If you cannot do your job, then how can I trust you? Do you not remember the reason why we're here?"

"I'm not an idiot."

"It seems that you are," Your eyes widen at Mr. Smith's counter, "she's slept here for two days, and you for two days, you've watched over her instead of doing what I've instructed you to do."

"She was sick." Mr. Ackerman argues flatly.

"Hange is a doctor for a reason."

"And I don't trust them for a reason."

You can only assume it's Mr. Smith who sighs dejectedly and clicking his tongue agitation. It only further piques your interest, and you wish it doesn't. But you can't help it, hearing that Mr. Ackerman stayed by your side while you rested made your cheeks burn and you can't help but grin to yourself, completely overjoyed.

You mentally kick yourself for being so much like your mother.

"You cannot hold that burden with you forever." Mr. Smith sighs.

"Whatever," Is the weak counter Mr. Ackerman spits back. "I'll take care of it tonight — the one of Governor Pixy's."

"Be sure to make yourself like an artificial night when you do." Mr. Smith commands, his voice smooth and stern. "You mustn't be caught."

"When have I ever been?"

You quickly leave, sprinting down the hall the moment you hear a chair grating against the floor.

Your heart drums in your chest and you breath tremulously. You heard something you shouldn't have even if it was only in incoherent pieces. Truly, it could be anything, but with the rumors circulating around him, it shouldn't be so surprising.

So why is it?

You find yourself in a more familiar part of the estate and you breathe out in relief.

You’re about to head back into your room when you stumble past a room, catching a glance of a grand piano standing tall from the corner of your eye. You retract your steps and turn your head to get a better look, your lips falling into an 'o' when you do.

She's beautiful, you think.

It’s an alluring, glossy ebony piano — one Sasha finds herself drooling over to play on whenever she sees one. She'll hate you so much when you tell her about it.

Against your better judgement, with all the bells warily ringing for you not to, you walk over to the piano, your hand shadowing over the wood. You take a seat before the keyboard just to take a good look at her. You have no intention to play her, really. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't for the life of you.

Your eyes flicker to the fall board of the piano and find a name engraved in gold.

"Petra," you whisper. "It's very nice to meet you. You're very beautiful, aren't you?"

"What the hell are you doing?" You shoot up from the chair and snap your head up to find Mr. Ackerman fuming at you. His eyes dark with rage and his jaw screwed shut, gritting at you. "I asked you a question."

"I— I didn't touch anything." You peep. You feel incredibly small underneath his scrutinizing gaze. You wish the ground would swallow you up right then and there. "I, I really didn't—"

"Get the fuck away from her." Mr. Ackerman speaks lowly, his voice quietly trembling, but you can't hear it.

Even if you hadn’t done anything wrong, you feel as if you’ve been caught red handed. Fear buzzes in your head and fogs up any line of thought.

"I'm sorry?"

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE PIANO!" He bellows, his eyes as fiery as his anger, causing you to stumble back and nearly trip up on your feet. "Who the fuck do you think you are, wandering into places you have no business? Is this what you shitty farm people are like? You get a chance to walk into a place thrice the size of your home and they think they could just parade around?!"

"I—I didn't mean to —"

"You and your family are fucking disgusting."

There are many things you're willing to put up with. You don't mind if someone were to come after you and call you out, but coming after your family is completely different. So your kindness and the very last bit of your patience snaps like a twig.

"I would imagine you're the disgusting one." Your voice is still small, but you’re building up to your confidence, peeling your eyes away from the patterned carpet to stare daggers right back at Mr. Ackerman who stills completely.

"Excuse me?"

"I'll admit I've overstepped and I deeply apologize for that," You begin, your voice no longer wavering in fear, "but how dare you? My family’s been nothing but kind to you."

"I think you've mistaken that I fucking care."

"I've heard many things about you, too many, for that matter. Yet I never labelled as anything as derogatory as what you've called me." You draw out a sharp breath, closing your eyes for a moment to steady you heart before continuing, "I think its disgusting, I think, that such a man as yourself, who've I've heard has been through hell and back, would think so lowly of people that's no different than him."

You never dared to listen to the rumors or any of the gossip. Even when your mother would try to entertain any of it, you’d stop listening or leave the room if you could. But if Mr. Ackerman was willing to aim for such a low blow, you couldn't think of a reason why you shouldn't do the same.

"I think you’re 'fucking disgusting' for forgetting where you came from."

Mr. Ackerman clenches his jaw and balls his fits tight til his knuckles paint white. He's ready to fire bullets into your self-esteem, but before Mr. Ackerman can even utter a syllable, a servant appears behind him, clearing his throat to cut of the momentum.

"Apologies for the intrusion," The servant says, his tone monotonous and dry, "but it Miss Blouse's brother is here to collect her."

You widen your eyes at the servant, and your expression softens.

“Reiner’s here?” You voice is small again.

“Yes, Miss.”

"Perfect." Mr. Ackerman huffs, his whole body still tense. "Get the fuck out."

You snap your gaze back to Mr. Ackerman, sneering, "Gladly."

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enigma-im · 4 years ago

Text

Third Day of Christmas...

Trope: Enemies to Lovers (NSFW) Relationship: Minotaur x Human Word Count: 4,025

It all started with a note on the door.

Imani didn't expect to find a letter taped to her door that morning, or any morning for that matter. For a good couple of seconds she feared it was from her landlord, an eviction notice of some kind. That went right out the window as she read the chicken scratched handwriting.

Dear apartment 23 resident,

I'd appreciate it if you would keep the noises to a minimum after 10 pm. The singing has kept me up well past midnight. The stomping at all hours has been less than appreciated. Also, I hate to point out that your dog hasn't been a saint either, barking every morning at 7 am. So if you would please, muzzle the dog and stop the late-night parties.

Signed, apartment 15 resident.

Imani is confused for a moment, walking back into her apartment while rereading the letter. All of it is not true, starting with the singing. She does not sing, especially that late in the day. The neighbor on the other hand has a daughter who doesn't understand her own volume, blaring out BTS songs at odd hours. The stomping is a ridiculous accusation, almost typical in these situations. The only time she can admit that her walking would be loud is when she first gets home and hasn't gotten to removing her shoes. Besides then, she is as quiet as a church mouse. An hour after she gets home she spends most of her time lounging in the living room. so how can she be making noises if she isn't moving?

The woman drops the note onto her kitchen table, put off by the audacity. She looks over to her little dog, shaking her head as she thinks back on the next line. Her dog doesn't bark! He is as silent as can be, never even growling. The most this 'resident' can accuse her pooch over is his nails scratching at the floor. Even then that shouldn't even register through the floors.

With the morning turned sour, Imani quickly organizes her things and heads out for work. The whole day is spent thinking hard on her letter, thinking about what needs to be done. Should she ignore it? Pretend she never got it and go on with her life? That would be the easy approach, even kinder one, but she ain't that kind of bitch.

When she got home late that day she storms into the kitchen, making sure to stop with her shoes still on, and grabs a notebook. She jots down a little message for 'resident 15' with as much passive aggression as she can put into words.

Dear resident 15,

The bold claims you have taped to my door have been read. I'd like to take the time to inform you of your misguided claims. I, for one, am not the local American Idol star. That award goes to Tiny Tina in apartment 22. I don't know why you have such an issue with her music, BTS songs are a bop.

Next on the list is my 'stomping'. Excuse me for correcting you again, but I do not 'stomp' around my apartment. The minute I get home from work I am sitting on my ass watching television till it's time for bed. So I ask you, how can I be stomping around if my feet do not move off the couch?

Finally, my dog. My dog is a saint, for your information, he is the quietest animal I have ever owned. I haven't heard so much as a peep from him since he was a puppy. Maybe check around for other noisy pooches because mine isn't the problem.

With this all said, I hope you find a solution to your problem because bugging me was not it.

Sincerely, resident 23

Signed, sealed, and ready to be delivered. The next morning on the way to work she tapes the little note to the numbers on unit 15. smug, she walks out of there with her head held high.

Feeling proud of herself even further into the day she isn't ready for the speedy reply taped to her door, along with a missing doormat. With a huff, she snatches the note and heads inside. She unfolds the sheet, reading:

Dear 23,

I am not mistaken, and I'm taking your welcome mat until you know how to be a proper upstairs neighbor.

-15

She gawks at the letter, put off by the blatant admission of theft. Are they a child, taking away things as a punishment? This is completely idiotic! She should march downstairs and confront the fool who thinks this is a proper course of action. Well, she would if she didn't also want to get back at them.

Throwing the paper onto the coffee table she flops down on the couch to think. What is the best way to get back at them?

A floor below rests Church the Minotaur. He is getting ready to go on a run, sliding on his sneakers as he opens the door. Glance to the side he catches sight of a gaudy plethora of stickers and glitter, his door dressed to the 9s with rainbows. He is taken aback, looking at the decorations with ire. Above it all sits a folded up piece of paper taped to the door. He quickly snatches it, reading it.

15,

Return the doormat and I'll clean your door.

-23

Church chuffs, grinding his teeth as he looks to the door again. He didn't think he was being unfair when he first gave them a letter. It was a polite way to ask them to shut up. He just wanted some sleep, was that too much to ask? He looks to the door again, apparently, it was.

Imani opens the door fully expecting the letter. With a bit of a pep in her step, she grabs it, reading it as she walks to her car. She snorts, crumpling the paper and tossing it in the trash.

23,

This means war

-15

The next few weeks are filled with pranks of varying variety. The two start small, Imani stomping around upstairs with her heaviest pairs of boots, Church banging his hand against the ceiling during the quiet hours of the night. Next with more glitter courtesy of Church, a well-timed package that exploded in Imani's kitchen. He swears he could hear her surprised scream from below. Imani gets him back with a similar package, one with a jump scare card.

It's a back forth of one-upping the other. Church orders Imani eight pizzas, forcing her to reluctantly pay for it when seeing the nervous kid trying to deal with the mix-up. Imani manages to hook her phone to his Bluetooth speakers, playing random screams at all hours of the night. Church gets her back by attaching an alarm to her door so when walked out that morning she was startled by a firetruck worthy honk.

It seems it’s the last straw for Church when he receives his own glitter bomb of confetti cocks. It gets caught on the carpet, sneaking into the couch cushions, and sticking to his clothes. Quickly dusting himself off he charges upstairs, reaching her door and banging on it. He taps his foot frustrated and angry.

The door clicks open, Church already ready with his rant. Imani is equally prepared, excited with the chance to chew him a new one. When the two see each other they stumble on the words, looking one another over with confusion. Neither of them expected the other to be anything but some angry middle-aged person looking for a fight. They hardly assumed that the other would be so…attractive.

"I, uh," church shakes his head," You! A damn dick bomb? Do you understand how ingrained they are into my carpet? I sent you a cheap one, something you can easily clean up but you couldn't even consider that!"

"What," Imani comes back to her own," those craft herpes were not easy to clean, I'm sure it's still in the kitchen now and staining my clothes. So don't you dare come at me with 'woe is me' look like you had any consideration at all for my floors."

"Well excuse me, I didn't hack into your speakers to play Halloween screams all through the night. I damn near had a heart attack at 2 in the morning because of you," he points to her, debating on jabbing her in the chest. She slaps his hand away before he gets the chance, scoffing.

"At least I didn't make you spend money on eight pizzas! Do you know how much eight pizzas cost? It was like seventy bucks. I'm just glad you didn't splurge on something more than a single topping pizza. But fuck you for making them all pineapple you monster," she bites back.

The two ramble on long enough for the neighbors to peek their heads out. Embarrassed, they close out their argument with a huff and a door slam. Church heads off to his apartment, falling onto the couch while grumbling to himself. Imani growls and mumbles in her bed. They both can't help the thought that ruins all their anger:

God, they were hot.

The pranks don't stop in their frequency. The two continue, using their frustrations at their traitorous thoughts to fuel their revenge.

Imani still plays with his speakers, using screamo songs to annoy him in the afternoons. Church booby traps her door again with more glitter, his preferred weapon as of lately. She takes up tap dancing, he pays the kid next door to blare BTS near the shared wall of her apartment. She puts a fake ticket on his car, he puts vulgar stickers on her's. the childish game goes on and on.

Imani sits in her room one night, frustrated beyond belief with the sexy minotaur. She can't get his face out of her head. Why did he have to be cute? It's not like it makes the little game they have going harder to do. No, it just makes it seem more than it is. She has to constantly catch herself praising his wit in some of the stunts he pulls. Scolding herself nonstop for wanting to stop by his place and yell at him some, just to see him. It's stupid, wanting to actually get to know him.

Church relaxes in bed, feeling more bothered than Imani. He has hit a bit of a dry spell in his sexual life, or his solo sexual life. He can't jerk off without picturing the little hellspawn upstairs. It would be easy to give in and just think of her but it would be too much. She is an enemy, not a potential interest. So what if she is one of the sexiest humans he has ever seen? Who cares if her ability to keep up with him in this little war is kind of turning him on? It doesn't matter, right?

He sighs in defeat, "I don't think I can believe that even if I tried," he grunts as he clenches his shaft.

Imani is at home setting up her next plan when someone knocks on the door. She looks to the clock surprised at someone visiting this hour. Confused, and cautious, she gets out of bed and walks to the door. Looking through the peephole she rolls her eyes at who she sees.

Imani opens the door," if this is about the folk music I'll tell you now I'm not changing it back."

"No," he growls," this is about the tap shoes. Metal on wood makes for some very undesirable sounds."

"Well, excuse me for trying to take up a new hobby. What about you paying off the kid next door to play her music next to my wall? I swear that little demon doesn't sleep," Imani scolds.

"Speaking of little demons, can you for the love of god shut your dog up. Every morning I hear his damn barking and I'm seriously debating calling someone," he takes a step into her space, scowling at the dog behind her.

"He doesn't bark," she pokes at his chest," I have never heard him even make a yelp since he was a puppy so I suggest you come up with a better lie than that."

"A lie," he shouts," your fucking dog barks, stop thinking he is some sort of mute."

"He does not," she shouts back.

"Does too," he steps closer.

"Does not," she raises her chin.

"Does too," he grabs her hips.

"Does not," she tugs at his shirt.

"Does too," he says, lowering closer to her. Before she can get her turn he quiets her with a rather harsh kiss, mashing his lips to hers. They grapple one another, pulling the other closer as they stumble into her apartment.

Church kicks the door shut as he fumbles with her shirt. She helps, parting from him long enough to cast the clothing aside. He tugs her back in for a sloppy kiss, delving his tongue into her mouth as she unbuttons his top. Thrusting his shirt down his arms while they bump into the sofa. Church beings unclasping her bra, uncoordinated as she sucks on his tongue.

The two fall to the couch, church not wasting any time with her freshly revealed tits. Imani gasps, petting down his chest to his pants. As he suckles on a nipple as she pulls him from his pants, holding his cock in her hand. He stutters in his attentions, panting heavily against her chest as she jerks him off.

"Oh, fuck," he groans.

"Like that big boy," she steals his attention, him looking at her cocky smile.

"Shut up," he reaches down to her pants, palming her through her jeans. She bucks into his hand, rolling her eyes at his smirk. He quickly discards her bottoms, tossing them away without a care. He watches her as he pets at her pussy, delving between her lips to feel how soaked she is for him.

"Am I wrong to assume this is all for me," he pushes a finger in. she clenches her jaw, groaning from the intrusion. He chuckles, feeling rather confident as she rides his hand. Not caring for his large ego she reaches for his cock once more, feeling him throb in her grip.

"Am I wrong to assume this is all for me," she mimics back smugly. He throws her an annoyed look, removing his fingers and slapping her hand away. Dropping a hand beside her head he leans down, looking between them as he prods his cock to her pussy. They both flinch, eager above all else. They both watch as his head parts her lips, poking at her clit with short nudges.

"You think I can make you scream like those damn Halloween recordings," he jokes as he grinds into her.

"No, I don't think you have the stamina," she jabs back, trying to stop the urge to buck against him. Church leans down and nuzzles against her neck, pressing a sweet kiss under her jaw.

"I guess we will just have to see," he grins, feeling less confident than his words suggest. His cock is damn near ready to burst with just his tip being coated in her sweet juices.

Church reaches between them, pressing his cock to her entrance. He guides his tip in, stretching his arm up to rest it beside her head. The only warning he gives her is a sultry smile before he shoves forward, both crying out at the suddenness.

"Oh, shit," Church whimpers beside her ear. Imani grabs at his arms, feeling utterly stuffed. He pulls back, thrusting forward quickly. Imani appreciates him not wasting time just pistoning into her. The need has been building up all week, the denial adding a new level of appeal to this want.

He rams into her, listening to her try to hide her cries of pleasure. He feels her body tell him what he needs to know, feels her walls pulling him in with every buck of his hips. She wants him as badly as he wanted her. It's satisfying to church to know this. To know that she needs this as much as he does. Not wanting to miss a thing he sits up, grabbing her hips as he does.

"Look at you," he groans," trying to hold back those little moans and whimpers. Don't fight it, babe, I wanna hear you." Imani startles herself with a cry, arching her back as his words add kindle to the fire. She wants to pretend this isn't happening, that she isn't getting fucked by her apartment enemy. But damn, does it feel fantastic.

Church watches her writhe on the couch, his stomach clenching as he tries to fight off cumming at the sight. Her tits bounce with each clap of their hips and it's driving him wild. Reluctantly he shuts his eyes, thinking about anything else to prolong this blissful torture.

Imani wails and whimpers as her insides are set aflame. As her orgasm comes rushing to the forefront she locks her legs around his waist, grinding like a madwoman into his thrust. She cries out her pleasure, utterly wrecked as she falls apart.

Church chokes on his breath as she clenches around him. He can barely think as she holds him in a vice grip. His hips go wild as he finds himself coming to an end. It's only half a thought that he undoes her legs and pulls out, grinding against her as he cums on her stomach. Imani watches in rapture as he tosses his head back and moans, the sound going straight to her already throbbing clit. She watches him spray out over her and she can't look away for even a second.

Church falls onto his hands, panting as he holds himself over her. He can't believe it. He got to fuck the cute hellspawn that has been tormenting him all month. At this moment he couldn't even think about the countless hours of sleep missed because of her little pranks. Right now all he can think of is holding her close and taking a much-needed nap. As he attempts the action he looks to her stomach.

Imani is bone-deep satisfied. Her body is relaxed against the couch and she feels like she's on cloud nine. She hardly notices when Church climbs off her, his footsteps fading away. When she does notice, it stabs at her heart a little. She watches him button up his pants, reaching to the floor to grab his shirt. I guess he's leaving, she thinks.

Church grabs his shirt from the floor, bunching it up as he turns back to her. She looks surprised when he crouches beside her and mops up the mess on her stomach with his top. He wants to laugh at the shocked expression but bites his cheek against it. With her all clean he tosses the shirt away and crawls in beside her. The couch is rather small so he lifts her onto his chest, lounging on his back. He cradles her against his front, ready to take a well-deserved nap.

Imani is rather confused as she watches him fall asleep. She fully figured he would dip after everything, she surely didn't expect anything from this. They were still in a war. A truce was never called but she can't help but think this changes something.

Shrugging, she snuggles up to him, enjoying his soft fur against her cheek. This is a problem she will deal with in the morning.

Imani wakes up alone in her bed. She is nearly tempted to figure the night with Church was all a dream till she feels the subtle ache in her legs. Ride a bull, you should expect some soreness. She chuckles to herself as she dresses. Walking into the kitchen she prepares for a lazy day indoors while she figures out how to deal with Church and her's relationship. As she gets ready to feed her pup does she realize the lack of said pooch.

"uh, Giovani," she calls out. No answer. She calls out again, searching around her apartment frantically. Did he get out while the door was open last night? Surely she would have noticed if he managed to sneak past. She rounds the apartment again just in case before she runs to the door, throwing it open in a rush. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots something hanging on her peephole. She tenses at the sight, snatching it.

Imani I have your dog Church

Imani scoffs, crumpling the letter as she marches downstairs. She can't believe she let herself think that things would change between them. That this little prank war can be swapped out for an actual relationship, friendship or otherwise. Above all, she can't believe he stole her dog.

Rounding the corner and stopping at door 15 she pounds her fist against the wood. She continues pounding till the door opens, revealing a smirking Church.

"Hello, babe, what brings you here so early," he asks, leaning against the frame.

"You stole my fucking dog, I want him back," she snaps, no ounce of playfulness available. Church nearly stutters on his act, a little worried about her protectiveness over her dog.

"Now, I stole him for his own good," he explains," with his separation anxiety I figured it is best if he got used to my apartment since I'm going to take up training him."

Imani scoffs," Excuse me? My dog doesn't have separation anxiety nor does he need to be trained by some dog snatching idiot with horns."

Church deadpans," idiot with horns?"

"It's early, they can't all be gold," she rolls her eyes," doesn't matter, give me my dog back."

Church shakes his head, frustrated at her denial. Instead of answering her, he calls for the pup, leaning down to pet him when he comes trotting over. With the dog properly excited he takes a step into the hallway with Imani and shuts the door. Imani looks from him then back to the door.

"What are you doing," she asks.

"Just wait," he holds up a finger. They both stand silently, nothing happening. Imani opens her mouth to acknowledge the ridiculous of waiting in front of a door when her dog begins whining, yelping loudly from inside the apartment. Church looks over to her with a smug grin, "Told you he barks."

Imani flusters, gawking at the door and listening to her dog cry out. Church opens the door, the pup running out and jumping at Imani. Still embarrassed, she pets at her dog before picking him up and walking away. Church watches her turn the corner, not saying a word as she departs. He sighs.

It's a good day of nothing that picks at Church. Surely he didn’t push too far, he didn't really intend to keep her dog so it wasn't that mean. He just wanted to prove that her dog did bark, finishing the month-long war on a hopeful note. It wasn't meant as another attack against her. He really did intend to help by offering to train her dog.

Throughout the day he debates going up there and apologizing, to offer an olive branch of some kind so he can actually get to know her. Last night for Church was…amazing. It was something he wants to do again, to explore further. That may be a pipe dream now.

Late into the afternoon church gets a knock on his door. He jumps up, feeling rather stupid as he quickly answers the door. Expecting Imani he is left disappointed as no one is there. No one could have left that fast. He looks down the hall, left to right. Nothing. With a defeated sigh he begins to close the door. He stops when a fluttering piece of paper catches his eye. Excited, he snaps it off the door unfolding it swiftly.

Church,

Dinner at my place, 8 pm

-Imani

Church smiles to himself, refolding the paper and heading back inside to get ready.

#12 days of christmas #12 tropes for christmas #Enigma-IM #monster boyfriend #exophilia #enemies to lovers #minotaur boyfriend

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enbies-and-felonies · 4 years ago

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Only Then I am Human / Only Then I am Clean

(AO3 link)

@jatp-rules-my-life, this is your fault (based on this post)

Summary: Alex listens to 'Take Me to Church' by Hozier and maybe it affects him in a way he wasn't prepared for, maybe it just let's him heal a little bit.

warnings for homophobia and religious themes

taglist, just ask to be added or removed (i know it's not my normal work but,, yeah): @barrel-of-cat-mituna @completekeefitztrash @tiergan-andrin-alenefar @lemontarto @hershis-kotlc @genesiscaveat @everything-else-and-mars @juline-dizznee @chaotic-basics @an-absolute-travesty @classyfunnyquotesmuffin7 @smolanxiouscatvoids @itstiger720 @introvertedscarecrow @sunset-telepath @an-idiot-in-a-trenchcoat @cowboypossume @anaccidentwaitingtohappen @sofia-not-sophie @fire-sapphics @dr-alan-grant @real-smooth @juline-dizznee

The first time Alex heard 'Take Me to Church' he was on the verge of dozing off, which was an interesting feeling as a ghost, like he was a boat tethered to a dock and he might drift away if he fell asleep for too long. The evening sun was casting lazy beams through the windows of Julie's garage, and he smiled as the warmth hit his face, causing his eyelids to droop lower. At least as a ghost, he could still enjoy some of the simpler things in life.

An old radio crackled on the little table nearby, playing songs Alex had never heard before. He enjoyed a few of them, but others he rolled his eyes at. Idly, he wondered if Reggie and Luke were having fun with Julie; She had taken them on a trip to see some sights, but Alex had opted to stay home, feeling listless, and decided to catch up on whatever new tunes had came out since he was alive.

He bopped his head slightly to 'Bad Liar' and hummed a bit to 'Counting Stars'. He had missed out on a lot of good songs. Yawning, he stretched and settled deeper into the couch, giving a contented sigh as the next song started playing, a strong piano coming in and setting the tone.

Alex liked the man's voice, and he raised an eyebrow at the lyrics.

"-She's the giggle at a funeral / Knows everybody's disapproval / I should've worshipped her sooner."

He sat up and cocked his head by a margin, feeling a tiny, guilty thrill at the way his lips quirked at the lyrics. There was a forbidden excitement that came from it's gentle blasphemy.

"Every Sunday's gettin' more bleak / A fresh poison each week."

His heart twinged. A choir, a pulpit, fire-and-brimstone preaching, he was just a kid-

"We were born sick / You heard them say it."

He sucked in a breath and his eyes flew open, throat tightening like a noose, trapping his breath like a fluttering bird in his lungs.

~~~

"This Sunday we will be touching upon the topic of a Biblical marriage!" The preacher's voice booms across the congregation, and fourteen year-old Alex's stomach sinks as he tries to slouch further down in the pew, as if he could just slip low enough that the words won't catch in his heart and weigh him down like so many stones. He briefly thinks about the millstone the preacher once mentioned. He tried to remember the context, but the only thing he comes up with is that it was for people who sinned. He gulped.

"Now, 'what exactly is Biblical marriage?' you might be asking yourself! Biblical marriage is a holy union between one man, and one woman-"

Pastor James' voice carries on, and Alex does his best to let the words pass through his ears without hearing them, the rocks weighing him down turning to boulders. His stomach turns.

"-now, the men gotta love their wives!! Just like Christ loves the church, and cares for her. Marriage is a wonderful blessing, the greatest blessing we could ever experience in fact! It is perhaps the second greatest gift God has given to humans, and as such we must respect it.

"There are many ways you can disrespect the holy marriage bed. Divorce of course is one of them. In fact, in Matthew chapter nineteen, verses one through eight-"

Alex tries to tune him out harder, knowing what's eventually coming and yet still hoping to avoid it. He counts the number of stained-glass windows -twelve without turning to either side, thirty-six if he rotates all the way- and taps his fingers on his leg to the cadence of Pastor James' words.

One, two, three, four. One and two, and three, and four-

He makes increasingly faster and more intricate beats, imagining drumsticks in his hands, base-drum pedal beneath his foot.

One and two-o-o, and four and, one and two and three-e, four-

His fingers are pattering rapidly, and he forces himself to swallow, trying to remember not to bounce his leg, trying not to distract his mom and dad, trying not to dwell on the words he can't avoid, trying not to scratch at his wrist, trying-

He can't breathe. He's trying to calm himself down but his fingers aren't a drumset and he can't play away the sin that coats his soul and he's just a kid but he can't breathe, he can't-

"And that leaves us with those who have disrespected the sacred act of marriage by letting themselves be lost in sexual perversion. I am, of course, referring to those disgusting individuals who have chosen to live the transsexual and homosexual lifestyles. People like these were born sick."

Alex's hands quit their anxious movement. He's completely still. He was born sick.

He was born sick.

~~~

"The only heaving I'll be sent to / Is when I'm alone with you."

And he started breathing again.

"I was born sick, but I love it / Command me to be well / A-a-a-amen amen amen"

Air was rushing back into his lungs and maybe it was the way reliving that memory gave him closure, but it felt like the song was purging the preacher's burning words from where they'd branded his heart with wounds he never thought would scar-over.

Alex felt his eyes close again, letting the lyrics and the lilt of the man's voice wash over him in a cleansing baptism. His fingers began pattering against his lap, joining in with the beat, weaving him together with the music, becoming one with it.

"We've a lot of starving faithful."

He thought of himself when he was younger, sitting in church week after week begging God to fix him. He thought about the girl who bowed her head at the foot of the altar the Sunday after a lesbian couple was attacked, he thought of the way her fingers linked together like someone else's hand used to hold them, and he thought of the way she cried: silent, tears streaming down like shooting stars, her lips whispering unspoken prayers.

This song was for him, he realized. It was for him, and every moment he cried himself to sleep under his parents roof, thinking he was dirty, thinking he didn't have God's love, didn't have God's forgiveness.

It was for every time a prayer caught in his throat like a trapped butterfly, the prayers he could never bring himself to say because he was 'unworthy'.

"I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife / Offer me that deathless death / Oh good God, let me give you my life"

The lyrics seeped under his skin, replacing the lies that he had believed over the years. The lies about himself, about his faith, about his gayness-

Washed away like a world-destroying flood.

Because this song? This song was for every cold-shoulder from his parents instead of a warm hug, and it was for every time he had to watch him mom recoil from his touch, every time his father didn't quite meet his eye.

"There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin."

The first tear slipped past his eyelashes, and he heaved a shuddering sigh.

"Only then I am human / Only then I am clean."

He cried, but there was a smile on his face.

~~~

When Julie and the boys got back, the radio was long silent, but Alex still sat on the couch, tear-tracks on his cheeks and a relieved smile on his face.

He had sat there a long time, reliving moments in his life, and then letting them go, letting them be washed away. He was quiet when he was surrounded by the rest of Sunset Curve, letting himself be held by them; Julie comfortingly running her fingers through his hair, Reggie linking their fingers together and side-hugging him, and Luke tugging him halfway onto his lap. They were his family, and they loved him.

"You okay, Lex?"

Alex took a deep, slow breath, letting himself take in each of their faces, and he gave a small smile.

"Yeah, I really am."

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chilling-seavey · 4 years ago

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Seasons Change (d.s.) - ONE

↳ A/N This one already holds a special place in my heart and it has barely even begun! Might be a bit slower on updates because I want to make sure it’s perfect for us all. Thank you to @stuffofseaveyy for your unwavering help with plotting this storyline out, @randomlimelightxxx for your excitement and help, and of course, @jonahlovescoffee for being my hype girl and the best mayor’s wife anyone could ask for ;)

↳ Summary: Everyone knows everything about everyone in this small rural town in east Connecticut and the handsome single father who owns the farm down the main street seems to always be the talk of the town. Balancing the care of his acreage, raising his school-age son, and coaching the local boys’ hockey team keeps Daniel busy; but his mind never strays far from the expansive and vibrant flower gardens planted outside his farmhouse.

↳ Word Count: 2520

↳ Warnings: This story touches on topics such as loss of loved ones and grief. Nothing too detailed but read at your own discretion x

If you weren’t looking, you would miss it. An hour-and-a-half drive east of Hartford, Connecticut rested a small town that barely occupied more than an intersection of space in time. On your way east towards state lines, a rectangular green sign half covered by an oak tree would welcome you to Lincoln – Population: 200. You’d leave the town before you even realized you were in it if you weren’t paying attention but maybe that’s how the locals liked it.

People moved to Lincoln to get away from the bustle of the city…it was full of those people who had ‘let’s ditch this town’ mindsets and set down roots in a section of the world where they wouldn’t be bothered. It was the type of town that lived in the lyrics of a country song: picture perfect homegrown peace where everyone knew everyone and everyone had a place. It was easy to know everyone in a town like Lincoln. Driving in from the city you would pass a white paneled church, a few small single storey houses with lengthy driveways, the red trimmed general store, a brick sided restaurant, a run down and rusted mechanic’s shop, and catch a glimpse of the small community center just past the park before being enveloped by the nothingness that middle-of-nowhere Connecticut was known for.

Not much happened in Lincoln – at least nothing that was worth noting. Sometimes a car would break down and a city dweller in a designer suit would find his way to the general store to ask for assistance or, more often, a coyote would be rumoured to be roaming at night but that was the extent of the excitement. The most exciting thing to do outside of day to day work was play hockey and it seemed to be the town’s pride and joy of a pastime. There was no such thing as ‘hockey season’ as hockey season was year round in the small town of Lincoln, Connecticut. The community center housed an ice rink that could be melted down to a basketball court but everyone stayed for the hockey. The Lincoln Lighting Junior and Senior leagues were usually the talk of the town. The school-aged boys (ages 7-13) played for the juniors and the later teens and most of the fathers played for the senior league. The captain of the senior league was the coach of the juniors and he owned one of the few farms a few paces north of the main intersection.

A father of one and the best hockey player Lincoln had ever seen, Daniel Seavey was more than one could expect from a small town man.

He wasn’t your everyday potato farmer with uneven tan lines or a body that housed more beer than muscle and, in fact, he was the talk and the eye candy of the town. At only twenty-nine, Daniel was the best of the best in Lincoln: best hockey player, best coach, best farmer, best guitarist, best father; and he had the sandy brown hair and sky blue eyes of a heartbreaker to top it all. At six feet tall, Daniel was slim and handsome, and yet had the muscles capable of running a farm and shooting slapshots like you wouldn’t believe. Daniel was quiet and polite and he innocently humoured the wives of the town as they flirted with him in front of their unimpressed husbands.

But no one could be mad at Daniel. Not when he was the first and only widow Lincoln had ever seen.

Marigold Seavey was twenty-six when she died in her bed at their farmhouse in the early hours of the morning. Her passing was the first major event to ever shake the town of Lincoln. Everyone knew everyone in this town and, that being said, everyone knew what a sunshiny soul Marigold was. Daniel, especially, seemed to have his light burnt out once she was buried behind the church at the corner of town. Some of the folks in town will tell you that the saddest sight they had ever seen was Daniel standing at the foot of his wife’s grave after the funeral with his six-year-old son holding his hand and the two of them crying silent tears into the fresh fall soil.

Despite Daniel’s quiet persona, he was strong and he knew he had to be for the sake of his young son. He couldn’t wallow in his grief for long since he had a son to raise and a farm to tend to and the generosity of the townsfolk certainly helped him to stay on his feet after his wife passed.

It had been a year-and-a-half since Marigold died. Daniel had just turned twenty-nine as March moulded into April and the winter chill was starting to fade into spring and the second birthday without her wasn’t any easier. The birthday cake baked by his neighbour wasn’t as delicious as Marigold’s classic lemon cake she would make him every year but he politely thanked the woman and dared not complain. Daniel would never complain over the niceties of the townsfolk.

That’s what came with living in such a small town; everyone had everyone’s back.

It was the first Sunday of April and the first truly nice spring day of the year. With a crisp breeze in the air, it was only just warm enough to discard the winter jackets and most of the town was gathered in the large backyard of the mayor’s house for the usual after-church brunch. On the colder Sundays, brunch was held in the main restaurant but everyone preferred to gather in the fresh air and over the crisp green grass of the mayor’s house as soon as the weather permitted.

The mayor’s house was the largest and had the most land outside of the farms that were just north of the main intersection in town. Jonah – known by the locals as such since he didn’t like the formality that came with the title of ‘Mayor Frantzich’ – and his wife Jocelyn kept a pretty house on the edge of the little town. They could be what you call the ideal small town family with two kids, a dog, and white picket fence – enough backyard space for it to be the perfect spot for weekly brunch.

The town children had space to play and stretch their legs after sitting for an hour in church and the yard was filled with the shouts from their games. The adults lingered around the yard in various little circles, nursing freshly squeezed orange juice in spring-themed clear plastic cups and talking amongst themselves.

Daniel did a lot of listening during Sunday brunches, standing amidst one of the groups of parents as they talked about school, clubs, and work. Marigold was always the chatty one of the two of them…without her, Daniel felt out of place.

“What about you, Daniel? Think the frost will be gone to break ground this week?”

Jack spoke first, a shorter man with unruly brown hair and enough tattoos to surprise anyone with the fact that he raised an apple orchard. He owned the farm beside Daniel’s and was one of his closest friends in the town.

Daniel thought for a moment and scuffed the toe of his dress shoe against the grass. The cold ground was still pretty solid and the chill in the air still had them all wearing blazers over their Sunday button-ups.

“Only if this cold front lets up.” Daniel answered. “I’m hoping to plough by next week at the latest.”

“Everything’s been going well with the farm and your boy?” Jonah asked, his hand tucked around his wife’s waist and he raised his opposite hand to his mouth to sip his juice.

Daniel shifted on his feet and gave a shrug, his eyes drifting past the group of parents to easily pick out his shaggy haired brunette son across the yard with the rest of the kids. At almost eight-years-old, Lennox was the light of Daniel’s life; his little hockey star, helping hand, and the one whom his late wife’s smile and spirit lived on in. It had been a hard year-and-a-half for the two Seavey boys but Daniel was relived that he could hear his son laugh again, his audible glee reaching to the far edges of the mayor’s property and to his father’s ears.

“It’s been…fine.” Daniel sighed, his eyes lingering on his son as he answered Jonah’s question, “Lennox has been doing well…his grades are better this year which I’m relieved about. I just…I already sold the sheep and half the chickens and the second cow last spring to try and tame some of the workload but it’s still a lot.”

“Running a farm on your own isn’t easy.” Jack said, “I know how much work it takes for two owners let alone one.”

“We’re here to help with whatever you need.” Corbyn assured him. “I can give you deals on whatever you need from the shop as often as I can.”

Corbyn owned the general store in the center of town and was the bachelor of Lincoln. It wasn’t like there were any women to date in such a small place full of cookie cutter rural families but Corbyn was very happy as he was: running the store and being the eyes and ears of the town.

Daniel shut down his generous offer politely as he looked back to his friends, “No, no. I don’t want that…thank you though. I’m just worried the garden will suffer. With so much to do with ploughing and planting and coaching…I don’t know how much time I’ll have for the flowers.” Daniel let his gaze drift back to his son playing across the grass, “Lennox is too young to tend to them himself but he loves the gardens so much so I don’t want yet another thing to disappoint him.”

“Have you thought of hiring someone?” Jonah asked.

“Like a gardener?” Daniel hummed, “I dunno.”

Corbyn sipped his drink, “Is it in the budget?”

“I think so.” Daniel shrugged, swirling his orange juice in his hand. “Never thought about it. Mari always took care of the flowers so…”

“I have a family friend who’s pretty good with gardens…I’m sure she’d be more than happy to help out.” Jocelyn offered.

Daniel chuckled under his breath, “That’s…a nice offer but I’m not looking to put anyone out of their way. They’re just flowers after all.”

But everyone knew that they weren’t just flowers to Daniel. They were Marigold’s flowers.

Jack tisked at Daniel’s hesitation, “Well if it’s in your budget to hire a gardener and you know the gardens are important to Lennox and yourself, then why not give it a try? You don’t have anything to lose.”

Jonah only added onto the argument, “She’s been wanting to come visit Lincoln for a while now. Why don’t we invite her to town and she can stay with us and you can give her a look over…if you think you want to hire her then you can.”

Daniel thought about it for a moment, taking a sip of his juice as his eyes found his son again. It was habit. Lennox was already running for him at top speed across the grass and Daniel set his cup down on the table just in time to welcome his seven-year-old’s energetic jump at him. He scooped him up with one arm and a tired grunt as he hiked him up onto his waist and Lennox held onto him around his neck, giggling as the other kids ran over after him.

“Daddy’s safe. You can’t get me.” Lennox told them matter-of-factly.

Daniel smiled proudly and linked his hands under his son’s bum to hold him up securely. At almost eight, Lennox was a bit heavy to hold but after nine years of farm work and working out for hockey, it wasn’t much of an issue for Daniel to hold him. He’d never complain regardless.

The other kids found their parents, gladly taking sips of juice or pieces of cut up fruit after a tiring chase around the yard. Jonah and Jocelyn’s seven-year-old twins found their way between them and helped themselves to the few snacks on the table. They were the closest to Lennox’s age – although a few months younger – and the boy of the set of fraternal twins was on the junior hockey team with him.

With the parents busy for a moment with their children – Jack was helping to fasten his daughter’s curly hair back in her headband – Daniel pondered the previous offer. His son rested his head against his with his small arms slung around his neck and Daniel could feel each of his gentle breaths rising and falling his chest. Everything Daniel did was for Lennox. He bit his lip.

“No rush.” Jocelyn said to him, reassuring their offer as if she could see his hesitation, “Just let us know.”

“Thank you.” Daniel said honestly.

“The Herron’s are coming over.” Corbyn whispered to the group and right away they shifted awkwardly as the family approached. Daniel let out an anticipatory sigh.

If you ever thought of jealousy, you would think of Zach Herron; father of two boys who weren’t very good at hockey and husband to a wife whose eyes liked to linger on Daniel’s biceps a little too much. Zach envied a lot of Daniel…maybe even envied him that his wife was dead. He would never admit that out loud though.

“Seavey.” Zach greeted as his family approached the group with his petite platinum blonde wife on his arm. He glanced around to the others, “And friends.”

There was a dull chorus of replies.

Zach continued, “I’m still willing to buy your horses off you. You know I have a generous price to offer.”

Daniel chuckled lightly, “Yes, I know. But the horses are not for sale and they never will be.”

“Daniel would sell his house before he sells those horses.” Jack said. The group laughed lightly at the truth behind that.

Lennox wiggled from Daniel’s arms and he set him down to join up with the two Herron boys who had just come over. The children gathered together at the other side of the table and chatted excitedly. Daniel picked up his orange juice.

“Daniel,” Zach’s wife set a hand on his bicep, her face filled with nothing but dramatic concern, “how are you holding up?”

“I’m doing fine, Katie, thank you.” Daniel replied politely.

She sighed, “It would just be a terrible shame to see your beautiful gardens go to waste; I overheard you talking about it from over there. Please let me know if I can help in any way.”

Zach’s annoyed scoff had Jack smirking into his orange juice. Corbyn and Jonah exchanged amused glances between themselves. Daniel offered Zach’s wife a small polite smile.

“That’s very nice of you to offer, but Jonah and Jocelyn already offered a family friend who’s in the business.” Daniel looked over at the couple again, with slight thankfulness in his eyes, “And I think I will gladly take them up on that recommendation.”

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morgana-ren · 4 years ago

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Come Down to the Black Sea III

Summary: The sea seems to call to you, but it’s not the tumultuous clash of the waves you should fear. Something lurks deep beneath the black waters, something sinister with a piqued interest and ill intent.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Siren!Shigaraki, graphic depictions of violence, heavy sexual innuendo, implied noncon, foul language, sexual tension you can cut with a knife, and just general sexual grossness. Joking daddy kink also, if you count that.

PART I, PART II

Here you go! The third installment. Your seafaring friend finds your hot button and decides to plant some lovely ideas in your brain. Listening to them probably is not the smartest idea in regards to keeping your heart beating, but it certainly gets your thighs clenching.

Taglist: @lemonzoey, @babayaga67

You know, it's really rough to explain to your superiors at work why you're so distracted when it happens to be because a mythical being is giving you the cold shoulder.

You’re not entirely certain why it bothers you so much that your last encounter with him ended rather sour. He had made it perfectly plain from the get-go that his intent with you was far from pure. Murderous, in fact. He had almost drowned you on your first meeting and insulted you incessantly during your second. Not exactly a friendly track record.

Regardless, he’s made a permanent home crawling beneath your human skin, like some itch you can’t scratch away. You can try to justify it however you’d like, but you can’t ignore the truth. In a word full of mundane existence, you’ve found an oddity and as much as you’d like to pretend you aren’t, you’re drawn to it. It’s part of why you returned to the beach despite the clear and present danger. You’d found a living, breathing mermaid. Even more impressive, you’d managed to piss him off.

Mermaid? Is that accurate? He’s so sensitive to being classified wrongly, but still never told you what he was. Considering the circumstances, maybe you should be a little bit more concerned about other things rather than offending him, but it still bothers you.

Your ignorance isn’t due to lack of trying. You’ve done extensive research in the spare moments you have during the day, but nothing quite matches his description no matter how deeply you delve into the weirder parts of the internet, even going so far as to browse around on conspiracy sites on the darknet. Mermaid? Merman? Siren? Fish-guy? Some distantly related offspring to that Ripley’s Believe it or Not monkey fish? Relentless searching proved fruitless. Plenty of old sun-crazed fishermen claim to have seen merfolk in the waters or sirens on the rocks, but more often than not, it was a walrus or stage 4 sea madness. No one had a legitimate account of meeting with a real, intelligent creature of the deep. Nothing that came remotely close to him, anyway.

Despite being unable to focus at your job, getting home only doubles the anxiety. Restlessly sitting and twitching on the sofa, repeatedly trying and failing to read or watch some vapid TV show. You’re unable to keep your mind from returning to the ocean, to him no matter how hard you try.

Over the course of time, you become acutely aware that staying home clearly isn't an option, but you're not really sure what to say to him if you see him again. Why do you even care? Aren't you supposed to be ignoring him? You can excuse your obsessive thoughts about him since most people would have the same reaction to seeing something supernatural not once, but twice in front of their very eyes, but a lot of people wouldn’t continuously return to see it especially if it was malevolent.

You love that preemptively planning what to say to a sentient supernatural sea dweller is a part of your day. That's awesome. Can't look that one up on google.

You’ll compromise with your compulsiveness instead. Go a little early and watch the sun set down over the horizon instead of watching the moon rise. Most parents won't allow their children near your rock because it’s slippery and dangerous, and frankly, you don't think he'll show up when others can see him. He’s deadly, but a mob of terrified parents and curious beach goers has few rivals.

Maybe you can get your fill before he appears. It's better to keep away from him anyway. He wants you dead.

He wants you dead, you remind yourself.

And so you do. Tread the sandy trail down to your favorite little hideyhole and plop down on the hard surface. You kick your feet absentmindedly on the rock beneath you, watching the small particles of sand splay and regather with every motion of your foot. The crash of the waves, still tumultuous and ornery, slap the side of your makeshift perch and splash you with speckles of water every few moments. You don't mind. You needed to shower anyway.

You can't help but feel a bit more lonely than normal, even surrounded by so many more people than you usually are. Flustered moms urge their children in from the shore to wipe them down with towels and flighty young twentysomethings hoot and holler, laughing loudly as they pile into their cars to find their next big spot for the night. The moon rises and the beach empties, leaving you alone again. The ocean settles, and even though it feels better, you feel alone.

You close your eyes, resting your head sideways on your knees with your arms buckled around your legs. You're close to the edge, precariously so. You just want to be close to the water. You should move back.

In. out. in. out. in. out. in. out.

The waves seem to move in line with the beating of your own heart, a tranquil feeling that dulls your restless thoughts and engulfs you in quiet solace. The hum of the ocean resonating deep within you with each breath you take of the briny air.

You're aware enough to recognize that the sound of the sea is luring you into a false sense of comfort. The darkness seeping over the horizon doesn't make it easier, and soon your slowly wandering mind is on the brink of unconsciousness. You're dangerously close to falling asleep, and given the circumstances, that probably isn't the best idea, especially since you're precariously close to the water.

You can't help it, it's been one hell of a week. You haven’t slept. Haven’t relaxed. Haven’t felt at home in so long...

Listen, there's no guide online to look at that can help you through what to do when a malevolent fish-man hybrid has decided he wants to drown you. You can imagine it would say something along the lines of 'Stop going near the water then, dumbass' but that's like asking a religious person to stay away from church. It's the one place where you feel any semblance of peace, and you'll be damned if you're going to let the moonlight water marauder take that from you.

Still, it makes things in your life exponentially more difficult when you can't explain to anyone what's on your mind.

'Yeah, I met a mer...thing, and he's decided that he hates me and he wants to drown me, and that makes me sad. The one supernatural creature I get to meet and he doesn't like me. Bummer.'

They'd probably have you committed. That’s a bit much even for your eccentric proclivities.

Your body occasionally jerks you awake, probably its way of saying 'You cannot sleep when there are enemies nearby', but it feels like it's been weeks since you've had a decent night's sleep. The endless procession of days marked by existential crisis with the tacked on bonus of being aware of the existence of a nefarious fairy tale creature makes everything feel awfully surreal. It feels as if you've been running on pure adrenaline and are about to crash. Hard.

If you were smart, you'd go home and try to bank on the feeling of sleepiness currently plaguing you, but you just can't bring yourself to move. Even barring the flaxen haired fish dude just chomping at the bit to drag you under, napping this close to the sea is a bad idea in general. Tides change rapidly and all it would take is a few minutes of you being unaware for the waves to snag you and haul you off to a watery grave. They'd probably never find you, just like the others who disappear here at night.

But that's probably his doing, isn't it?

What does he do with the bodies exactly?

You really wish he wasn't trying to kill you, cause you have an endless list of questions you'd like to ask. What does he eat? Where does he live? Does he sleep at all?

Musing on all the things you'd like to know about him and his life leads you into fantasizing about being a talk show host interviewing him, and one thing leads to another and before you know it, you're conked out cold. You've managed to find an extremely awkward position to slump into, but even the horrid crick in your neck isn't enough to shake you from the dreamless slumber. Your body doesn't even have the energy needed to produce a dream, so instead, you just float through an endless void.

It could have been minutes, or even hours, really. You're not sure. The only thing strong enough to jar you awake is a sudden and intense feeling of dread that blooms in your stomach and gives you a form and sentience again. Your eyes snap open instinctively, and you're greeted with a pair of spiteful red eyes far too close to you for comfort.

"Jumping jesus-!"

Surprised is a nice word for what you feel, an ugly screech emanating from your throat as you kick out your feet, knocking yourself over and almost falling in the water in the process. You hit your head nice and hard on a particularly jagged portion of the rocks, and by the time your vision undoubles, the danger is just barely settling in.

Except danger is too busy cackling to be a threat.

You try to grapple with the panic in your chest and get a grasp on reality again after your literal rude awakening, but it's a bit rough when the sadistic jackass who perpetuated it in the first place won't stop laughing. Apparently he's too amused to take the opportunity to seize you, so you take the moment to scoot much further back and out of his reach, resisting the urge to plant your foot right on his stupid face.

Eventually he quiets down, but the grin never leaves his face. Much like everything about him, it's hostile somehow, mocking and disingenuous.

"Humans really are so stupid."

"Joke is on you, tunabreath. You wasted the perfect opportunity to actually grab me."

He shakes his head, tutting you. "I couldn’t resist. We like to play with our food too, sometimes. Scared ones taste better."

Is he implying he eats people? Okay, you know what? You don't wanna know. You doubt he'd be honest about it anyway, and would probably say whatever unnerves you the most. He seems a prick like that.

"I thought the entire point was to drown me and get it over with. You’re borderline obsessed with it."

He scoffs, little head fins twitching as he waves you off. "If I’m going to waste my time, don't make it so easy. It's less fun."

Okay cool, this is all a game to him; your life is a game to him. Nice. Fun. Great.

Something on your face must have given away your ire, because he simpers at you and another raspy laugh bubbles in his chest.

"It's not my fault you're stupid. You're the idiot sleeping next to the ocean when you know what's waiting for you when you get too close. It’s like you want me to devour you."

"I thought after your little tantrum last night, you were gone for good. You really can throw a fantastic hissy fit."

That wipes the smile from his face.

“Little brat.” He taps a claw on the rock, narrowing his eyes at you. “Tough talk from someone afraid of getting a little wet.” He drags out the final word with a mocking tone, clicking his tongue against his fangs with the final syllable.

“For the last time, I’m not afraid of getting wet-” It takes it a second to sink in but wow this all sounds so wrong. Your face darkens and a familiar tingle worms itself in your gut. Are you really that lonely? “And don’t say it like that!”

His brows furrow and he studies you with a slightly quizzical expression. “Like what?”

How do you explain to a dude who presumably has no cock and no human sexual experience about the sexual insinuations of human expressions? Wow. This is not a talk you thought you’d be having. The entire situation is weird, but this really sets the bar.

“I know you’re probably not familiar with it, but that sounds... weird. It just sounds weird, okay?”

“I don’t understand.” His lips curl downward in annoyance, arching a pale brow in your direction.

“Look, when a human and another human... do stuff, things happen to their bodies and-“ a twisted sense of shame curdles your stomach and you go to scratch the back of your head, avoiding his eyes. Your words trail off somewhere mid sentence. If you were looking, you could practically see the gears turning in his head, but a few seconds later, his face pops in realization.

“I’m fully aware of your human mating habits.”

“Don’t say it like that either! Jesus, you’re so awkward.”

A slow smile spreads over his face and he leans closer to you, tail swishing in a steady rhythm beneath the water. “Why? You’re over the ‘age of consent’, as it’s put, right? A sexually mature human female? Does it make you uncomfortable when I say things like that? Or does it make you something else?”

He trails his claws in a walking motion towards your out of reach leg, and embarrassment isn’t a strong enough word for the emotion that colors your face as you recoil from his wandering fingers. “Knock it off!”

“Has it been a while since someone touched you, little human?”

“None of your business! You’re such a creep! And what do you know about it anyway? Don’t you fuckin’ lay eggs or something?”

He ignores your pointed jab, licking at his chapped lips as he runs his piercing eyes over you a bit too invasively for your liking. “You wanna know, huh? I can show you.” He reaches towards you again and you wiggle back a few more inches, caught between his words and the friction igniting feelings you’re desperately trying to ignore between your thighs.

“I’m getting mixed signals here. Are you trying to drown me or fuck me?”

“Who says I can’t do both?” He tilts his head, gaze lingering on your lips before drifting down to your chest without shame. His attention still feels utterly predatory, but for a different form of predator entirely. “Your death doesn’t have to be entirely painful, you know.”

“S-stop it.”

He’s giving you whiplash with his intense mood swings, but you can’t deny the less than appropriate places his words drag your mind to. Heat ignites inside you, warmth spreading through your navel as your cheeks burn deeper than they did before. You will it away, trying to shake loose the thoughts from your mind. No fucking way are you even considering this.

“Look, even if our bodies were compatible, which they aren’t, it’s not like you wanting to kill me is a turn on.”

He gives you another lilting grin, flicking his tongue and hissing in a foreign laugh. “Are you sure? I know that some of your kind are into that sort of thing. Hard. Rough. Dangerous. And judging by your face-“

Another bout of blood colors your cheeks so intensely that you can literally feel it. Oh God, make it stop.

“-You might be.”

“Shut it, shark bait!”

“And who’s to say we’re not compatible? I know plenty. Something about the beach is an aphrodisiac to you humans. Not to mention~” Another grin, but this one gives off the undeniable air of ‘I know something you don’t know.’ “You have no idea what I can do.”

You can’t help but look back at him as he says it and you can tell he means every word. The unnatural scarlet glow of his eyes seems far too welcoming, calling to you like some sort of beacon in the darkness. The soft gleam of his silvery hair in the moonlight far too inviting. You want to touch it, wonder what it would feel like entwined between your fingers, what it smells like and how those claws would feel like scratching against the sensitive skin of your ass as he holds you steady against his hips.

You bet those fangs aren’t just for show, and judging by his attitude, he’s probably not afraid to use them. You bet they’d feel all sorts of nice scraping and digging into your flesh, biting you and licking that thick tongue up and over your neck, maybe even a bit lower if you asked him nicely. He’s so lithe, so strong, he’d have no problem fucking you against the rock even with the water resistance. His slick skin rubbing against yours, webbed hands squeezing your waist, kneading your tits, pressing the rounds of your neck until you gave yourself over to him completely and the taste of him is the last thing you ever knew.

Okay, you admit it. You are really curious to see just what it is he can do. You’d probably be the first human in history to find out, the first girl to be fucked to literal death by a siren. Would it really be such a terrible way to die? Being dragged under metaphorically and physically and spending your last moments in pleasure wholly unknown to the moral realm?

He smiles softly, watching you toss it around in your mind as he cradles his head in his palm. He’s beautiful, and you loathe it. You hate that you’re even considering this, even toying with the thought as if it’s really an option. What the hell are you doing? This is complete madness!

“You aren’t serious, are you?”

He gestures you forward seductively, nibbling gently on his scarred bottom lip, keeping your eyes squarely trained on his mouth. “Come a little closer and find out. I promise I bite. Extra hard if you beg.”

Another clench between your legs. Shake it loose, shake it loose! “Look, even if I believed for a split second you wanted to seduce me, you really think I’m going to literally die for the chance?”

“What else are you going to die for?”

Oddly deep. Not a thought you wanted to ponder right now. Expertly deflect it with sarcasm and ignore the fact that he has a very good point.

“Of old age, in my bed, surrounded by loved ones and piles of money I didn’t get the chance to spend yet.”

He scoffs, blowing air through his nose. “Sure.”

“Just what is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, shucking aside your irritation. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

“Prick.”

He giggles, finding your crass human mouth oddly endearing. “Well, the offer stands. I told you I’m not going anywhere until you're under the water with me.” He pauses, considering you for a moment before grinning darkly. “I might just do it anyway, but it’s better if you’re willing. Not that I’ve ever been averse to a little struggle.”

“What?”

“It’s hard to say no when you can’t speak. I could easily bypass this little game of playing hard to get, but I want to see you squirm.” He eyes between your legs and you pray to the Gods that he thinks the dampness residing there is because of the watery environment. “I want to see you beg before the light goes out in those pretty eyes.”

“You’re a fucking perv!”

“I told you I’m going to watch you drown, you really put it past me to not take other forms of satisfaction from you while I’m at it?”

He presents a good point. You resent the fact that you don’t entirely feel repulsed by the thought. You should. You should be mortified and terrified and other words that end in ‘fied’. You should run and never come back. You know you should.

You lean forward.

“I’d like to see you try, fish boy.”

A strangely genuine smile spreads across his lips and his face seems to light up at your words. It's still menacing, but oddly cute; like a child getting ready and excited to play their favorite game.

"You really think you can win this, huh?" He muses, looking up at you through those pale lashes. "You sure are something, little girl."

"What do I have to lose? If you win, you kill me, and whatever else, but I won't care, because I'll be dead. If I win, I get to see that arrogant smarminess wiped off your face when you don't get what you want. You'll have wasted all this time for nothing, and I guess that's a small consolation prize alongside my life."

“Time means nothing to me, but if it makes you feel better about the situation.”

From the way he says it, you don't deny it. It dawns on you that you really know nothing about his people. Do they age like you? Do they age at all?

“How old are you?”

"Older than you by far, I promise. What a rude question. How old are you?"

“Old enough. But that doesn’t answer my question. Don’t deflect.”

"No manners, you humans." He ponders it for a minute. "You count the passing of time in revolutions around the sun, right? I'd bet I had been an adult for a very long time while you were still learning to walk on wobbly little legs."

It's your turn to laugh now, and he doesn't seem amused. "You're an old man! Ew! You're an interspecies cradle robber!"

"I'm not old! We live exponentially longer than you! I'll still be in my prime when you're an elder!" His pallid face is dusted slightly red in frustration, and it's almost funnier than his reaction.

"Whatever you say, grandpa! Do you have an undersea walker? Drink sea prune juice? Is that why your hair is silver? Cause you're old?"

Self consciously, he strokes the front of his long bangs between his fingers. "No! You're an immature little brat!"

"Back in my day~" You barely dodge a swipe from one of his claws as he jumps as far forward as he can and swings at you. "Careful gramps, you don't wanna hurt yourself. You’ll break a hip or whatever it is you have."

He sneers at you and you bask in the minor victory.

You sit in silence; him with a scowl tightly pulled across his thin lips, and you with a smug little grin. So it’s not impossible to get under his scales.

He’s a world class pouter, you’ll give him that. He doesn’t strike you as vain, but this is probably uncharted territory for him; actually talking to a human and subsequently being made fun of for his age. He’s probably not used to being mocked in any sense of the word, seeing as he’s a ‘non existent’ mythical creature. Maybe his kind are prideful, if a little childish. He claims to have existed for ages, but he still has the mannerisms you’d attribute to a male around your age. Maybe a tad immature and explosive himself. You guess some things don’t change with the species. Aggression, domination, and sex. And murder, in his case.

Some things are universal, it seems.

He’s making a show of ignoring you now, clicking his claws together in a subconscious attempt to threaten you. They are awfully sharp. You swear looking at them makes the gashes on your arm start to ache all over again. Occasionally the fins on the side of his head twitch in an almost catlike manner, turning toward whatever source of sound can be heard. It’s so strange to you, you can’t help but stare. He looks ethereal, even as impudent as he’s acting. With the backdrop of the ocean and the moon behind him, he looks like a painting that belongs in a gallery. You can’t stop yourself from leering at him.

You’re trying to ignore the fact that he definitely takes notice.

He's angry at you, displeasure still slightly evident in his face, but a small smile crooks his lips. You've clearly offended him but your leering goes a little way towards soothing the hairs you've rubbed the wrong way. For whatever reason, knowing you find him attractive puffs his feathers- er, scales- with pride. Body language relaxes between the two of you and a few minutes of quiet follows.

Yet, it's difficult to keep a pleasant silence when the company you keep is far from familiar. This isn't two friends relaxing on a beach; at least unless most friends are malevolent ocean dwelling creatures with an end goal of filling the other's lung with sea water.

The lack of noise makes you antsy, almost like you're anticipating something but you're unsure of what. It feels false somehow, like you're trying to turn this isn't something it isn't; comfortable. No matter how his casual demeanor tries to lull you into a false sense of security, you have to remain vigilant. One little slip and he'll drag you into a watery grave- among other things if he was serious.

“So… What do you eat?”

He slow blinks at you a few times before grinning, light glinting off his all-too-sharp fangs. “You mean besides you?”

There’s multiple implications to that, neither one of which you want to ponder for various reasons. Your panties are already uncomfortably damp.

“Yes. Besides us.”

Shrugging, he flicks at a small pebble on the rocks edge and plunks it into the water. "Same thing you would if you were one of us. There's plenty of fish down here, only difference is I can eat them raw."

Your nose crumples and you stick your tongue out slightly, imagining him taking a bite out of a still-twitching fish. "Ew."

He rolls his eyes, brushing your obvious disgust aside. "If I recall, don't you humans have multiple dishes you eat raw?"

"Well, I mean, yeah, but it's different. We actually prepare it."

"Sounds like a whole lot of fuss over nothing. Your weak stomach just can't handle it and mine can, and you seem to find that to be some sort of bragging point. Also, don't you humans have a tendency to put things in your mouth that don't belong there?"

“Didn’t I already tell you to shut up about that?”

"I don't know, I'd say the occasional raw fish is a lot less dirty than a human male c-"

“Oh my god! I am so sorry I fucking asked!”

He cackles loudly and you realize that he's officially found your hot button. Even worse is he knows it. "I mean that's not to say we don't have our own filthy habits, but you guys are inspiring-"

"Dude! Make like a tunafish and can it! I don't want to hear any of this!"

"Oh? Is that so? Because around 10 minutes ago, you were half ready to rip your clothes off and jump in here and let me try you even if it meant your death."

"Momentary lapse in judgement. Don't get too excited, grandpa."

He frowns again but seems less offended now that the initial moment had passed. "If you insist upon calling me a nickname pertaining to my age, I'd prefer daddy."

All humor drops from your face. How the fuck does he even know about that?

As if he can read your mind, he responds. "A lot of you humans like to reproduce here. I've seen quite a bit and heard even more. Like I said, you’re absolutely filthy creatures.”

“Ah. Yeah. That makes sense.”

“My offer stands. Come a little closer and I’ll show you just what I learned.”

“Creep.”

“That makes two of us, now doesn’t it?”

"I'm not the one bringing up sex every 3 seconds."

Hey, do you know how awkward it is to be having this conversation? With him? Right now? Do you know how utterly surreal this is?

“No, but you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Your cheeks burn and you know it doesn't matter what you say. Your face is a dead giveaway. He knows it too, crossing his arm and arching a cocky brow at you.

“And I’m the pervert, huh?”

You wrap your arms around your legs again in a subconscious show of defense. "Yes, you are. This is a natural response to embarrassing topics. Topics you keep coming back to."

He shrugs again, his head fins twitching a few times. "I don't deny my nature. If I feel lustful, I act on it. Another reason you humans are inferior. You deny what comes naturally in the name of some form of... shame, is it? I have no bonds holding me back, while yours are pointless and dictated by some invisible and shallow form of ‘morality’ and ‘purity."

He’s… technically right. Still.

"You realize you're saying this to the person you're trying to kill, right?"

"I'm aware. Consider it a parting gift. You can feel what it's like to be untethered before I end you."

You roll your eyes so deeply that you’re almost certain you’ve detached the retina. “Oh, how very kind of you. So thoughtful.”

"It’s not entirely altruistic, but it's better than I was originally planning. I was just going to rip you apart the second I pulled you in. Of course, that was before I got a good look at you. It'd be a shame to waste such a pretty thing without getting a taste first.”

It's a twisted compliment, but you appreciate it, at least as much as the circumstances allow.

“Thanks… I think?”

"It's a good thing, I promise. I won't just touch anyone, you know. Most of your kind repulses me. I'm not an easy please."

"Oh." Another awkward silence. "What makes me so special, anyways?"

His face blanks over, eyes hardening and mouth pursing in a tight line. He opens his lips a few times to speak, but seemingly stops himself. His expression flashes confusion, then rage, then apathy in quick succession. "I don't know. It won't matter for long anyways, soon you'll be dead and I can move on."

“Not if I win.”

"You won't. I don't lose. Besides, I've already almost gotten you twice. It's only a matter of time before you slip up again, and I'll be there to catch you when you do."

"Put it like that and it almost sounds sweet." A smile tugs at your lips despite yourself.

His face flushes and he looks away from you, expression contorting. “It’s not. Don’t twist my words.”

“Spoilsport. Go eat a mackerel or something. You’re not yourself when you’re hungry. Or maybe you are. Either way, you’re cranky.”

"It's hard not to be cranky when there's a meal right in front of me and I can't indulge."

"Quit threatening to eat me. I get the point, it's just weird.”

His thick tongue flicks out and runs across those glimmering teeth and he just smiles. "Who said anything about eating?"

“Give it a rest.”

He swipes a small amount of water at you with his thumb and forefinger. "Deny it all you'd like, you enjoy the attention."

"Definitely. I love being the first human to be hit on by the world's first mermaid fuckboy."

A hybrid mix of a groan and a growl rumbles from his chest. "I'm not a fucking mermaid!"

"Oh, sorry!" The sarcasm is palpable, and he scowls at you again. You love the fact he doesn't deny the secondary insult. "I meant merman."

"Don't insult me. As if your petty, unimaginative fairytales could even come close."

"You have a tail, you live underwater, and you're half human. Sounds pretty damn close to me."

The look on his face is as if you just forced him to swallow something extraordinarily disgusting. "You have no idea what I'm capable of. And I'm not half human. You're half us."

Now that takes you off guard.

“What did you say? What do you mean?”

"It doesn't matter." He pushes himself away from the rocks, his tail slightly flapping above the surface. "Besides, you were right. I am hungry. I should probably find something to eat for tonight, unless you’ve changed your mind." He doesn’t bother waiting for you to retort before skillfully diving down back beneath the waves.

You want to stop him, but he’s gone before you can think of a creative way to say ‘hell no’. The slight dash of silver hair makes out towards the horizon and before long, he's gone. As always, he leaves you feeling more frustrated than anything.

You want to stay, to enjoy the ocean like you used to before he barged his way into your life, but it all just feels too strange now. He won't return tonight, you know that much.

Heaving yourself off your asleep butt, you begin your bowlegged walk back to civilization, left with nothing but the ache of a cramp in your hips and a strangely heavy feeling in your gut.

#Shigaraki x Reader #Shigaraki Tomura #Come Down to the Black Sea #See warnings up top

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ateezmakemeweep · 5 years ago

Text

four in the morning.

yunho x reader; strangers to lovers

word count: 11k

angst, fluff, smut

10:05 p.m.

you never wanted a public proposal. you had told your boyfriend every time you saw someone get down on one knee in times square on new year's eve or in front of cinderella's castle at disney world that you would absolutely die if he did that to you.

and maybe it speaks to your naivety, to your complete disregard of just how shitty he's treated you over these past five years, that you thought that would ever be a problem in your relationship. because he's the guy who ditches you for his friends and religiously forgets date night, who falls asleep right after extremely unsatisfying sex that has you faking orgasms, who doesn't answer your texts all day but freely like posts on instagram.

and evidently, he's also the guy who breaks up with his girlfriend in the middle of dinner.

because one second the waitress is putting down the dessert, a tiramisu cheesecake you were drooling just thinking about all night, and then the next, before she's even out of ears reach, he blurts out, "we should break up."

you don't even say anything at first, just stare blankly and shake your head because he didn't just that. he wouldn't say that. not today on this day and not right now in this setting.

"wh-what?"

but he doesn't miss a beat.

"i've been thinking about it for a while, y/n," he says to you, leaning on his hand like this whole conversation is about to be a bore. "i just...we've been together for so long and i'm really kind of...sick of it."

"you're... you're sick of it?" you squeak.

"well yeah, i mean it's been four years and i don't wanna lie and say i feel like i'm still in love with y-"

"five."

"what?" he asks, looking at you in pure and utter confusion and you don't know if you feel more heartbroken or angry at this very moment.

"five. we've been together for five years," you tell him, voice too calm and composed for how you're feeling inside. "in fact, today marks our fifth year together. but you didn't remember that, did you?"

you think you would've felt better if he showed some sort of regretful or guilty reaction, his mouth dropping open or face lighting up like the date sent off alarm bells in that stupid little head of his. but nothing. just a thoughtful nod, like you told him the food was good or you needed another drink.

"oh," he says with a small shrug, "well five years then, even longer than i thought. see, y/n, i'm just over it. i'm over this relationship and i'm over being someone's boyfriend."

"hm....hm," is all you hum because you refuse to make a warner and elle woods type of scene in this restaurant right now. but your burning throat and shaking hands want so badly to do something. to scream and curse at him or throw that cake right in his face or maybe even slap him for being so cold and harsh and detached.

"are you mad?"

a laugh bubbles out of your mouth now and anyone around can probably hear how unhinged it sounds, like you're a second away from having some sort of breakdown or bursting into tears and screaming.

"am i mad?" you ask, a cold edge finally seeping into your tone. "am i mad my boyfriend just broke up with me, in public, at our anniversary dinner? are you seriously fucking asking me that?" you grunt out the words through clenched teeth, lowering your voice when you let the profanity slip out.

"well...yeah," he says dopily, "i still care about you as a person. i just- don't wanna be in a relationship anymore. i kind of figured i was making it obvious these past few weeks."

"then why wouldn't you have just told me the second you had these thoughts!" you spit and now the volume of your voice is considerably louder. "why make me wait and then do it at this very moment!"

"i-i don't know, i didn't really know how or when was a good time to tell you."

"oh, well thank god you waited, this was truly ideal," you growl sarcastically.

and then, like he has any right to be offended or upset, he lets out a scoff. "look, i'm sorry but this is what i want....i'll still pay for dinner if that's what you're-"

"you think i give a single fuck if you pay for dinner!"

you finally break whatever composure you were channeling, voice breaking and raising and causing the several groups of people to look in your direction. some of them are subtle with their side-eyes and whispers while others are full on staring, mouths agape with looks of pity and you wouldn't be surprised if you find a video of this on the internet later.

"what is your problem," he says, "i said i'm sorry but you really can't be that-"

"leave," you tell him, quietly now, with your head down and eyes on the table. "i'll take care of it. just please...get away from me."

there's a few beats of silence before he mumbles something along the lines of "whatever," deeply sighing like this is actually causing him any distress, like he's the one who has to stay here with lingering gazes and pitiful stares. you think he might take a breath to say something else but then ultimately decides against it, the squeaking of a chair and heavy foot steps walking away indicating you're finally alone.

and it's during that time your tears start falling, your head hung and hand cupping your forehead so the people around you don't get more of a show.

maybe a part of you knew deep down that the relationship was gonna be over, that it really should've been for your sake and you were just too scared to accept it. but it was just the manner in which he did it, so coldly and out of nowhere, like the past five years didn't mean anything to him. and you can't deny the sickening parallel to years of you telling him you didn't want him to fucking propose to you in public and then going and dumping you at one of your favorite resturants.

"i'm so stupid, oh my, god, i'm so fucking stupid," you mumble out, voice wobbly and wet before you feel the presence of the waitress at your side. you peak up at her as she bends down holding out a packet of tissues, a sympathetic look on her face that has you realizing she probably watched the whole thing go down.

"you're not stupid, baby, don't say that," she says, placing her hand on your arm comfortingly.

you thank her quietly for the tissues, taking one out and dapping at your wet face. "i'm sorry, this is so embarrassing," you squeak out, "i'm gonna pay the bill don't worry, i just...i needed him to leave."

"no, i'm so sorry that just happened. i can't believe he thought that was okay."

you sniffle as you scrunch up the tissue. "i-i know," you say, "i mean i knew he was an asshole but he really just...our anniversary dinner! and during dessert! i was so excited for this cake."

she laughs softly at your sad whine, placing down the tissue packet and moving the plate closer to you. "well, you can still be excited. don't you dare let him ruin this tiramisu." you're pleastantly surprised when a small chuckle leaves your mouth, wiping at your face with your wrist.

"you're right, he can't taint it," you say before catching the side glances of people surrounding you, "but i think i have to get out of here before i cause any more of a disturbance."

she nods her head sympathetically, urging you to take a few bites and that she'll bring the check right over.

you keep your head down as embarrassed tears threaten to fall again, the feeling like a milllion eyes are on you making you feel even more awkward and unsettled; you're sure it's just paranoia but you swear you can feel eyes boring into the side of your face, someone probably laughing and mocking and feeling so incredibly sorry for your pitiful situation.

sorry enough that when the waitress comes back, she tells you someone has already paid for your bill. your eyes widen upon hearing the news, looking around curiously and stuttering out incoherent bits of sentences.

"who?" is the only clear thing you're able to ask.

"i don't know, he just left," she tells you, "brown-haired guy. very tall. cute, too." you feel her hand on the back of your chair when you stand up. "and i'm sorry again, honey. i didn't charge you for the cake but i hope to see you in here again enjoying it," she adds on quietly.

you give her a grateful smile and nod, assuring her you'll definitely be back before rushing out to catch up with the mysterious man who just dropped well over $100 on two complete strangers. and luckily, you don't have to look very far. because there he is, all dark hair and broad shoulders, leant against the side of the building with a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth.

he sees your teary-gaze meet his and his lips quirk up ever so slightly before he flicks the ashes and begins to turn around. but your low "hey!" stops him in his tracks. he cranes his neck back to look at you, the sky dark around you both but the light from the streetpoles clearly showing both of your expressions.

his is unnervingly blank, only a flicker of soft sympathy in his eye while your own, still heartbroken, also holds a curious, maybe even a wary look. because why would this stranger do that? could he have felt that bad?

you make your way up to him, feeling slightly intimidated when he fully turns around and you see just how much he towers over you. but it's funny because his face is shockingly...sweet looking, like a fresh-faced boy you'd see in church or volunteering at a nursing home.

but then his large stature, the shoulders you can't stop eyeing, his all black attire mixed with the scent of cigarette smoke and cologne makes for a very strange contrast. even his voice, when he finally mumbles back a "hi," is sweet sounding.

"why did you...the waitress said you paid my bill." your tone is quiet and small but still manages to sound accusatory.

"i did, i'm sorry," he says and you're wondering if the pink flush on his cheeks is from the cold. "i hope you didn't mind." you find yourself staring at him blankly, eyebrows pinched together because...did he really just apologize for that?

"i...well no but..i..it was probably expensive," you eventually get out, "you didn't have to do that."

"well, neither did he," yunho mumbles and you can tell by the airiness in his tone he didn't mean anything bad by it. but it doesn't stop your face from dropping slightly, lips pressing into a firm line to distract yourself from your stinging eyes.

"i'm sorry, that was insensitive," he winces, the sincerity in his tone only confirming your thoughts. "but i just... i wanted to pay for it. why should you have?"

you swallow the lump in your throat, shrugging your shoulders lightly because you don't really know what to say back to that.

"because i'm the one who got dumped," you squeak out before a humorless laugh bubbles out of you. "dumped on our anniversary. how pathetic is that?"

"it's pathetic of him," the boy grunts out and you cock your head to the side at how mad he sounds.

"i-i guess..." you say after a few quiet seconds before words start pouring out of you. "i just.. can't believe it. i don't know what i'm gonna do now. i've been with him for so long and got so used to him and then he really went and-" your voice breaking cuts off your sentence, like it's finally hitting you that the relationship is over.

because no matter how bad it was, it was still something you put years of yourself into. years of effort and years of memories and you feel so stupid for feeling this upset when there's far more bad than good.

"i'm sorry, you definitely don't wanna hear this," you laugh out humorlessly as tears sting your eyes. "but...i just wanted to thank you for paying the bill. i wish i could make it up to you somehow, it was probably expensive."

you meet his gaze to see him smiling slightly at you, even though you're on the verge of a breakdown and talking far too much.

"you're welcome," he says before hesitantly continuing. "i was gonna go walk around for a bit. do you wanna join?"

when you look up at him with a wary expression, he puts his hands up in defense, eyes soft and wide as he shakes his head. "it might clear your head a little, that's all."

your fragile heart warms at the gesture but you find yourself declining, insisting you're not the best company right now and that'd he probably regret inviting you.

"i don't think so," he says and his voice is just so kind that you're questioning if he's even real, questioning why on earth this stranger seems to care about your wellbeing. and when he sees you're still teetering, teeth sunk into your lip as you look at him with conflict in your eyes, a sweet smile spreads across his face.

"c'mon, you said you wanted to make it up to me."

your lips purse to the side, eyebrow raised ever so slightly before letting out a quiet sigh. "okay... but don't say i didn't warn you."

his smile widens as his long arms come out to showcase the sidewalk in front of him and you find yourself giggling slightly at his dramatics. you take one last look back at the restaurant before exhaling sharply and feeling his looming presence next to you as you both begin to walk.

"so....were you there with friends tonight?" you chirp, hoping to distract your impending nervousness with conversation.

he tells you he had met his mom there for dinner, who brought along his new step-father he can't help but detest. but he sat politely all throughout the appetizer and main course until one too many ignorant and snappy comments had him putting the man in his place.

"he was also mean to the waitress which is why i eventually snapped," he tells you. and by snapped, he means lowly speaking for him to either find some manners or piss off. "my mom asked for the check so fast and they left within five minutes. so i stayed for a drink."

"i could so use a drink right now," you laugh out, "but it sounds like you were in the right. you're just all types of chivarlous, huh?"

you peak up at him to see a smirk cross his face, his eyes falling to you at the same time and pink covers both your cheeks at being caught. but you and him will pretend it's because of the harsh winds whipping through the city; yes, the whipping wind, definitely not the soft curious gazes and arms bumping into each other clumsily.

"what made that obvious?"

you shake your head as another giggle falls from your lips, tightening the sweater around your body when a particularly harsh breeze pelts into you again. and of course, the boy next to you immediately notices, hears the clattering of your teeth and sharp intake of breath.

"you cold?"

"no, i'm okay," you squeak out. but you already see his movements from the corner of your eye taking off the black bomber jacket.

"please don't give me your coat, i can not-"

but it's already placed around your shoulders before you can finish your sentence, a knowing smirk on his lips when you huff at him, exasperated.

"....i was gonna say your name but it appears i don't even know it."

his deep chuckle rings through the air, stopping his feet so he can properly put his hand out.

"i'm yunho."

"y/n," you say back, taking his large hand in yours and what an innapropriate time for you to admire its sheer size and the length of his fingers. "you're... nice, too nice."

his smile widens looking down at you, hands still intertwined as he cocks his head to the side. "because i gave a cold girl my jacket?"

"and paid for her bill. and welcomed her on a walk," you say, "i'm wondering how much more i can get out of your very obvious pity."

his smile falters, eyebrows knitting as he shakes his head. "i'm not doing this out of pity."

the firm way in which he says it has you lowering your head shyly, eyes on the concrete as you take the hand in his back. all of your emotions are out of wack tonight, your chest not knowing how to feel, broken and aching over that awful dinner but also...slightly warmed by the actions of this random boy.

"then why are you doing it?" your voice sounds so small and it makes a frown cover his face now.

"can't i just be nice to you?" he asks, "why do i need a reason?"

"because we're...strangers," you say, looking up at him hesitantly and pressing your lips together nervously, "and you don't know me."

"everyone's strangers until they're not," he retorts, stepping just a smidge closer to you and it makes you swallow down the dry patch in your throat. "and maybe i want to know you."

when you can't find the words to respond, heart racing and throat clogged, he speaks up again.

"let me distract you tonight."

your eyebrow raises, head turning to the side because you don't know what to make of that comment. because you know you're vulnerable right now, know you should probably go home and cope normally in the form of crying and ice cream.

but you trust him for some reason. trust his soft voice and kind eyes and the way he seems so genuine and pure despite his dark appearance.

"what do you have in mind?" you find yourself asking, stomach fluttering and whether it's from nervousness or his bright smile, you don't know.

"could you still use a drink?"

12:22 a.m

"okay, i think....this is a weeeee bit unsafe!" you say as you stumble up the stairs behind him, his hand pulling you carefully by one of your fingers.

"probably," he says, "but we'll be okay."

the sound of a door squeaking open is the first thing you hear, the harsh whipping of wind the next as your hair blows back and coldness envelops your body. yunho bends to stick a brick in the door before guiding you to the middle of the rooftop.

the dark sky is lit by faint lights shining from apartment buildings and bulletin boards, the only sound an occasional honk of a horn making it's way up the 20 stories. you disconnect your hands to stumble over to the edge, placing them on the cold concrete to peer your head over. you take in the sight of tall buildings and taxis and little figures of people walking the streets.

"heeelllooo!" you scream down at them, your hands cupping your mouth in hopes someone will hear you. yunho's laugh echoes through the sky, quickly walking over to place a hand on your lower back.

"be careful."

you turn around, back now resting on the ledge as you poke his chest lightly. "you're the one that said we'll be okay," you mutter, lowering your voice to imitate his words. "because i'm big and strong and a suspiciously nice boy."

"okay, nice you told me," he says, voice teasing as he stares down at you with bright eyes. "but big and strong, you say?"

"very big and very strong," you say, letting your finger travel from his chest to his shoulder. he watches your eyes follow your hand, roaming from one side of him to the other before meeting his eyes. and it's like his gaze acts as an electric shock, your hand immediately falling from the black material.

"and i had very too much drink."

he smiles down at you, making sure to stay close because he'd be lying if he said you being so close to the edge didn't make him nervous. and perhaps this wasn't his best idea, bringing you up to the roof of his apartment complex after you had one too many beers.

but it's a nice place to clear your head, to take in the sights of the city in a less noisy and crowded way. and he thinks you could use that after the night you had, after the night he couldn't help but hear take place as he sat alone at the bar.

he had ohad a perfect view of you all night. you caught his eye the second he sat down, your shy smile and the way you fidgeted nervously with your hair making him not being able to tear his gaze away.

but then he'd heard the bored tone of the guy across from you, the way he was barely entertaining the conversation and just avoided all your softly spoken questions. he had tightened his grip around the beer bottle one too many times, sick and tired of asshole men who never learned how to respect other people.

"i just wanted my cheesecake."

your sudden whine rips him from his thoughts and he can't help the smirk creeping up on his face.

"which one? the tiramisu?"

it's your surprised gasp and bright eyes that has a smile stretching across his face and your own heart warms upon seeing it. because he is super cute.

"yes! oh, my gosh, yes!" you giggle, "have you had it?"

"every time i go," he chuckles out, "except tonight."

"me too," you say and the sudden thought that he wants to kiss the pout off your face comes into his head. but that would absolutely absurd because he's only known you two hours and you just got broken up with and you're a bit tipsy; there's just far too many reasons for him not to do it.

so he lifts his hand to your mouth, his thumb and pointer finger lifting your face into a smile. you giggle against his hand, opening your mouth playfully and pretending to bite it but he quickly rips it away.

"hey!" his voice is deep but teasing and it makes you squeal as you drunkely trot away from him. in fear that you'll somehow stumble over the edge, he chases after you but the sound of his feet causes you to speed up. your laugh echoes on the rooftop, his own deep chuckles and pleas of "stop!" ringing through the air.

and he wishes you would've listened because no less than ten seconds later do you trip over your shoe lace, stumbling and crashing down right on your side. he yelps your name, rushing over and is grateful to see your head didn't ricochet off the concrete.

"oops," you giggle out, rolling onto your back as you rub at your side. he kneels over you, assessing your face for any injuries and sighing in relief when you're unscathed. but then you sit up, looking around in a daze before your eyes land on the untied white lace.

"okay so not my fault....my shoe was untied."

"i see that," yunho laughs out, tapping his large hand on his knee. you look at him with a small unsure smile.

"let me tie you up."

your eyes widen for a split second, mouth dropping open and you see how bright red his face his face gets even in the dark.

"your shoe! let me tie your shoe up! so you don't fall again." you plop your foot down with a nervous laugh and watch his long fingers double knot your laces before gently placing it down. "next one," he says with a smile, "just in case."

you purse your lips to the side to hide your own, sticking your foot on him before laying back on the cold ground. he plops on his butt after he finishes tying the second shoe, watching you lay there and he hopes you don't fall asleep.

a few moments pass before he hears your quiet voice.

"what'd you say?" he asks, leaning his head towards you. but now it's his eyes that are widening, your hand pulling him by his sweater and if he didn't put his arms out, he probably would've fallen right on top of you. his large figure rolls off, laying right beside you just as you speak again.

"stars," you slur, "i wish we could see them here." because you're just staring at the black abyss, the crescent shaped moon the only thing beaming down at you. but what you'd give to see a sky full of twinkling stars, because there's a sense of wonder in them that always makes you feel better.

"i know, that'd be nice," he sighs. and it's a thought he's also had when he'd sneak up here. whether it was after rough days or okay days or great days, he always found solace up here. but he always thought, especially on those particular nights he felt gloomy, that the stars would've been good company.

"what made you take me up here, anyway?" you hum curiously.

he moves his gaze, watching you look at the sky and he feels his chest tighten. because it's like the moon is reflecting in your eyes, the only source of light shining down on you as you look up and take it all in. and even though your cheeks are red from the wind and tears and your hair is windblown and knotty, "you're beautiful."

he says it so lowly that you wouldn't have heard it if a harsh blow of wind whipped through the air. but because it didn't, because everything up here is now still and unmoving, you crane your neck to look at him.

"what?"

his cheeks flush ever so slightly because he did not mean to blurt that out. but he got lost in his admiration, in the way you looked so angelic and at peace and content and now he really has to work on answering you.

"i'm sorry," he says, voice sounding breathy and flustered. "i meant....i mean, i don't know, really. i just think it's a nice place to get away for a bit."

he thinks he might've scared you off by his compliment, watching you turn your head back to the sky and remain silent for a few beats of time. his brain is screaming at him now that you're gonna jump up and run away and think his intentions were anything but pure. but then his brain and body relax when your soft voice begins to speak up.

"it is," you squeak quietly, "i...think this was a good first choice."

"first choice?"

your head snaps to look at him again, a smile on your face at just his presence next to you. because he's the type of person who has a light around them, who makes you feel at ease and whose soul you just know is good.

"well yeah," you squeak out, "i have you as a distraction all night, right?"

a big smile of his own brightens his face and you feel your heart flutter, jumping and shifting at the way he just looks so happy.

"you do."

"well, i have our second place in mind. but we might have to take a taxi," you explain to him, "on me, of course."

"no need," he says, "this is actually my apartment building. my car is downstairs."

you huff out as your eyes roll and he chuckles when you stare at him with a pained expression.

"what?"

"you're too chivalrous!" you whine, smacking his chest lightly as you cross your legs. he only smiles as he shakes his head at you. but his heart hurts because the bare minimum for you would probably seem like an act of chivarly.

"fine. i'll drive myself there and you can walk," he teases, poking your kneecap lightly when he says the word 'you'.

"deal," you giggle and he bites his lip at the sound, placing his large arm behind his head before you continue. "but first..."

he watches you unzip his jacket, fishing inside of it before whipping out two beer bottles with a smile. "i'd like to finish these, if that's okay."

"did you smuggle those out?!" he asks, humor in his tone as he leans up on his elbows.

"well, i paid for them of course!" you squeak, cheeks heating up at the way he's looking at you with his soft eyes and red cheeks. but then it occurs to you why his poor face is probably bright red. "and since we're at your house now....can i please ask something of you?"

he raises his eyebrow at you.

"please get yourself a jacket."

2:38 a.m.

he'd been driving for a little over an hour when you quietly alert him that you've almost arrived. he'd been led to a suburban area, brick houses lined with garden gnomes and mini vans in a quiet town. he smiles when he drives around the corner and sees a fenced in playground, two jungle gyms equipped with monkey bars and slides as well as a swingset in the farthest corner.

"ah, so this is destination 2?"

"yeah..." he hears you mumble quietly, "do you think it's stupid?"

he looks over at you when he hears the almost whispered tone in your voice, eyes staring down at your lap with your hands tucked into one another tightly. it seems like you think he's gonna berate you, like you're reliving some sort of bad memory and expecting history to repeat itself.

so without thinking, he reaches out with his hand and places it over yours. the unexpected warmth causes you to jump, looking up at him with glossy, hazed eyes.

"of course not," he says softly and you swallow the lump in your throat. "i'm pleasantly surprised. i haven't been on a playground in forever."

the smallest of smiles makes its way on your face, whipping your head back to the park and wiggling your feet. "me either," you mumble.

"then let's go, shall we?" he hums, removing his hand from yours as he turns off the car and opens his door to get out. you just manage to place your hand on the handle when five seconds later, he's opening and holding the passenger side door for you.

"i'm not even gonna say it," you mumble before thanking him quietly. he chuckles as he follows you to one side of the park, a gaping hole in the fence that easily allows the average sized body to slip through. but it proves a bit more challengingly for him, a giggle leaving your mouth as you take him by the hand and pull him the rest of the way in.

"i forgot you're a giant."

he scoffs playfully at you, running past you to get to the swings first. but you're sluggish in your movements, teetering and eyes heavy because you really shouldn't have had those two drinks. you were hoping it'd liven your spirits, make you more fun and playful.

but it appears when you're as sad as you are, the fun parts of drinking get skipped over and the sorrow you're feeling only heightens. and the boy smiling at you on the swing is making it easier, the way he talked and laughed with you in the car, the way he's parading you around and keeping you company so you're not lonely and sad. but you still feel it, feel like you're being crushed by the pain in your chest and torn in two different directions.

"i shouldn't have drank," you whine, taking a seat on the swing and leaning your head against the cool chain. your statement immediately has his eyes widening, his feet stopping on the gravel and looking at you.

"why?" he asks, slight panic in his voice, "are you gonna puke?"

"no," you giggle out slightly as you shake your head. "i just...i know my company's about to get pretty depressing." you swallow the lump forming in your throat, feeling tight and like you're about to choke on it. "your distractions have been....great but i'm still feeling so- i don't know why i'm-"

you feel his hands on your knee, the warmth radiating through your pants as he's bent down and looking at you with those kind brown eyes.

"hey, it's okay," he says softly and it has tears stinging behind your own because he looks at you nicer than he ever did and here you are crying over that waste when you could be getting to know him. "it'd be unusual if you didn't, y/n, it just happened."

your teeth dig into your lip to stop it from trembling, sniffling against the cold air. "i guess...i brought him here once you know."

"yeah?"

his heart wrenches seeing you stare down at your lap dejectedly, moving your foot in small circles that his thumbs micmic on your knee. and that's the way you stay for a while, in the cold silence together as he stays bent down rubbing your knee, your eyes trailing from your lip to his long fingers that have such a gentle touch.

"when we first started dating," you finally say quietly because it was probably one the first red flags that he wasn't gonna be the best boyfriend. you'd been dating for two months, driving back into the city after his first time meeting your parents when you asked him if you could show him one of your favorite places.

and you don't know why you were so surprised when he laughed at you, raised an eyebrow and scoffed because 'why would a grown adult wanna go to a playground?'

"did he like it?" he asks, seeing that you're in your head again.

"of course not," you laugh out humorlessly, "he thought it was so stupid. asked why either of us would even wanna go here when we're full grown adults. but i...i don't know, i came here all the time when i was younger and wanted to show him. i though it'd be fun."

he forgets he's holding onto your knee so you look down when he squeezes it between his large hand, eyes tight and jaw slightly clenched as he shakes his head.

"he's the stupid one," yunho bites into the cold air, "you wanted to show him something meaningful and he couldn't see that."

you shrug as a quiet sigh leaves your mouth. you don't even know why you keep talking but words just keep falling out of you, making you even more mopey and sad and you know he's absolutely regretting this. regretting spending his night with a whiney loser who can't stay out of her own sad head, who doesn't ever know what to say back so you lapse into silence while uncomfortable thoughts plague your mind.

"would you break up with someone like that?" he hears your voice ask lowly and his stomach twists at your question. because it was so random and out of nowhere, he knows you've probably been mulling over everything for these past few silent minutes.

"would you just spring it on a person like that? at a restaurant in front of people?"

he doesn't even have to think about his response.

"no," he mumbles truthfully, "i...don't think i could ever."

you sniffle because you had known that would be his answer. he's nice and kind and everything you wanted your boy....ex-boyfriend to be.

"but i've also never broken up with anyone before," he shares quietly.

you wipe at the lone tear that finally escaped your eye, cringing when you see your makeup on his jacket.

"oh? but you've had a girlfriend before, right?"

when he doesn't answer, your eyes widen and you quickly correct yourself when you meet his gaze. "or boyfriend..."

a small smile crosses his face as he shakes his head. "it'd be girlfriend..." he says teasingly, "but no... i've never really dated anyone, officially. just flings and stuff."

"why?" you squeak out and his eyes flicker to you, roaming your face to see an avid curiosity in your wide, glossy eyes.

"i don't know," he says honestly and he wishes he had a better answer for you. "it's not like i haven't wanted one...i just never found the right person, i guess."

you can only hum thoughtfully, nodding as you take in this new bit of information. because how is it possible that he can't manage to find the right person?

"well who would that be then?"

when he looks up from your knees, he sees you looking down at him with your head back against the chain. and if was anyone else, he'd think they were asking coyly. like they were trying flirt or be tempting.

but he knows that's not the case, even if he wants it to be.

"someone good," he says after thinking about it for a second, "someone i can have fun with but also be serious with. just someone...genuine and sweet, who i know deserves the best."

"you just described yourself," you mumble and he can't help the laugh that bubbles out of him.

"yeah? i thought that kind of sounded like someone else here," he responds lowly, his deep voice causing your gaze to meet his. you bite your lip nervously at the eye contact and any other time it'd make you nervous and fidgety. but now, because you're in the state you're in, you can't look away.

and it's a state he knows you're in as well which is what causes him to look away and stand up, moving himself behind you until his hands meet the middle of your back. you jump in surprise, craning your neck back to look at him.

but before you can ask him what's happening, you start flying into the air. you let out a small squeal as you tighten your hold on the chains, his large hands pushing on your back as you swing.

"don't fall again!"

"well, a warning would've been nice!" you squeak before another uncontrollable laugh cuts you off.

"that's not as fun."

he continues to push you until you whine for him to sit down next to you, pumping your legs as you two fight to get higher. but when he leans his head back a few minutes later and catches a glimpse of the dark sky, he's halting and grabbing you to stop the swing.

"what're you doing, cheater! i was winning!"

"come with me."

he grabs your hand and leads you over to the jungle gym, guiding you up to the highest platform before craning his neck up.

"what're you doing?" you ask as you mimic him before a gasp cuts you off. because the exposed ceiling of the playground shows off the sky full of bright twinkling stars, the lack of light pollution from the bustling city allowing you to see just what you're robbed of every night.

"the stars!" you squeal, looking at him excitedly and he feels his chest constrict like it has every time that bright smile comes out. "they're so pretty."

"they are," he mumbles, watching you plop down on the cold floor and lay out to stargaze. he smiles softly before joining you, bending his legs so he fits on the platform. and just like on the rooftop, your arms press together but neither of you make any attempts to move them.

and then if your head somehow ends up grazing his shoulder, he only peaks down with a smile that matches your own.

4:10 a.m.

once the cold got too much, lips chapped and hands red, you both ran to the car and waited anxiously for the heat to crank up. there was a sense in the air that your time wasn't over yet, neither one of you mentioning going home or ending the night despite the early morning hours creeping around.

so it's why you ended up picking up food at a 24-hour conveience store, crumps of snacks and water bottles littering the floor of his car. why you're both just pulled over on the side of the empty highway, the occurence of another flashing pair of headlights rare.

"so what do you usually do on a friday night?" you chirp as your feet rest on the dashboard, "you know, when you're not accompanying a weepy dumpee?"

"don't call yourself that," he laughs out, "but usually just at one of my friends. we're a boring bunch so you've actually spiced up my night."

"now i know that's a lie," you quip, poking his arm lightly and the sound of his deep chuckle has your cheeks heating. he is cute.

"it's not," he assures turning his head to the side to throw you a wink. "and thank you."

your body freezes as a gasp leaves your mouth, snapping your head to look at him. he doesn't laugh because of how wide your eyes are, how shocked and horrified you look that you just said that aloud, but he really wants to.

"i...i didn't say- oh, my god."

"what's so bad about that? i blurted out that you were beautiful two hours into meeting," he says, embarassment laced in his tone.

your cheeks heat at the memory, a shy smile on your face as you look down to hide the bright blush. it's daring on his part, daring to reach out and lift your face, rub his thumb along the warm skin and smile softly as he does so.

"why are you hiding?"

"because you're crazy," you say lowly, quietly, and you're cursing the dinner and the way this sweet boy affects you for your low self-esteem ruining the car's atmosphere.

"fine, i'm crazy," he says, "but you're still bea-"

"i'm not," you interupt quietly, before he can say those words and warm your heart and make you wanna kiss him. because that would be a terrible idea. even though you want to, even though you've developed the fastest crush in history and it would be so easy to just scoot over a few inches, move your head in just a little and-

"why? because he broke up with you?"

you bite your lip at the reminder, roaming over his face that's unwavering and serious. dark eyes looking into yours, focused on nothing but you with his hand still on your cheek. you swallow the ball forming in your throat as he waits for you to answer.

"yes," you mumble, feeling your eyes gloss over before you move your face to look back out the window. he sighs next to you and you can feel his gaze on you, boring into you and the tightness in your throat is almost suffocating you.

"i'm sorry, y/n, but you have to know-"

"stop it," you mumble brokenly, "please stop."

"why," he says softly and he's surprised by himself for pushing you. but he can't help it, not as he watches your fleeting moments of happiness fade in and out the way they have all night, sees your eyes water and hands start to fidget.

there's only a tense silence in the car for the next few moments, your eyes out the window and his on you as he watches your fingers fold into each other.

"he didn't deserve you," he suddenly says and you look up with your eyebrows furrowed, a humorless laugh leaving your mouth.

"how could you say that, you don't even know him," you mumble, hating that you're sitting here and defending him. and for what? you already knew he was the worst.

"from the things you've told me. from what i saw and heard with my own ears," he tells you quietly. "i...he acted as if he wanted to be anywhere else but with you. and i just couldn't imagine why. because you seemed so... sweet and happy to be there with him."

you swallow nervously at his intense gaze and words, reaching out to fumble with the heat because it just got uncomfortably warm in here.

"why are you saying these things?" you ask suddenly, snapping your head up to look at him. "why are you still being so nice to me?"

he lets out a strangled sigh, his hard eyes looking you over and it makes something in you burn.

"i get it, you feel bad and wanted to play the knight in shining armor for a pathetic girl. but i can't take it, tonight. i can't take you...saying these things to me and not meaning it. just saying it out of pity."

"that wasn't why i did it," he's quick to say and there's something building in the air, a light buzzing as you become more snappy and he becomes more adament to prove himself to you. "and how do you know i don't mean it? i never felt pity for you."

"because it doesn't make any sense," you squeak out brokenly, "you're...you and i'm just some sad girl who can't keep her boyfriend interested enough to remember their fucking anniversary. can't keep her boyfriend happy enough to wanna stay with her and instead be dumped at-"

it's his large hand grabbing your jaw that starts it. halts your words and connects your gazes and has shaky, strangled breaths leaving your mouth. has him mumbling "stop it," through gritted teeth and you snarling a firm, "no."

and it could've been him bringing you forward or you pulling him closer but somehow, after a few beats of lingering gazes and breathy sighs, your lips connect.

at first neither of you even realized what happened, lips instinctually moving against one another and eyes shutting. his hand moves to your cheek and yours move to his shoulder, squeezing it lightly to ground yourself, make sure this is really happening because apparently the warm tingly feeling in your body isn't proof enough.

but it's what makes him rips himself away from you, chest heaving up and down from the adrenline of acting upon the feelings and actions he wanted to the moment he saw your smile on the rooftop.

"i'm sorry," he breaths out, eyes trained on the steering wheel, "i shouldn't have done that."

and if he thinks he shouldn't have done that, then you certainly don't think crawling over the console to straddle his lap would be the next appropriate move. but you do because it's like the second your lips met, you realized just how much you wanted and needed that.

his body freezes, back pressed right up against the black leather seat when watches you climb over. he looks down at you, dark eyes with a mix of agony and surprise and he's trying so hard to remain the nice, gentle boy he's been all night.

but then you bunch his shirt up between your hands, pull him down a few inches from your lips and mumble a plea to kiss you again against his mouth that has your lips crashing into one another again. his arms wrap around your waist hesitantly, your back arching when you feel how big his hands feel on your back, the warmth from his skin penetrating through your shirt. and it's all the encouragement he needs to tighten his hold around you, part his mouth and allow his tongue to sweep across your lips.

you stiffle a moan at the intrusion, meet his with yours as you slightly roll your hips on him. "y/n..." he groans against your lips but you only hum against them, body buzzing and the sound of heavy breathing fanning throughout the car only is only making you more willing to kiss him, to press yourself against his body and give yourself over to him.

but he quickly stops again, disconnecting your lips and squeezing your hips lightly. "wait..we shouldn't ...i don't wanna make you-"

"please," you say breathlessly, almost like a whine because your desire had been harboured by sadness but you now you don't even care. not with the feeling of him under you and the taste of him lingering on your lips and the way he's looking at you. "i want you."

"this isn't how how or why i wanted to distract you," he grunts out, "i swear i didn't-"

"yunho," you say, eyes boring into his and when he looks at you with wide, questioning eyes, you place a peck on his lips. "shut up."

and shut up he does when you bring his face down to yours, grinding his hips up into you at your eagerness and a tiny moan leaves your mouth at the feeling. because you feel the hint of a bulge and now arousal is just pounding through you.

your hands move to his hair, pulling and tugging and grinding against him and you hadn't realized how pent up sexually you were. and like the man under you has transformed into a new person, you just about faint when he disconnects your lips and mumbles against them, "he wasn't fucking you right, was he?"

your hazy, half-lidded gaze moves to him and you swallow at how different he looks. messy hair, red lips, dark eyes looking at you with such an intense, lustful gaze. and his voice, his deep and almost condescending tone causing wetness to pool between your legs.

"no," you whine out frustratedly.

"i can tell," he mutters teasingly and the way he says it makes your stomach flutter. his lips trail against your neck, kissing down and down as you lean your head back and bite your lips to suppress a moan.

"i'm gonna make you feel good, make you moan my name and come on my tongue and then fuck you right," he says pulling away from your neck to make you look at him, "is that good, baby? is that what you want?"

his dick twitches when he sees your roused hair and flushed face, eyes glossy and lips abused from his kiss and your teeth.

"hm?" he mutters again when you can only stare at him as your chest heaves.

"yes," you moan out and you can't believe how quickly you've fallen so needy and wet, "please."

"yes what?" he growls, "say my name."

"yunho. yes, yunho, please."

he lays you down on the seat, sliding it all the way back until he has just enough leg room to crouch down by the floor. he snakes his hands up your legs and thighs slowly, rubbing along your core and smiling when you thrash and twitch on the seat.

"are you gonna be wet for me, baby? i hope that's what i'm gonna see."

"yes, yunho," you repeat and he sharply inhales at how quickly you've learned to listen, how eager you are to respond and how you're already widening your legs.

"you're such a good girl, you know that?" he hums, undoing your pants with his fingers and you make sure to crane your neck to watch him. and it doesn't get lost on him either, smirking as his tugs your pants down to mid-thigh and you moan in response. your eyes roll back when you see his long finger trail against your wet lace thong and he has to surpress the growl in his throat.

"look at these," he hums moving them to the side just a little to graze your wetness and licks his lips when he feels his fingers get slick with your arousal.

"you," you gasp out, desperate for his touch or his tongue or just to feel him do anything but teasingly have his finger on you. "for you."

"yeah?" he mumbles, slowly moving around your dripping slit and you swallow down a loud moan. "you know. i wanted to kiss you all night," he hums, sliding your soaked thong down slowly and kissing in your inner thigh, "but i didn't think i'd get this lucky."

and with that, his hair grazes your stomach as he dips his head and places his tongue on your clit, lapping over it before trailing down to lick and taste more of you.

"holy shit," you gasp out and it only causes his tongue's assault to build frantically, sucking and licking and moaning against your wetness as he mumbles how good you taste. your hand moves to his hair, pulling and twisting the strands of hair and then gripping it harshly when you feel his finger slide into you.

"yunho," you screech out and you catch his eyes looking up at you, the image of him right between your legs, his mouth grazes over your burning core causing your own to roll back.

"look at me."

his deep voice commands it with such deep authority, so different than his sweet soft-spoken words, that you roll your head back to look at him with hazy eyes.

"i want you to watch me. watch me eat and finger this tight little pussy until you're screaming my name," he growls, bringing his other hand up to squeeze your bare thigh. "understand? i want you to watch me."

you nod your head frantically and you think you would've agreed to anything just for his tongue to go back on you and his finger to start pounding into you. and when it does, when he finally starts again between your legs, you bite your lips so your eyes don't roll back again.

because his tongue lapping over your clit, his long finger pounding up into you as looks right at you is quickly becoming too much. you can't ever remember a time oral felt like this, felt so consuming and had you making the sorts of moans and whines vibrating throughout the car.

"oh my god," you whine lowly, rolling your hips over his face but it only causes the hand not in your pussy to pin you down by your hips.

"hey," he warns lowly, his wet lips retracting from between your legs, "you've been so good for me, baby. what happened?"

"i'm sorry," you whine, "it just feels so-" his tongue laps at your clit teasingly and you screech "good, feels so good," when he sucks it into his hot mouth.

"i think i need to sit you on my cock," he says and the pride that floods through him when you clench around his finger is all consuming. "what do you think?"

"yes, yunho," you say, trying to remember how he likes you good, "please, i wanna sit on your cock." and it pays off because one second your laid out on your back, the next your pants are at your ankles and he's flipped you guys so you're straddling him again.

you feel his hardness under you, peaking down and your eyes widening when you see his sheer size. "whoa..."

your cheeks flush when you hear his deep chuckle, his hand running through your sweaty hair as he lifts your head.

"i'll be gentle."

but in a bold move, you spit on your hand and jerk his cock causing him to sputter in the seat below you. "i hope not," you mutter, eyes teasing and voice low and he squints his eyes at you.

"oh no?" he hums, "then sit."

thighs wet from the arousal dripping out of you, you swirl the tip around your slit teasingly and throw your heard back with a moan. and it's the only reason he humors it, because the way you look with your head thrown back, chest heaving and mouth hung open, is enough to make his already throbbing cock ache for you even more.

you move it to your clit, pressing him into it and grinding as a whiney cry leaves your lips. "oh my god," you squeak, your eyes shooting to his and you connect your lips again. he meets your kiss with the same fervor, taking his cock from your hold and lining it up with your entrance.

"i need to fuck you now," he growls, "please, baby."

"yes," you mumble against his lips, groaning out against him when you feel him enter you and stretch your walls. you both let out breathy moans when he fully enters, him because "you're so fucking tight" and you because "you're so big, yunho," and it's all the motivation you need to start grinding your hips onto him.

his hands dig into your hips, urging you on with coos of pet names and expletives that have you grinding and bouncing and moaning out. and if anyone were hitch hiking on the side of the road right now, it wouldn't take an expert to know just what was going on inside.

because both your deep moans and grunts are echoing throughout the car. your heavy breathing and sighs have fogged up the windows of the shaking car from your rolling and grinding and his thrusting to find that spot within you.

the spot he finds only a few minutes later that has you falling forward into the crook of his neck, bouncing your wet heat on him because you hear his strangled breathing and loud grunts until the familiar hot feeling of him releasing inside you has moans ripping out of your chests in unison.

it takes a while for your breathing to turn even, for your shaking legs to simmer and the ringing in his ears to stop. but when it does, he kisses the top of your head still buried in the crook of his neck and gently places you in the seat next to him.

he fumbles with the glove compartment and takes out a wipe, gently dabbing between your legs as you lay your head back on the leather seat.

"you okay?" he quietly laughs out seeing you still in a post-orgasm daze.

"i'm....good, great," you say, a laugh bubbling out of you before shyly thanking him for cleaning you. because even in the car, directly after an intense sex-crazed adrenaline rush, he still remembers aftercare. and you think if it was possible to fall in love with someone in a night, with a heart as fragile as yours, he'd be the person to make it happen.

"me too," he says quietly, throwing the wipe in the empty plastic bag before he looks over your face. "i...that was uh great, really great."

his face burns when you turn away to laugh into your shoulder, his deep of groan of "stop!" only making you giggle more. and like it wasn't the cause of what just happened in the first place, you mumble again that he's cute.

"also," you say, when your laugh and his red cheeks subside, "it'd probably be a good time to mention i'm on the pill."

6:49 a.m.

you're half asleep in the front seat of yunho's car, the familiar sounds of horns honking and the bustling city keeping you from falling into a full slumber. he had asked on the way back if he could bring you to one more place before you called it a night (even though the birds were chirping and sun was rising). and who were you to say no when he had smiled and asked so softly.

you pop your eyes open, hands under your cheek as you watch him silently bob his head to the soft music. he's at a red light, one hand atop the steering wheel as he looks over to see you staring.

"hey sleepy," he says, reaching out to fix your slightly messy hair. "i'm sorry, i know you're tired but we're almost there."

"s'okay," you mumble, meeting his soft eyes with a smile, "i don't wanna leave you yet anyway."

"oh no?" he hums softly and his heart tightens when you sees a shy blush cross your face.

"i didn't mean to say that," you sigh out sleepily and his small chuckle rings through the car.

"i was hoping you did," he says, hand moving from your head to pink cheek, "because i don't wanna leave you yet either."

the sound of a honk promptly ruins the moment, yunho's eyes moving to squint into the mirror before he drives off. you giggle as you shut your eyes again, burrowing yourself further into the leather.

he shakes you awake a few moments later, his hand on your shoulder as he looks down at with you soft brown eyes.

"we're here."

"where?" you mumble, sitting up and peaking out the window to see a small bakery.

"let me show you."

he gets out and meets you around the passenger side door, opening it for you and extending his hand out to you; you take it without a second thought and he smiles as he intertwines your fingers.

you walk up to the bakery door, the fresh smell of baked bread wafting through the empty store. the faint welcome from the worker is drowned out as your eyes peer over the shelves, bread and cookies and cakes lined up behind the streak-free glass.

you look up at him curiously when he leads you over to the cakes, tightening his hold on your hand when you guys stop in front of the display.

"pick anything you want."

you cock your head to the side before your eyes roam over the selection, squinting your eyes to read the script in front of every pastry when a tiny gasp escapes your lips.

"is that a-"

"tiramisu cheesecake," he confirms, "i heard it's really good here."

you stare at the glass as your heart tightens in your chest and you can't believe you have any tears left to sting behind your eyes today. but you don't wanna cry, even if they're happy tears, so it's why you lean your head against his arm and press your lips into a firm line.

"and i don't know if it's as good as that one," he says lowly, "but i figured it could hold you over until we....until you go back."

you lift your head to stare at him and he pouts upon seeing the one on your face. but before he can ask what's wrong or if he overstepped, your arm is wrapped around his body as you press your head into his chest.

"thank you," you choke out, "i....thank you." because if you try to say anymore, your hope that not even happy tears escape your eyes will be gone to shit.

and it's like he knows that. so he presses his lips to the top of your head and asks for a slice, your body still attached to his when he pays and ushers you out to the car.

and that's where you tell him you're so thankful for this cake but you also wanna enjoy the other one too. and at first he doesn't understand, his eyebrows furrowed together as he nods his head hesitantly.

"so i was thinking....maybe not this week, so i don't show up with a new boy right away...but next week, maybe we can go to-"

"yes," he blurts out and a big smile makes its way on your face when you see he can barely hold back his excitement. and he doesn't even care too.

because as he takes you home, you excitedly talk it over and exchange numbers. and he's quick to tell you you can start out as friends first, that he doesn't expect anything from you and will take this new found relationship at whatever pace you decide to set.

but you hope the smirk you throw his way shows him that you know within a few weeks time, you'll completely forget about the boy who made you so upset and dropped you into his lap, now filling you with such an excited, hopeful feeling even in your sleep deprived state.

you direct him to your apartment building and you thank him again for the night, sweet smiles and lingering gazes as you both delay separating.

but because that time has come, you gather your cake and open the door after teasing him that he better not get out and do it for you.

"so, i'll see you next week?" you ask quietly, a small shy smile on your face.

"next week," he says, watching you with a smile and light heart as you barrel up your apartment stairs and he gives himself two hours before his fingers start itching to text you.

#yunho #yunho smut #yunho angst #yunho fluff #ateez #ateez yunho #ateez fluff #ateez smut #ateez angst #yunho moodboard

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need-a-fugue · 4 years ago

Text

Trustworthy (Chapter 4)

Summary: You’ve spent the last three years teaming up with Santiago Garcia on every mission you had a hand in coordinating… and the past several months plotting with him to take down the biggest bad to hit your radar. But even all your time at the DEA and all your experience in the field couldn’t have prepared you for this.

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader (slow burn)

Warnings: Violence, language

Okay, yeah, sure, fine, you and Santi might not have been 100% honest about what you were planning in the jungle.

In fairness, neither of you ever actually said that this recon mission was at the behest of the CNP or Colombian military or any other government entity. You may have hinted at it. You may have neglected to correct the guys when they assumed. But you never actually told them that anyone had requested the raid on Lorea’s house.

What you had said was that there was a good chance this could turn into… something more. Something that might end up in a hefty pay day for all of you. You just never told the group of men that you and Garcia were actually banking on it.

You didn’t love the idea of lying to a bunch of strangers whom – if they agreed to everything – would end up holding your very life in their hands. Frankly, just the thought of doing so felt… sleezy. Especially considering that these men were Santi’s trusted friends. His brothers. But Santiago insisted that it needed to be played this way – They’ll never go for it if we tell them what we’re really up to. But I promise you, bonita, once they’re here, once they see… they’ll be all in.

He clearly knew his team because after just that single two-hour recce, a couple rounds of beers at a local bar, and a rather stirring, pointed speech, they were, in fact, all in.

And why not, really? The only one of them who had anything to lose – a family beyond those seen at the occasional holiday, wedding, or funeral – was Tom. And he’d been struggling so badly lately with impending alimony and child support and two kids’ worth of college tuitions – eight years minimum – that the money alone did all of their convincing for them.

It was illegal, yes. It was, as the captain said, “downright criminal.” But it wasn’t wrong. And as long as everything went according to plan, no one would know anything about any of it.

In the end, the world would be down at least one piece-of-shit, megalomaniacal drug lord murderer.

Some of the struggling people of Leticia – because you and Santi had promised each other and Yovanna that you’d drop a good chunk of the money into the hands of local charities – would have better lives.

Tom’s girls could go to college without having to worry about paying off student loans until they die.

Will could finally get rid of his old junker and buy a nice car – maybe not the Ferrari Ben was angling for, but a nice car all the same – to get him back and forth across the country for all those rousing speeches he insisted he would not stop giving.

Benny could invest in better training, at better gyms with better equipment… and real trainers. Or, hell, he could give all that shit up and quit getting his ass handed to him by kids ten years his junior, all in the hopes of capturing what was almost always one hell of a disappointing purse.

And Frankie? Well, Frankie wasn’t sure what he’d do with his share. But it sure would be nice to not have to worry so damn much. To not have to scramble to make the house payment every month. To not have to beg that dick who owns the local airfield to let him take on a few jobs just so he could settle into a cockpit for a bit. To maybe have the time – and funds – to take a woman on a date every now and then… not that he had a clue who that woman might be.

And you and Santi? Well, after years of accomplishing nothingin the fight against Lorea – the fight against the drug trade that had ruined and taken so many lives around the world – you two could finally say that you’d actually made a difference. Even if you couldn’t quite say it aloud for everyone to hear.

000

By the time you get to the compound early Sunday morning, rain’s already been falling for hours. The area’s nearly flooded, so your off-road path is basically a sprawling swampland. You barely slept, your hip is aching like crazy from an old injury, and the minute you step out of the SUV you damn near squeal like a stuck pig as you suddenly sink up to your calf in thick, sucking mud.

“Shit,” Frankie mutters under his breath – under a breathless laugh, you’re pretty sure – as he hops out and wraps a steadying arm around your waist. “Let me help,” he says, the words so soft, you can barely hear them over the unyielding pounding of the rain.

You try to balance, holding onto the door, one foot just barely sinking into the soft earth as Frankie leans down to pry the other from what feels like an utterly engulfing quicksand. He struggles, still holding you around the waist while his left hand works to grip your leg, your boot, your ankle… whatever he can wrap his fingers around. But it’s no use. The op has yet to even begin and already you’re stuck. In the disgusting mud. Deep in the endless jungle. With no hope of ever getting out.

You let out a painfully dramatic, completely despairing sigh and glance up only to see Benny laughing. Really laughing… not even trying to hide his utter, unabashed amusement at your awful predicament. You shoot him as threatening a glare as you can muster. But it only makes him laugh harder.

“Go get into position,” Tom orders, slapping him on the shoulder and shaking his head – once again in a seemingly all-too-practiced dadway – before he bends down to help Frankie out.

Finally, finally, the two men manage to free you. Shockingly, your boot leaves the earth as well, though you can feel the muck inside squelching beneath your instep and in between your toes. Your lip curls in disgust as you haphazardly wipe the boot – bottom, sides, and top – on the wheel well, a bit of mud getting squeezed out near your ankle as you do so. “I’m gonna get jungle rot,” you mutter bitterly as you continue to smear grime along the body of the SUV.

Tom swats your leg away. “Just be sure you don’t give away your location with all the squishing,” he says with a hint of a smile. Then, patting Frankie on the back, he finishes with a much more stern, “Let’s do this,” and takes off to find his position, face and shoulders both set as he easily drops into soldier mode.

“I’m still not sure if I like that guy,” you begin as you and Frankie head for the high ground, “or really freaking hate him.”

He bites out a quick laugh, turns to show off that too-damn-perfect smile, and replies with an easygoing, “Yup.”

Once you make it out of your drop-in point, everything else seems to be smooth sailing. The worst part is just waiting, especially with the rain. Waiting for Garcia’s informant to drop off the van. Waiting for the guards to leave for church, the family not so quickly following suit. Waiting for the guys to move in – Frankie shooting a quick wink alongside, “Watch my six,” as he heads out to join them. Waiting for the all-clear from Benny before you can finally enter the house yourself.

The house. Lorea’s house.

You’d been waiting for this for too damn long. Years of hunting the man had led to these last few months of building out this very plan with Santiago… and then to the last week of recon and final plans with these soldiers whom you barely even know. For all of the initial mistrust heaped upon you by them – and you honestly don’t blame them for any of it – the truth is, they know they have each other to depend on. You’re the odd man out here. You’re the one who should be questioning them… their dedication to this mission. Their loyalty to Santi, and by extension, to you. Their desire to end Lorea’s reign of terror.

You’re in this to take that man out. And if just one of these guys decides that’s not going to happen – for whatever reason – you’re shit out of luck. You should trust them only as far as you can throw them, which would be… not very far. But as you catch sight of Ben standing inside the front door, eagerly waving you in, and as you see the trail of blood leading into the kitchen, a voice over the coms calmly declaring, we had to shoot one of the guards in the leg, something inside of you shifts and settles and all of the worries about who may or may not be trustworthy simply flit away to nothing.

But other concerns quickly rise to take their place.

Watching the highly trained special ops team move about you – each man light-footed and fluid, so quiet that their breathing is nearly inaudible, even as one of them leans over your shoulder from his position behind – is nerve wracking enough to make your legs begin to tremble. You knew what you were getting into here. You knew that this would be dangerous, that it would require a certain level of skill and technique and training. But it isn’t until you actually see these men – these elite soldiers – in action that you realize how woefully inept and unprepared you are in comparison.

Self-doubt begins to seep from the cracks now forming in your carefully crafted façade. Uncertainty, insecurity, fear starts to build up and rise within you, burning like bile creeping up the back of your throat. By the time you and Santiago finish the second sweep of the downstairs and begin climbing the steps to the second-story landing, your entire body is vibrating with regretful apprehension.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you hear as you approach the study upstairs. It’s the room where your informant took the picture of the stacks of cash after her delivery, the holding area where all of Lorea’s blood money sat, just waiting to be counted. But when you enter, there’s no money to be found, just pissed-off-looking soldiers surrounded by the empty bags they had planned to fill with cash.

“Your girl burned us,” Frankie mutters blankly, eyes full of regret and annoyance as he leans heavily against one wall. His dark gaze collides with yours for just a fraction of a moment before he shakes his head and breathes out, “We gotta get outta here.”

Your brow crinkles in confusion, all of the insecurity bubbling through your body suddenly settling and getting replaced by a sort of righteous indignation. “Whoa, wait,” you spit out, sidestepping Santi and rushing to the center of the room. “We’re not leaving. We’re not done here.”

Will gives you an almost disappointed look and blankly mutters, “Nothing here, sweetheart,” before dropping heavily into a chair in the corner.

You shake your head, a pointed certainty to your words as you level him with a heated stare and say, “Lorea’s here. He’s always here. He does not leave.”

Tom scoffs. “Yeah, well, he left today,” he says, tone full of spite. “And he took the money with him.”

You spin to face him, “No,” pouring from your lips in a firm and unyielding tenor. “He’s here. And so is the money.”

“We did a full sweep,” Will breathes out.

“So we’ll do another,” Santiago chimes in, suddenly at your back.

You look around at all the forlorn faces and roll your eyes, realizing all at once that, for all their training in war, these men don’t have a freaking clue about the kinds of things you deal with in your job. They’re used to encountering soldiers – enemy combatants, trained mercenaries, militias… people who’s purpose is to fight. That’s not what Lorea is. That’s not what he does. He didn’t move deep into the jungle to fight, to wage war, to build an army. He came here to hide.

“You guys are fucking idiots,” you declare with a huff. “I once spent two hours tearing apart a houseboat before finding the guy we were after squatting in a hidden cutout near the bilge. A few years ago, we found fifty thousand dollars under a false bottom in a hot tub while serving a search warrant. Another raid ended with us tearing apart a kid’s tree house that had cash hidden under the floorboards. You think because Lorea isn’t sitting here behind his desk, counting his millions like fucking Scrooge McDuck that they’re not here? That he’s not here?”

“Didn’t McDuck swim in his money?” Benny inquires from behind, the question earning quick huff of a laugh from his brother.

You feel Santi step away from your side. “She’s right,” he says, his eyes dancing around the room, looking for… something. They land on a mostly empty can of paint, and he smiles, sniffing quickly at the air. “Fresh paint.”

Tom’s eyes widen and tick towards the wall to his left as his lips split and out pours what you had all along seen as being an obvious truth. “The house is the safe.”

000

When it rains, it pours. You’d been the one to say that, to inanely mutter the adage through the coms with a huff as Benny took off back inside the house – the safe – while you sat in the now heavily weighted van, so full of money that the suspension sags to the point of extremeconcern.

The guards are coming back, the sound of their SUV’s engine just barely chugging atop the steady beating of the downpour that had engulfed you all for the past few hours. They’re coming back, and everyone but you is still inside.

Call it greed. Call it vindictiveness. Call it whatever the fuck you want. But you all had agreed to get as much plata out of that house as possible, to fill the cars to the freaking brim with as much of that motherfucker’s money – his lifeblood, his love, his everything – before setting fire to the whole damn thing. You’d been in this business long enough to know that bringing down one cartel merely opens up a door for others to grow. But still, the idea of watching Lorea’s empire burn makes you wet in a way the torrential rain beating on the roof on the van never could.

You toss a glance back, over you shoulder at the mound of duffel bags, a child’s suitcase thrown into the pile as well, all filled to bursting with cash. It’s pretty unbelievable. Incredible. You’d never been the type to really worry about money, no more so than the average guy. But damn if being surrounded by millions of dollars doesn’t make you a little lightheaded. And the fact that it’s Lorea’s money?

Despite Santi’s little bullshit pep talk the other night about how all of you deserve this – for serving your country and fighting for what’s right… blah, blah, blah – you honestly don’t feel like you deserve this money any more than anyone else. But Lorea sure as shit doesn’t deserve it. And you trust yourself – and each of these men by your side – to put it to far better use than he ever would.

You can’t see the guards, can’t see the SUV carrying them from your vantage point in the van. But Benny had told you to stay put, he’d get the others and he wanted you ready to drive as soon as they came out. Still, you know now that the first car must’ve arrived at the compound because – aside from the steady pounding of the rain and the wild pulse of your heartbeat echoing in your ears – everything is suddenly silent. No more hum of an engine. No choppy callouts over the radio as Ben seeks out the guys. Everything is silent and still. Until… pop-pop, short and sudden, muffled by the thick walls of the house.

Over the coms you hear – in a calm, controlled tone – Two down in the entryway. Another sharp pop, followed by a voice you’ve come to easily recognize. That’s three.

There’s something in the way their words are uttered, something in the utterly placid tenor of each of their voices. Something also to the sparse shots – so unlike the rapid, automatic gunfire you’re used to being thrown into amid scared and untrained local police and inexperienced, foolhardy kids hired as cheap labor by the cartels. There’s something about the way they all rush suddenly into your line of sight – fast but calm, controlled – as they pour out of the house, a few racing past to find the guards’ SUV, the sounds of their footfalls and quick breaths nearly drowning out the whir of the engine as you turn the ignition. There’s something about it all that leaves you feeling – despite the fact that things did not go as planned and you can see that all-too-recognizable, pissed-off scowl tugging at Santiago’s features as he flies past your window – calm as well. Safe, even.

Frankie climbs quickly into the passenger side of the van just as you fire up the engine, Will slowly pulling himself into the seat behind him. “Shit,” you mutter, eyes widening as you take in the grimace on the man’s face, the blood on his hands and shirt. “What the hell happened?”

“S’fine,” he tells you, punctuating the statement with a nod, a directive to look forward. “Let’s move.”

You put the van in gear and hit the gas, maneuvering steadily through the compound and towards the front entrance. “Did you get shot?” you inquire again, your voice showing less concern and more simple curiosity.

“Yeah,” he groans, a thick breath hitching as you hit a particularly big bump in the road. “Your friend Lorea popped out of his little hidey hole and got me. Guess you called that.”

You whip around to face him, eyes now like damn saucers. “You got him?”

Frankie grabs your arm and gives a little tug to get you turn back towards the front, only speaking, answering for Will, once you do so, once you settle a still-wild stare on the path ahead, “Yeah. Pope took him out. He’s dead.”

You say nothing for a long moment, letting those words seat inside of you. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. How long have you wanted to hear those words? How long have you been gunning for that son of a bitch, waiting for someone to take him out… hoping that someone might be you? Santi doing it is the next best thing, you figure.

A sudden explosion lights up in front of you as you approach the gate and Benny blows past it, and past the van, angrily muttering to himself all the while. “He looks pissed,” you comment blithely, looking to Frankie for something akin to permission before flooring it and ramming through the gate like you’re just itching to do.

He gives a staunch nod forward. “Can’t blame him,” he says, capping it off with a softer, rather encouraging, “Go for it.”

You hit the gas, glancing in the rearview mirror and asking, “The others are in the SUV?” as the guards’ car pulls up behind you and waits for Ben to jump in.

Frankie nods – “Yeah.” – and his eyes suddenly tick your way, narrowing a bit as they rove your body before coming to rest on your hands as they tightly grip the wheel.

“What?” you ask, feeling his stare burn into you.

Will laughs from behind – a swift, stilted thing that tells you just how much pain he’s actually in – and lets out an amused, “Fish always drives.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice dripping with put-on sincerity as you continue down the unpaved road. “Do you want me to pull over?”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no hiding the plainly obvious pout tugging at his lips when he looks over at you and mutters, “Just watch where you’re going.”

The first half or so of the long drive up to the airfield is spent in tense silence. You don’t fight it, don’t force any sort of conversation, don’t inquire about what exactly happened in that house. You can tell that these men need a long-ass moment to come down from everything. Hell, your own adrenaline still has your pulse thrumming endlessly through your ears. And you’d been safely ensconced inside this van for most of the action. It’s not like you had to fight your way out of there. It’s not like you got shot.

Your eyes bounce up to the rearview mirror, finding Will curled into himself in the backseat. “How you doing, Ironhead?” you ask, purposefully infusing the ridiculous name with a mocking intonation.

He looks up and catches your gleaming eyes in the mirror, notes your slight smirk, and gruffly replies, “Well, I’m not dead yet.”

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Frankie supplies from your right. He spins around to give his friend a quick once over. “He’s fine.”

“That’s awfully presumptuous,” you challenge, raising a brow. “Didn’t see you coming out of there with a new hole in your body.”

“Didn’t realize you were so focused on my body,” he returns with a bit of a lilt.

Will groans loudly from the back. “Don’t start flirting up there,” he practically orders before the no-argument tone slips into something softer, almost jovial. “I’m suffering enough back here as is.”

“You’re fine,” Frankie shoots back, turning bodily in his seat and craning his head towards his friend. “You act like you’ve never been shot before.”

“I’m retired,” he replies. “Think I forgot how much this sucks.”

You nod, almost to yourself, emitting a simple, assenting, “Yeah.”

Frankie leans back, still remaining sideways in the seat, his stare now wholly on you. You glance over and see his brow scrunch in… is it concern? Or merely curiosity? “You’ve been shot?” he asks, an odd edge to his voice.

Again, you nod. “I have. Didn’t care for it.”

“See, Fish,” Will mumbles from the back as he slips further down the seat in an effort to find some semblance of comfort. “Maybe you’ve been so busy flying around rich businessmen in the private sector that you’ve also forgotten how shitty this is.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he mutters with a frown.

Will cocks his head at you – not that you can see it, eyes remaining trained on the road lest you get another watch where you’re goingevil stare from the man by your side. “What happened to you, sweetheart?”

You snort out a short laugh, glancing quickly at Frankie and saying softly – and more than a little bit condescendingly – “He likes to call me sweetheart.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the man in the back sighs out, waving a dismissive hand through the air. “Guess I’m just a run-of-the-mill chauvinist.”

You shrug. “I never said anything about you being run-of-the-mill.” And from your right, you hear a soft snicker. A gentle smile spreads across your face and your hands loosen their death grip on the steering wheel just a bit as you feel the air filling the van begin to lighten, tension seeming to slowly spill away. After a lingering – but not at all wrought – moment, you shift a bit in your seat and say, “Went on a raid just outside of Tijuana. My first down in Mexico. And I took a bullet in the hip.”

“Shit,” Will intones. “Hell of a bienvenido.”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, suddenly all-too conscious of the old ache in your joint that’s been plaguing you all day. “But on the plus side, I’m now always the first to know when it’s about to rain.”

Both men laugh. You laugh – despite the pain in your hip and the worry about the guy in back… and your terribly distracting infatuation with the wide smile now painted on Frankie’s face. You all sit in the van – on your way to flee the country after committing a terrible crime – and laugh about the fact that, despite each of you being a little bit broken, none of you are dead yet.

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#frankie catfish morales #frankie morales #triple frontier #frankie morales x reader #francisco catfish morales #pope garcia #santiago pope garcia #frankie morales x you #will ironhead miller #benny miller #triple frontier fic

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