#but i feel like it might look a little rickety when I do the lines

[black-and-yellow]

What I got so far

Using Danny as a reference (10 points if you know which video) but idk whether I'll keep it as jim when I do the lineart or if I'll change it to Louis.

[vampire-matcha]

Thinking about Mechanics!141 and fem reader with a shitbox car (totally not me). You're in there every three to four weeks with something going wrong with your death trap of a car. The boys aren't sabotaging your car or anything. They don't need to. Your car is just that bad. It's a miracle it hasn't killed you yet. You're trying to save up for a newer car, but your shitbox keeps burning a hole in your wallet with every light blinking on your dashboard. It's to the point that the boys recognize you as soon as you walk into the shop. They hear the bell ring and they just know it's you again.

(Contains: sex as payment, oral sex/blowjob, fingering/masturbation) but of a different style from BitW but enjoy. Not proofread :p

"What is it now?" Price asks, wiping the motor oil from his hands on a greasy rag. You're already looping the key fob off your keychains.

"It's shaking whenever I get above 45."

"What part of the car is shaking?" He asks, pulling up your information on the computer.

"All of it," you say, slapping the key onto the counter with a huff. Price gives you a sympathetic look.

"Darling, you should really get yourself something more reliable," he tells you. You sigh and lean your elbows on the counter. His eyes glance down to your chest and the low-cut shirt you were wearing.

"I'm trying, Price," you say with a little more attitude than you intended. "It's impossible to save money when everything goes back into this fucking car!" You run your hands over your face. "I'm gonna die in that thing," you mutter, only half-joking. Price stops typing for a moment, thinking to himself.

"What if we could work something out?" He asks tentatively. You look up at him to see him already staring you down.

"Like... a loyalty discount?" You try to clarify. Surely he didn't mean...

"I was thinking something more along the lines of... an alternative method of payment." He leans against the counter in front of you, his face close to yours. He smelled like what you'd expect: motor oil and engine grease and musky, manly sweat. "Something under-the-table..." Your heart skipped a beat at the double-meaning of his words, allowing him just enough plausible deniability if you chose to not accept. You swallowed hard.

"What do you have in mind?" You ask softly, your heart pounding in your chest, and with how hard Price was staring at your cleavage, you think maybe he could see it. You reach a hand out to stoke a finger along his arm, feeling the coarse hair all over it. The corner of his mouth quirked up.

"I think I have something in the back office that might work. Follow me and I'll show you."

It wasn't that you were totally desperate. Well, you were. This car had cost you thousands more than it was worth and you needed to save any penny you could when it came to it. But you wouldn't have followed just any mechanic into the rinky-dink office at the back of the auto shop. This was John Price. And he was all man.

"You want that discount, you're gonna have to work for it."

Broad shoulders tapering into a narrower waist, but still lined with the perfect ratio of hearty muscle and soft belly, all leading down to an alluring bulge and plump ass, and finally, those thick, beefy thighs. Not to mention his hands: thick, strong, and calloused from years of hard manual labor, and forearms and biceps that twisted and flexed underneath his button-down work shirt.

He holds the door open for you, his body crowding you into the tight space. The office is more of an oversized closet with a desk and an old computer. He closes the door behind you both and settles himself into the rickety office chair, which creaks under his weight. He sits with his legs spread and his hands on his thighs and gestures for you to come closer.

You kneel between his legs and he smirks, adjusting his hips in the chair while you work open his belt. He lets you open his trousers for him but pushes them down for you so his semi-hard cock can spring free. He sighs when you take it into your hand, stroking him to full hardness.

He isn't much of a moaner, you didn't expect him to be, but his chest puffs as you take the tip into your mouth and suck on it lightly. Your hand moves up and down his shaft slowly, your fingers moving to meet your lips. You lick around the head and push the tip of your tongue into his slit, making his hips jerk lightly.

You close your eyes, letting yourself fully focus on his cock, letting desire and submissiveness take over your mind as you work to please him on your knees. You take him deeper into your mouth, widening your jaw and rocking your mouth side to side to fit him farther down. Your other hand slides up his thick, meaty thigh to massage his balls while you find yourself in a gentle rhythm. You bob your head, going down just far enough, but not enough to gag you, and sucking hard on the way up as your hand holds and twists the base. You melt onto him, the feeling of him in your mouth quieting your mind, leaving any thought of hesitancy far, far behind. All you need is John Price's dick in your mouth, and you think you could reach enlightenment between his thighs.

You barely register the fact that you're moaning around him until he's teasing you for it.

"Yeah? You like this, don't you? Letting me drag you to the back of the shop to suck my cock like the little whore you are." You whimpered at the filthy words he was spitting down at you. "Knew you would- the boys and I- knew you'd like us usin' you like this," he says with a grunt as he watches your eyes roll back. "Go on and touch yourself for me, dear."

You let go of his balls and quickly open your pants to sneak your hand inside. Your pussy is soaked, your fingers gliding through your lips with ease. You moan louder as you circle your clit, the motion sending sparks through your pelvis and thighs.

"There's a good girl. So obedient. I can hear how wet you are for me." He places a hand on your head, not pushing, just guiding your pace up and down his length. You press your tongue to the underside of his cock to add pressure while you touch your clit, the wet nub buzzing with electricity.

"Just like that," he puffs. He holds up his shirt and you see through your fluttering lashes the way his abs constrict with pleasure. "Go on, make yourself cum like that. Think you can do it? You think you can cum with my cock down your throat?" His hips jerk up into your mouth again with more urgency.

Your thighs twitch as your stomach tightens. His vulger words send you over the edge, and your hips stutter against your hand. Your body twitches and thrusts on the floor between his thighs.

"Good girl- good fuckin' girl," he says, his voice deep and strained, and he fists your hair harder and pulls it tight. The rush of euphoria makes you moan around him low and loud, and he cums into your mouth with a grunt. You choke on the salty fluid, swallowing what you can, but some of it slips out of your lips and drips down your chin.

He pulls you off and takes a good look at how ruined you are, your lips swollen, your eyes unable to focus, your hand down your pants, and best of all, his cum decoration your face. He smiles at you and hands you a relatively clean rag to clean your face. Little black streaks preplace white droplets on your skin, and he can't help the fond smile that creeps up on him. He's marked you now in more ways than one.

He untangles his hand from your hair and let's you rest your head on his knee until you catch your breath. You take your hand out of your pants, and he motions for you to raise it up to him, and instead of wiping it with the rag, he leans forward and sucks your wet fingers into his mouth. He holds your eyes and you feel his tongue swiping across the pads of your fingers, until he releases then with a smack of his lips.

"I'll let the boys know about our little arrangement. They'll collect their own payment when you pick it up tomorrow," he says with a wink. He helps you stand up and walks you back to the front, leaving you with one final squeeze to you ass. "Oh, and you might want to wash your hair," he adds as he opens the door to the garage. He hands up a greasy hand. "Got motor oil in it. Sorry."

[kumkaniudaku]

Stay A While

Summary: Terry's back home and trying to make amends with an old friend.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 3,944

Part: 1 of ??

Warnings and Notes: None. This one's a safe for work slow burn. Enjoy.

Drunk minds speak sober thoughts. Or at least Terry hoped that was the case as his thumb hovered over a familiar name in his contact list. A dingey hole in the wall became a haven on the tail end of his journey back to some sense of normalcy. He was down a bike, a truck, and a piece of his heart but continued to press on until fatigue forced him to stop for rest. The owner, a small woman with a big voice noticed his rough appearance as he passed by on foot and invited him inside to duck an incoming storm. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, even when he repeated that he had ground to make up before nightfall.

When she asked if he needed help he politely and foolishly declined all but a glass of brown liquor and access to an outlet. That same whiskey and a sprinkle of Motown-era love songs playing on a rickety jukebox had broken a grown man down enough to reach out to the one person who might still be willing to take him in. Even if only for a night.

Searching for extra courage, Terry took another sip of lukewarm Jack Daniels before tapping his phone screen. The line rang once, twice, and then a third time before a short pause signaled the call had connected. 

The silence on the other him was loud, forcing him to speak up first. 

“Hello?”

Fading voices and shuffling in the background were the only indicators of a presence on the other line, making Terry feel embarrassed for starting a call in the first place. 

He cleared his throat before speaking again. “Hey, look… if now’s not a good time I ca -” 

“Terrence? Did you mean to call me?” 

“I, uh…yeah. I did. I’m sorry. I should’ve -” 

“Are you okay? It’s loud wherever you are. You good? You hurt?” 

“I could tell you if you would give me a chance to answer,” he chuckled. His amusement made her kiss her teeth in annoyance. “I’m okay. I’m a little banged up, but I’ve seen worse. I’m somewhere between Charlotte and home. Stopped in this spot for a drink and somewhere to sleep for the night.” 

“And what does that have to do with me?” 

Terry took another swig of whiskey and sighed. “Nothing, really. I was hoping I could see you, though. You know, when I make it back tomorrow.”

“You staying anywhere when you get here?” 

“Not yet, but I’ll find somewhere. I know how to survive.”

“TJ…,” More silence. Thick. Long. Full of tension and years of baggage that they had yet to discuss. The other voice sighed before answering. “Come on by. I’ll have the back room ready for you. You need toiletries?” 

Terry’s face softened into a near smile at the invitation. “Yes ma’am. A meal would be nice, too.” 

“Okay. I’ll have you something if you can get here before dark tomorrow. Please be safe, Terrence. I mean it.” 

Before he could attempt to extend the conversation, the call ended, leaving her contact photo in full view. Terry allowed a slow grin to spread across his face just as a short text with her address came across the screen. 

“Another round, brother?” 

Terry looked up from his phone to find an expectant expression on the bartender’s face. He shook his head and reached for the wallet in his back pocket. “Nah, but thanks, man. Think I’m gonna close my tab, actually. I gotta see about a bus ticket before it’s too late.” 

“If you heading to her,” the man started, pointing toward Terry’s phone. “you need a cut, man. A lineup. Something. You look like what you been through. If you got $20, I can get you right.” A slight frown and knitted eyebrows in response made the bartender shoot his hands up in surrender. “I don’t want no problems, big dog. I just know what it’s like to see your lady after a hard time. Let me help you.” 

A quick look into the black mirror of his cell phone screen forced Terry to reckon with his appearance. He couldn’t remember his last haircut and his mustache was starting to dwarf his upper lip. He sighed and reached into his back pocket. 

“Extra $10 and you can get the face too?” 

“Extra $20 and I’ll get you where you going myself.” 

------

City noise had long been replaced by suburban quiet by the time Terry’s destination came into view. His friend back at the bar was true to his word and arranged transport that turned a 6-hour journey into 2 hours of UGK on the speakers, a little privacy, and AC on the hottest summer day so far.  

After exchanging pleasantries and cash, Terry stepped out of the cramped Honda onto the smooth driveway pavement. Every house, street sign, and front yard looked exactly as he remembered them, bringing mixed emotions forward.

The short journey to her front step felt arduous for his tired legs, but he persisted until he was mere inches from the front door. He lifted his arms and prepared to knock but stopped short when it swung open unexpectedly. 

“Knocking when I can hear those heavy feet from a mile away is courteous but unnecessary.” 

He chuckled and rubbed a hand down the back of his head. “Good to see you too, Treece.” 

Patrice greeted him with a half smile as she studied his appearance from toe to head. A few years and a little extra weight had done wonders. She settled on his eyes and softened her gaze. “You look good, TJ. Come in here and cool off.”

Stepping inside her home felt like walking into a time capsule. He’d spent so many after-school days and summer nights here that it felt like his childhood home not too far up the road. Photos from yesteryear lined the walls on the way to the living room where nothing had changed except new furniture and a bigger television on the TV stand. The heat from the oven mixing with a slight chill from the air conditioning unit kept the room comfortable enough to nap if he could settle for more than a few minutes. 

Terry’s eyes drifted from his surroundings to Patrice as she led the way. Long braids covered the back of a high school t-shirt and jean shorts. Her brown skin had become golden under the North Carolina sun, making her glow a little in the morning light. Grown woman weight had settled onto her once thin frame, transforming her into a more of a mini version of her older sister than before. All the changes he’d imagined when he had a free second were ions better in person.

Patrice gestured toward the leather recliner in the corner without speaking, inviting him to take a seat and settle in on her way to the stove.

They existed without words for a few minutes while she took fresh biscuits out of the oven and arranged them next to sausage patties and an omelet on one of her good porcelain plates. Terry trained his attention on his shoes, trying and failing to find a way to break the ice. He wanted to apologize. Confess his wrongs and desires in one grand speech designed to erase nearly ten years of absence. But the words wouldn’t form in his throat and the moment came and went. 

Balancing a dinner tray in one hand and orange juice in the other, Patrice carefully made her way to his spot in the living room. Seeing her kind eyes calmed his nerves and set his chest ablaze.

“No more pork for you, right? This is chicken sausage from my Nana and them in the country.” She asked as she sat the tray on his lap. 

He nodded in appreciation. “Yeah. You remembered?” 

“You ain’t been gone that long, TJ. I still know who you are and what you like. That orange juice don’t have pulp in it either.” 

“Thank you,” he said sheepishly before hanging his head to pray. 

“Any time.” 

A re-run of A Different World became the only sound in the room outside of an occasional content sigh from Terry as he tore through his breakfast. Patrice watched in amusement until her broad smile caught his attention. He slowed in embarrassment and returned the stare long enough to induce loud laughter from both of them. 

“I look crazy, huh?” 

“No,” she assured with a sweet smile. “You just look like you're happy to be back home, is all. Fayetteville missed you.” 

“All of Fayetteville or someone specific?” 

“Don’t start, TJ.” 

“I’m only asking a question.” He answered without making eye contact. “You know you’re the only one who still calls me that?” 

“What? TJ? That’s your name.” 

“Yeah, but…you know. It’s not 2010 anymore.” 

Patrice shrugged and settled deeper into the couch. “Considering that’s about the last time I saw you in the flesh, I guess it stuck for me. But, I can call you Terrence if you like.” 

“Nah, TJ’s good. I like it. From you…specifically.” 

The pair exchanged equally bashful looks, both too shy to say anything that would incriminate themselves. Instead, they watched the television in silence and stole looks until a commercial break took away their distraction. 

Without speaking, Terry began to gather dishes and stand, prompting Patrice to rush over before he could move too far. 

“Treece, I can do it.” 

“I know,” she answered in a sing-song voice while sliding the tray from his grasp. “But I haven’t done this for you in a while. Let me love on you a little bit.”

His eyes tracked her every move until she was behind him at the kitchen sink. Boyish nervousness made him twiddle his thumbs until words came rushing out like water from a burst pipe as he sat back down.

“So, how you doing? How you been?” 

“I’ve been okay. Mostly work and no play, you know. Thankful to be out of that classroom for a few weeks and get some peace.” 

“Yeah? Kids driving you crazy?” 

“Baby, the kids, their parents, and my parents are driving me to drink,” she laughed. “I can’t catch a break.” 

“What about your man? He driving you crazy?” 

Patrice scoffed and shook her head. Her mama and his mama talked too much. Terry chewed his bottom lip, hoping he didn’t offend. 

“We…aren’t together anymore. Hard to build a family together when he’s off building one across town.” 

Terry craned his neck around the armchair to make sympathetic eye contact. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that part. I wouldn’t have said anything.” 

“It’s alright. I gave it to God a long time ago. Maybe I’m not meant to be anybody’s wife yet.”

“Maybe you weren’t meant to be his wife.” 

“Well, it’s not like any suitors are knocking down my door for my hand in marriage.” 

“Probably because you keep swinging it open before anybody gets a chance.” 

Patrice rolled her eyes and flashed her middle finger in Terry’s direction. “Ha-ha. I see you didn’t lose your jokes at Lejeune. Only your ability to keep in touch.” 

Her retort left a shallow cut in Terry’s ego, making him turn his attention back to the television. He knew he’d broken a decades-old promise and that atoning for his sins would take time. But he also knew that, at any moment, Patrice could send him back into the world with nothing more than a full belly and a swift kick in the ass. He had to tread lightly. 

Taking the lull in conversation as his opportunity to lick his wounds in private, Terry stood and gathered his belongings in both hands. Patrice watched him from her spot with an apologetic expression. 

“You don’t have to leave. Got a couple errands to run so it’ll be quiet in here. Take the whole couch if you want.” 

“That’s alright, but thank you. Figure I can make myself useful and cut the yard. Maybe unpack some of this stuff if that’s alright with you. You got a mower?” 

“Yeah, it’s back there,” she answered, gesturing toward the backyard with her head. “Will you be here when I get back?” 

Sensing the hidden motivation behind her question, Terry dropped his bag to the ground and made his way into the kitchen. Cautiously, he leaned down to press a short kiss to Patrice’s forehead before using his index finger to tilt her head upward and meet his eyeline. “Yes. I promise. You don’t need to worry about me.” 

Her eyes fluttered closed for a half second while she nodded her understanding. A wave of relief made the hair on her arms stand at attention but she quickly bit back any urge to engage further. 

“You looked tired when you got in,” Patrice started, turning her back to Terry to conceal her flustered face. “I cleared Junior’s old bed back there. It’s a little small but sturdy. The sheets are fresh. Let me know if you need more blankets. I like it cold at night.” 

“I’ll survive, girl. I’ve slept in worse places than a full-sized bed. Thank you.” 

A split second of hesitation kept their eyes glued to one another until Terry ended the stalemate by backing out of the room and disappearing down the hallway. 

Patrice took his absence as an opportunity to compose herself. Busy hands and racing thoughts fueled a cleaning marathon until tasks that had long fallen to the bottom of her to-do list were crossed off. 

For hours they co-existed without many words exchanged. Occasionally, Patrice would steal glances at Terry while he meticulously tended to the lawn and bushes. When he could, Terry made a point to brush up against her when he walked past and agree with each of her many suggestions. Being in her space was enough for him and he dared not upset the natural harmony. 

By the time dinner rolled around, they had found a groove. A quiet dinner led to an even quieter cleanup shift and quick good nights exchanged after watching Jeopardy together. 

Terry left Patrice to her own devices while he fought to acclimate to such cushy surroundings. Try as he might, he couldn’t get used to the soft mattress below him or the near-frigid temperature in the house. Tossing and turning left him unsatisfied. The walls felt like they were converging. Flashbacks were turning into night sweats. He needed to escape.

Slowly, he slid out of bed and into a pair of slippers Patrice had gifted him earlier in the day. Measured steps help him sneak past her bed bedroom, out of the back door, and down into the backyard without causing a disturbance. 

The early June air was balmy, clinging to the skin beneath his t-shirt. In the distance loud bass from someone’s car speaker vibrated until it was out of earshot. Dogs barked and howled to salute the moon worked in tandem with the faint smell of charcoal cooling from a night of backyard barbecues to remind him that he was far from the trouble of Shelby Springs. 

It’d been a while since he could enjoy the night without being on high alert. The last week was a special kind of hell that he feared he could never shake. The urge to flee was beginning to creep in like the tide, threatening to wash away what little progress he’d made.

After a few deep breaths and mumbled prayer, Terry retreated to a porch swing to rest his weary legs. His shoulders relaxed as soon as his backside met the aged oak and, almost instantly, he felt safe enough to close his eyes. One deep breath turned into another until he was drifting into his first peaceful sleep in weeks. 

Minutes passed like seconds. Thoughts slowed to a halt. His heartbeat regulated. Near bliss was upon him.

Inside, a single lamp flipped on to illuminate Patrice’s path as she searched the house for her guest. His room and bathroom had turned up empty results with almost no sign that he’d been there throughout the day. He wasn’t on the couch or in the kitchen raiding the fridge like she half expected. Worry had all but made her pass out until she heard the slight creak of her swing on the porch, making his head appear and disappear from the window above the sink.

She couldn’t fully open the door before Terry opened one eye and looked in her direction. She froze and he smiled.

“Feet not as heavy as you thought, huh?” 

“Yeah, yeah. If I’d known you trade in a bed for this old thing I wouldn’t have wasted my time on laundry.” 

“Hey, I built this old thing, remember?”

Patrice chuckled at the memory and pointed at the metal chain keeping the swing in place. “Damn near lost a finger behind it, too.”

“Would’ve been worth it knowing you were happy.” Patrice nervously shifted her weight from left to right under Terry’s intense gaze while he took his turn to look her over. Finally noticing her awkwardly standing between the screendoor, he motioned to the spot beside him. “Sit with me for a second.”

Patrice visibly wrestled with her decision but ultimately joined him. They maintained a careful distance, being sure to keep their individual limbs from connecting for fear that the mere sensation would set them ablaze. They played a childish game of cat and mouse until Patrice spoke.

“I was rude earlier,” Patrice confessed while fiddling with the hem of her t-shirt. Terry closed his heavy eyes to cure the burning sensation growing by the minute but acknowledged her statement with a confused grunt. She continued. “I never asked how you were doing. The whole thing about my ex sort of brought up old feelings.” 

He frowned, hurt by her revelation. “You know I wasn’t trying to hurt you, right?” 

“You never are. Same ol’ honorable TJ. Terry, I mean.” 

“TJ for you.” 

Again he popped one eye open and paired it with a grin that disamered Patrice and made her giggle like her high school self. The sound had him resolve that he’d spend his whole life making stupid faces if it meant she’d get some joy from them. 

“You ready to tell me everything I missed or are you content with popping up on my porch? And how long do you plan to be here eating all my food, anyway?” 

“I don’t think you wanna hear that,” he answered in an attempt to dodge the loaded question. Patrice persisted. 

“No, I do. I see the tattoos and the fresh haircut. TJ turned into a man while he was gone. At least let me get to know this new person.” 

“I grew up,” he sighed after some time. “Gained some. Lost a lot. Still trying to pick up the pieces.”

“What’d you lose?” 

“Lately? Money. Family. Shit, my mind.” 

“Why?”

“Mike died.” An abrupt interruption of an already complicated conversation brought forth a long pause. He waited for an interjection but found none, prompting him to offer more details. “He was killed. In jail. I tried to get him out and bring him home but I was too late.” Terry answered without making eye contact. Shame wouldn’t allow him to meet her potential judgment.

Patrice mentally cycled through names and faces until she realized the gravity of Terry’s statement. She reached out to breach their unspoken barrier and grabbed his hand which he accepted with no pushback.

“You wanna talk about it?” 

“Not really,” he answered before squeezing her hand and finally returning her eye contact. “I handled everything. It’s over for now. I’m here with you. We can focus on that.” 

“Even though you keep skipping how long you’ll stay.”

Patrice’s warmth was starting to take a backseat to her cold nature. Old wounds had started to re-open and rebuild a wall they both thought they’d successfully hurdled. Despite her attempt to pull her hand out of his grasp, Terry stayed put. He eyed her for a moment, picking up on a thin veil of tears threatening to form at her water line. 

She watched his normally steely blue-gray eyes soften into something that mirrored the softness he carried when they were kids. She couldn’t find the gumption to look away as he brought her knuckles up to his lips for a set of short kisses before looking back up at her. Pleading. Begging for any indication that she had softened her heart toward him. 

“Treecey, I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to say it. You meant more to me than the way I left and I pray every day for a chance to make it right. We crossed a line that night and I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t handle that like a man should have. I’m sorry until I’m blue in the face.” 

Sincerity was thick in his voice despite his low, even tone. 

Patrice listened without a word. A single tear cascaded down her face despite her valiant attempts to keep her emotions at bay. She swore she’d never cry about Terrence Richmond again. But old habits die hard. 

Terry used his free hand to swipe away that tear and the next one sitting at her lower lash line with the pad of his thumb.

“Say something,” he pleaded. “Anything. Tell me you hate me.” 

“You know I don’t hate you,” she whispered, too choked up to continue without a deep breath. “I…I just feel like you took a piece of me with you, you know? And you never wrote back. You never called. You shut me out like we were never friends. We could’ve gone back to how things were.” 

“I fucked that up.” 

“I’m aware. But that doesn’t mean that I trust you won’t do it again. No matter how much I don’t hate you, I’m not eighteen anymore. My patience is thin. I can’t allow you to turn my world upside down again.” 

“Hand to God I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“Yeah. I hope so.” Though she whispered, Patrice’s words sliced through Terry like a hot knife through butter. 

He hung his head in defeat as she pulled her hand from his grasp and made quick work of standing from the bench. Her footsteps retreated past him and to the back door until she paused. 

He looked over his shoulder to find her eyes closed and chin pointed to the sky in contemplative silence. This was it. The final blow. 

She took a deep breath and stared straight ahead. “Stay as long as you want. Junior’s living with his girlfriend now, so nobody’s coming to make you leave. Tomorrow, we can go get you some new clothes. I’m tired of looking at those raggedy t-shirts already.” 

Terry took her jab in stride and gave her a half smile as a sign of compliance. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.” 

“Mhm. Lock the door behind you when you come in.” 

“Good night, Treecey.” His farewell came in an annoyingly sweet voice as a last-ditch effort to drag some loving words from her. Patrice stopped and gave him one more once over and a dismissive eye roll.

He waited for the ghost of a smile that disappeared before he could blink. She shook her head and took a step inside the house.

“Shut up, Terry. Go to bed.” 

Terry hid his amusement until she was out of sight, leaving him alone to grin at how even her rebukes felt like love letters. 

“Shut up,” he repeated to himself as he closed his eyes to doze again. “Hm. I’ll take it.” 

TAGS: @planetblaque

Happy to tag whoever is interested.

[hollyhomburg]

Before I leave you (Pt.67)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: You and Hobi bury a dead body (That's a lie, Yoongi buries it for you).

Tags: blood, gore, body horror, death, dead bodies, everyone is pretty beat-up in this, brief implied self-harm but it's very quickly squashed- seriously it's nowhere near as bad as past scenes but i do have to tag it, Dissociation, tae is in the freeze part of fight or flight. hurt/comfort, mental breakdowns, flashbacks, discussions of past abusive relationships, everything is very fluffy until it's not,

W/c: 12.5k

A/N: Are you guys ready for Hoseok's secret reveal??? I'm really excited!!! But also terrified because this whole series has lead up to this point!!! A good number of people have already guessed his secret so congrats on getting it early <3

Previous part - Masterlist - First part

Jimin sits on the stairs going down to the basement. His arm in a sling and bandaged up to the elbow. It aches with every small movement he makes as he peals a tangerine. He hasn't had any narcotics in a few hours and they're starting to wear off.

Jimin needs all of his brain power for this; For covering up the murder.

The fewer things running through his system the less sluggish and fuzzy his thoughts are. Jimin picks his poisons and fewer things make him less coherent than the panic and pain and near constant avalanche of thoughts. Tae, Tae's hurt, Tae's-

Tae's fine, Tae's upstairs with Y/n. he has to remind himself of these facts every few breaths. Tae's going to be okay because you wouldn't let anything happen to her.

There is evidence of that virtually everywhere; In the lines across your hands that Yoongi had dabbed at with a cool cloth, the swollen side of your jaw that he'd cradled. The blood drenching the opposite side of your face that he'd tenderly washed away. Not to mention the blood on the kitchen table, the floor, the ceiling. The blood splattered across your nest-

You don't fuck with an omega's nest; you don't fuck with their packmates.

Jimin quiets his brain with a steady breath as he looks down at Yoongi, Jin, and the body between the three of them wrapped in plastic.

He manages to peel the tangerine in his hand despite how uncooperative his left hand is. Numb at the fingertips just like it’s been since the surgery.

Namjoon had stroked his fingers and tested their give every chance he got, holding onto them and prodding while they waited in the hospital room and then again when Jimin got discharged. He said that they’d probably get better. Probably.

Tae's going to be fine because Namjoon is there too- had checked out her head with that soft alpha grumble croon of his. The most soothing sound in the world, and yet incapable of soothing this.

But Jimin knows nothing’s for certain, he might never get the feeling in his hand back. (This is Jimin's penance; The reminder of these tangled few weeks and how things went will be ever present. The reminder will be the first press of every touch with his non-dominant hand. He will never regain full feeling to the tips of his fingers. Never).

There are a few of noodle paw prints in the dust here, Jimin's ass is no doubt covered in it too from resting on the rickety stairs that lead into the half-finished basement. Little paw print marks that would make you coo and take pictures if you were down here.

But you’re not, you’re upstairs getting the evidence washed off of you.

No one's in that kind of mood right now anyway. No one’s been in that kind of mood for a few hours (or a few days, if he’s being honest, from Jungkook’s seizure, to getting shot, and then coming home to a dead body in their living room).

It’s been 4 hours since you killed someone in the kitchen. 3 hours since Jimin was discharged prematurely from the hospital and the rest of the pack was summoned home via a disturbingly calm call from Jin.

It’s been a tangle of moments even for the people not on hard drugs. Jimin feels like he's doing pretty good at answering the pack’s questions given the circumstances. You'd never know that, given Yoongi's eye roll and Jin's heavy sigh.

"Minnie- we're not asking you how you would have killed him just how you'd cover it up."

They used an old shower liner to wrap the body before they carried it downstairs. It makes a squeaky noise against Jin's rubber gloves (The pink elbow-high ones that he uses to do the dishes) as he pulls back the plastic sheet to reveal what's left of the assassin's head and face.

“I already told you, I don’t know his face- not even a little.” I’d have a pretty hard time identifying his face with the state she left it in regardless Is what he doesn't say.

Jimin tucks his chin, unsettled to look at the man's half-blown apart face for long. "I think he might be the spider but I don’t know. I never met him, only heard his name in passing.”

A small tattoo on the man's wrist reveals as much. A small spider tattoo that someone going to have to cut out and bury separately. Someone's going to have to get all of his teeth too- no identifying marks. None.

He’s a little too impressed with the state you’d left him in when he thinks about it. But once he’d seen your face and Hobi’s neck, not an inch of Jimin had felt the kill wasn’t justified. The whole pack feels that way, he knows they must even though they don't say it. Everyone's a little bit in shock right now.

Even Namjoon hadn’t even given the body a second glance when the pack had tumbled into the house. The pack alpha had simply alternated his fussing from you to Hobi to tae and then Jin. Torn between who needed him first. It was the first words Jimin had heard you speak. Your wet gasp, blood that wasn't yours flashing on your teeth. "Joonie- Hobi needs you."

Namjoon had calmed only once he realized that most of the blood on the three of you was the man’s. Yoongi had a similar reaction and so had Jimin, clutching at Tae. Angry at his arm for its uncooperativeness. About ready to tug off his sling and his bandages and stitches if it meant holding tae easier. He'd even tried it, only to be on the receiving end of a disapproving pack alpha growel too.

“Jimin you can’t; your stitches.”

“Fuck my stitches hyung.”

Numb fingers meet numb faces.

He's a bit ashamed of it, but when he first looked up from Tae to you- where you sat crumpled in Yoongi's hold. Your mate laying down a volley of sweet nothings to you to get you to stop shaking. There was only one sentence running through his head.

That’s my girl.

He'd reached over and squeezed your hand, blood and all. That blood has dried now. Soaked into the lines of his palm. Coloring his fate and love lines all rusty while he eats the tangerine. He should probably wash his hands. All of them probably need too.

Jungkook had been the only one willing to speak, closing the door softly behind him, locking it and treading softly closer. Careful to sidestep both the pools of blood and the piece of a skull sitting next to the couch. He looked down at the 7 of you with a surprisingly calm expression on his face.

"Can't we have one normal fucking day?"

Jungkook was the one who’d gone to the kitchen and gotten one of the hand towels to clean your face. His lips tightened to a line when he wiped away the blood and started to see the bruising, the cut across your temple dripping fresh. Lower lip wobbling ever so slightly.

“Kookie-”

Jungkook had turned to Jin and Namjoon, “I don’t want to deal with the body hyung." His hands were already under your arms, lifting you up, helpless. "Help me get them upstairs. We need to-” he’d let out a frustrated noise. Instincts coming to the full front- instincts he rarely feels.

Who knew blood would incur Jungkook's grooming instincts?

The last time Jimin saw Jungkook; He was helping Namjoon and Yoongi herd the three of you upstairs for a much-needed shower. Hobi hadn't been able to do it under his own power. Namjoon had to carry him.

Hobi; who's choked on every word he's tried to speak. Whose eyes are still red from all the burst blood vessels. Who easily got the closest to dying out of the four of you.

Everyone shakes when they touch Hobi and everyone touches him softly. Namjoon just about snaps his teeth at anyone who tries to get close. His hands turning red from the cold of an ice pack wrapped gently around the alpha's throat.

Jimin knows Jungkook's a lot more unnerved than he lets on, shuffling from foot to foot as he bound Tae up with a towel, taking her delicately from Jimin's arms. Carrying her in the same way Namjoon carried Hobi.

Yoongi was all soft helping you upstairs. Speaking in that quiet voice that he saves for Sunday mornings and stolen moments of quiet. Every moment, all of this is stolen.

And now- the beta is down here, leaning over the body and looking at it like it will tell him something that you won't. After your initial demand that Namjoon he tend to Hobi; you haven't spoken a word. Neither has Tae. Jin's done all of the talking.

There isn’t much to say.

Jimin feels the numbness in his hands and looks at Jin. He hasn't apologized for the bullet yet. But the more time that passes the less Jimin wants an apology. Mating marks come in many forms. Jimin has a scar on his body from one of his omega's- so really? What does he have to be upset about?

The whole house needs to be deep cleaned, and then deep cleaned again. There's blood everywhere; on the couch, the ceiling, the curtains. It's a lot to clean. It's going to be a lot to hide.

That's the only reason why Jimin's not upstairs helping you and Tae clean up right now; the body is unfortunately the biggest threat to the pack's safety at the moment.

There’s a bloodstain on the stairs too, a droplet next to where Jimin sits. he makes a mental note of it but doesn't move to wipe it up. He puts a tangerine slice on his tongue and chews before he answers Yoongi’s next question.

“I don’t know how to dispose of a body, I never dealt with this part. My only job was to kill, not take care of them after. I know there’s a way that you can do it with soap.”

Jin snorts, “You only know that from breaking bad-“

Jimin’s a little miffed, “We already have a plastic tub upstairs-”

“Lye,” Yoongi corrects, looking down at the body before he stoops to retape the plastic over the man's face. It was a bitch to wrap him up, the body stiff and heavy from rigor Mortis. The blood beneath it bubbles and darkens, coagulating. Yoongi's long hair falls over his face and he tucks it behind his ear.

“We could use the soap, but it might take a few days.” Jin clarifies.

“Do you think we can wait that long?”

“Absolutely not,” Jin’s got a similar ice pack to his wrists, the skin there bruised and red and swelling where he fought to get free from the handcuffs, where he eventually ripped down the banisters and broke through them with brute strength and panic.

You’d found the keys on the man’s body soon after and released him from the handcuffs, they're wrapped up in the plastic along with the frying pan, the gun that killed him, and a few other items from the living room that were just too bloodstained, every big piece of evidence will lie right beside him where he rests.

Jimin eats another slice of the tangerine, and Jin shrivels his nose at it. “Isn’t that a little gross?”

Yoongi mirrors his disgust. “Yeah Minnie, weren’t those covered in blood?”

But Jimin just shrugs, “I washed it and peeled it hyung” And keeps eating. After a few days of hospital food, the tangerines taste divine.

Yoongi stands from where he’s kneeling on his knees with a faint crack. “One part kitty litter, two parts concrete should keep out the smell,” Jin says, eyeing the 6 by-six-foot hole in the basement's foundation, already there from the plumbing that needed replacing.

Most of Yoongi's tools are down here too. His scrap pile of wood and the dozen bags of concrete. His hack saw and his circular saw that none of them are looking at. Yoongi had only just fit in the plumbing a few weeks ago. He'd been about to re-pour the foundation anyway.

“I’d rather not have a body buried in our house.”

Yoongi touches Jin’s wrist, so feather-light, removing the ice pack to check the swelling to see if it’s gone down. Jin's left hand is just as useless as Jimin's, the knuckles bruised and ballooned.

“It’s just for a few weeks, we can deal with this once it’s all calmed down, but we absolutely can’t go try and bury it. Who knows what the neighbors heard?”

They're all silent at that, silent at the idea that these few hours might be the last few that the pack spends free.

But over the next few hours, there are no blue and red flashing lights outside or concerned neighbors that come knocking. Your one saving grace is that this all happened during the middle of the day and all of your nearest neighbors have nine to five's. Is it so simple to hope that everyone was just at work? That no one heard the gunshots over the nearby roar of the passing train?

(Maybe they're just too used to the pack next door; the one that has the noisy ruts and noisy noisy packmates. The one whose alphas have a habit of opening the windows in the back room and let the sound of their roughhousing and video games flood the street. The ones who have extra loud movie nights. They're just a bunch of kids, how harmful could they really be? At least the pack alpha and omega look respectable.)

It's a good thing that no one comes; because Namjoon has more important problems, more important things to handle beyond the body in the basement or the police at the door.

Namjoon’s hands cradle Hobi’s neck. He wheeze as he tries to speak, his mouth falling open. He's mostly clean, but a rusty trickle of water from his hair trails down his shoulders.

Jungkook tugged him into the shower first and gave him a rough clean before handing him back to Namjoon. They sit on a towel together on the edge of the nest. they only moved him in here to give him some privacy- to distract him because Hobi kept reaching for you. you'd kept reaching back, tae was already in the shower under the stream.

"Pup- your hands- you're going to hurt yourself."

The Nestroom is dark and quiet. Every single blind in the house is draw. Only the christmas lights illuminate Hobi's injuries. Namjoon will tend to Tae and then you after he's checked out Hobi's injuries. will send him downstairs with Jin for some cold water to soothe his throat once he's done. once he's been cleaned again probably.

Hobi was covered with the most blood, having been just under the man when Tae had blown his throat apart while you- Namjoon doesn't want to think of it, doesn't want to see it.

(Namjoon thinks of every moment, sees them behind every blink. Blink and he sees you sitting in his lap over breakfast squirming happily. Blink and you're kneeling in a bloody puddle looking up at him.

Blink and you're curled up in the nest wearing the first pajama pants he'd given you. Blink and he's watching Jungkook dab at your bloody cheek, blink and you're turning into his hand to nuzzle as he wakes you for sunday morning breakfast. Blink and there’s sunlight spilling across your face and blood slipping down your chin. Namjoon's smallest and most sensitive pup not so innocent anymore.)

Namjoon touches Hobi's throat with no small amount of reverence. it cools the anger in his throat. Namjoon's anger has no good place to go.

When Hobi closes his eyes, he sees it too; the explosion of the bullet and the splat of blood pouring down his face. The shower earlier felt so similar- he almost couldn't handle it. He had to concentrate on Jungkook's voice narrating everything.

"Here Hobi, I'm gonna use some soap now. I like Tae's body wash. You know she always just picks whatever bottles are pinkest because she wants all her toiletries to match. It smells good, doesn't it? Can you take a deep breath for me? Through your nose?"

Endless meaningless Jibber jabber to distract all of them.

Now he shivers and shakes in Namjoon's hold. One part terror and one part near frostbite. Namjoon turns the heat up but Hobi still shakes as Namjoon checks his throat. "Open for me baby- that's a good boy."

He flashes a light down there, listening with his stethoscope. The cold metal end of it presses against his collarbones and the bruises too. Finger-shaped that lace over his jugular like a collar. Over Hobi's heart. Every thump ba-thump ba-thump music to Namjoon's ears.

Namjoon’s growl is soothing as he scoots closer to gather the injured alpha close to his chest. Shushing Hobi as he tries to speak for the dozenth time in the last hour. “Don’t try it, careful- I don’t think he did any lasting damage but-”

Namjoon breaks and his forehead drops to Hoseok’s shoulder, fingers rub out soothing circles on Hobi's wrist even as he starts to cry. Namjoon already stitched up the deep puncture wound there. He had to hold his wrist still as he dabbed the stingy antiseptic, the impulse to pull it away too great. The wound wasn't from a bullet but from the piece of the door that embedded itself in Hobi’s wrist. Blown apart the way he could have been.

Namjoon was so close to losing everything, to losing them.

The bruises, Hobi’s eyes, and his little raspy breaths. Everything both punishment and payment for every violent thing Namjoon wants to do. He feels powerless to do more than hold the smaller alpha right now. The strength in his arms doing little to protect Hobi from the hurts he's already nursing. Hoseok leans his head on Namjoon's shoulder and Just lets the alpha hold him.

If he’d come home to the four of you dead what would he have done? more accurately- What wouldn’t he have done?

Namjoon imagines it- the same way he's imagined it thousands of times. Tae's blood on her lips as pretty as any lip stain. Jin on the floor, his little big love wrapped up in permanent stillness like a mating shroud. Your body turned small and quiet the way you'd been when he'd met you- only so much worse. Hobi with his heart slow and absent of his near-constant music. Bodies stiff as statues, turned alters meant to worship both grief and love.

He’d probably have demanded Jimin and Yoongi tell him everything they knew. And then he’d have gone hunting.

Namjoon lets out a shaky breath and pulls away from Hoseok only to continue dabbing at his wounds. The violence of his alpha's instincts calmed by the sanctity of this- of making it better. of being gentle even when namjoon wants to be anything but.

Hoseok’s mute. Throat too swollen to make more than a soft hissing sound on command. Vocal cords not damaged just swollen. Leaving his brain to hurdle through the last few hours. Eyes closed but his mind wide open.

He sees it all behind his eyes; your hand descending with the frying pan, the explosion of wood near his head. The splat of hot blood against the wood floor. Gasping and getting blood in his mouth accidentally. Choking in it- drowning a little. Everything. The sting of smoke on his eyes. Your words ring in his ears like the final notes of a symphony.

“You can take me. I’ll go with you. Willingly. That’s what she wants isn’t it?”

Hoseok’s brain teases through what you might have meant with that. The unnamed she that you mention. Who, why, and what aren’t you telling them? Is it the woman that Yoongi talked to you about before?

He's unable to say anything to Namjoon even as the alpha softy cradles his damaged throat. Unable to even whisper it out through the swelling that threatens to cut off Hobi's airway. It feels like he's breathing through a straw. Namjoon says he's not going to choke, that it only feels that way. The panic is hard to let go of.

But who do you have to go back to there? You've never talked about the family like you wanted them, like they were your pack. Who have you run from? What monsters are here to haunt you? Who is after you? Or is it something darker- more sinister?

Maybe Hoseok's heart has never truly healed from Yoongi leaving them. Maybe a wounded heart remembers. Yoongi always had them to go back to that Hoseok had never questioned. But he's never wondered about you or stopped to consider that maybe, Yoongi's not the only one who left something.

The family doesn't exactly seem like something you can walk away from unscathed. Yoongi managed it, but Jimin didn't.

Hoseok should warn Namjoon, should tell someone but- it's impossible. His airway protesting with an agonizing twinge with every attempt he makes at speaking. He wonders if this is what being nonverbal felt like for you.

The pain pulses dully without adrenaline to dilute it as Namjoon so lovingly examines the marks, again and again. But he shouldn't be spending so much time. You and Tae are bruised and battered too- even if Hoseok’s are by far the worst; you need tending to.

Jin’s hands. Your face. Tae’s head. Hoseok’s throat. Each of you has lost the thing most necessary to your survival.

Hoseok thinks of the body, not the one that sits downstairs, but the one that you found months ago in the ocean. Maybe this wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe none of this was. How far back do the coincidences go? Between Jin and Yoongi who wouldn't have a relationship to stand on without Yoongi's family- how many other things in the pack are because of this?

Hoseok struggles to speak, to talk to Namjoon about what you'd almost done, what you'd almost bartered- but nothing but air comes out, and the pack alpha shushes him. His hands grip Namjoon's shoulders hard.

Namjoon wishes he had more than just numbing cream and sutures for Hobi’s hurts. Jimin’s already offered up some of his opioids for Hobi to sleep and as much as Namjoon hates the idea of anyone swapping medication- Hobi might actually need them.

Jimin’s doctor had been a little bit liberal with them, sure that his 6 on the pain scale had to be at least a 9. He could spare one or two. The truth is that nothing hurts more than this- seeing the people that you love in pain. Jimin and Namjoon save their 10s for days like this.

With the blood cooling, Namjoon’s anger has nowhere to go. The body in the basement has already gone cold.

In the quiet of the house they can audibly hear Seokjin and Yoongi start mixing the concrete. The dull scrape of a shovel against a bucket and the sound of a faucet dripping.

Namjoon wipes at Hobi’s throat, and Hoseok tries again- futile in his efforts to speak. Namjoon shushes him.

In the basement it goes; drip, scrape, drip.

~-~

Jungkook holds Tae up underneath the warm spray of water. The glass is foggy in places and clear and others, occasional spots of red water joining the constellation of them. She rests against Jungkook's chest, her body is prone and almost lifeless. Eyes vacant and glassy.

So shaky and tired as her body rockets down from its adrenaline high. A drop so abrupt that she could hardly hold herself up. A drop so terrifying that Jungkook must do it for her.

He doesn't mind, none of him minds as he cradles the back of her head oh so gently. Tae flinches, whether from pain or the sudden movement. Jungkook meets Jimin's eyes through the foggy glass and then yours. Biting his lower lip before Jimin nods and tells him to keep going.

Evidence is evidence. Washing off can’t wait.

Jimin has joined you upstairs with the body already packed away and on its way to being buried under the foundation of the house. Jimin watches on from outside the shower as he instructs Jungkook in a quiet voice on how to clean Tae of evidence properly. He's been quiet since then. Staring at them while Tae stares blankly back.

You watch them from where you sit. Mostly you just watch Tae. When Namjoon's body doesn’t block your view. He stitches the gash on your forehead, hands pulling the sutures closed in a gentle and practiced way. The pass of the needle through your skin a distant sensation.

The wounds on your hands are in that awkward place of not being deep enough for stitches but still a little too deep to not need something. After a brief debate, Namjoon sealed them with a bit of non-surgical glue that stung terribly and then regular gauze over the top.

Your hands are swelling and clotting. Scabbing although trying to touch anything is too painful. Closing your fingers at all hurts. Namjoon holds you so lightly it hardly feels like he's holding you at all.

Namjoon apologizes after every wince.

The second he’s done he tosses his suture kit into the bathroom sink with a clang the second he’s done. Namjoon gets on his knees before you. The plastic that covers the whole bathroom crackling as he does.

Jimin had the great idea to cover the bathroom with sheets of plastic to cut down on the cleanup. Hoseok's bloody footprints join Tae's trailing from the doorway to the shower. Join the trail that you left. Parts of you are still dripping.

"It's going to scar," Namjoon says, a little sadly. Thumb skimming over the mark on your forehead.

You swallow hard. You still taste blood. You want to brush your teeth; you want to shut the lights off and go to sleep. You want Noodle and you want Yoongi you want everything from the past few hours- the past few years to be gone and over with. You want-

You want to snap at him and tell him that it doesn't matter that it will scar. That you're covered with scars already and you don't care but-

Namjoon kisses your forehead. A lingering brush. The one spot that's not bloody.

You look over at Tae and her eyes flicker blankly to you. Jungkook keeps bringing the boar bristle brush up and down her back in soothing little circles.

When you turn back to Namjoon he's pursing his lips and blinking away tears as he looks down at your hands. You resist the urge to say you’re sorry. You’re not sure what for. The terrible feral hunger in you gone as quick as it's come.

Namjoon’s fingers wrap around the hollow of your knees, and you meet his eyes, even though you don’t want to. It feels too much like a confession already.

“I’m going to say this now, before you get any ideas; This is not your fault and I am not mad at you and Tae for doing what you did-”

“Namjoon-”

He continues on, words rushing out. “I’m proud of you pup, so proud. I’m sorry that I wasn’t here. I promise I won’t disappoint you again as pack alpha-” You cover his mouth with your hand, gauze and all.

The bit of gauze over your palm is already turning bloody. It's hard to tell if it's your blood or if it's his. You’re the last one to shower. The last one to get clean. Namjoon shouldn’t be touching you at all.

And yet he does, yet he cradles your face, brushes the tears from your cheeks, gets blood on his hands. Evidence is evidence, but love has a steeper sort of price if you don't express it when you can.

When you take your hand away, Namjoon doesn’t try to speak again. someone says something that you don't hear, that you can't hear.

Namjoon stands and when you look up, Jungkook has the shower door open for you.

Because the bandages and the glue on your hands can’t get wet Namjoon binds your hands with Ziplock bags and duct tape. The plastic rustles, and you follow Hobi's bloody footprints into Jungkook’s arms. Namjoon closes the door behind you.

Every bit of plastic is going to get melted down later, until all the blood and terror evaporates through something as simple and trivial as fire. Fire will cleanse it of all evidence, as sure as the burning water you step under.

You're not quite sure what you're going to do about the bullet holes in the walls or the blown-apart door to the upstairs bedroom, but Yoongi’s always had a handle on the home improvement stuff.

Jungkook helps you disrobe off your bloodied clothing. Lifting your shirt over your head and stooping, telling you to hold onto his shoulders so that he can take off your sweatpants. You're pretty sure they're Yoongi's but there's no time to get sentimental as he puts them inside a garbage bag along with Tae's and Hobi's clothes.

Everything on your person is evidence. When you look back Namjoon's gone, summoned by Jin's distant call from downstairs. It's just Jimin outside of the shower. watching you, but mostly watching Tae.

You’d be more self-conscious of your nude body if your brain wasn’t still racing. It’s hard to do much with the bags on your hands. But Jungkook squirts out a healthy dollop of your favorite shampoo and gets to work once the conditioner is in Tae’s hair. She sits like a discarded ball-jointed doll on the built-in bench. Her long hair hair stuck like a sheet over her eyes.

Nothing is as important as making sure you’re not found out. And the frothy shampoo turns rusty around Jungkook's fingers. You have to have a lot of blood on your face. All the water that rolls off of you goes pink.

Jungkook is gentle even by your hairline scratching against your scalp with his fingers. The skin there is tender. Namjoon taped a bit of gauze over the sutures too. You don't remember when he did that.

You make a noise. “Too rough?” his voice has something unreadable in it, something soft and concerned.

You don't respond because Yoongi makes his reappearance at the doorway. The black shirt he wears is dusty at the front from the concrete. His eyes single focused on you the second he enters the room. You stare at him the way that Tae stares at Jimin. Jungkook just huffs and pulls you a little more snugly against his chest.

Tae stands in the corner of the shower, still staring at Minnie. Minnie who stares back, practically not blinking. Both of their anguish are hidden behind glass. Like fish in tanks that could never get out. Not really.

Part of Tae gets washed away down the drain. Swirling and gurgling down and down with no one to notice.

Tae stares off blankly into space. Sometimes Jimin talks to her and sometimes he hums through the glass, he'd be in there too if his bandages couldn't get wet either. If Namjoon hadn’t yanked him back from the doorway and told him that he couldn't.

Jungkook takes the boar bristle brush to your body too. Everything has to be scrubbed multiple times until your skin feels nearly raw from it. Tae’s fingernails, her arms, your neck, the side of your face, the hollow at the inside of your arms. Your knees. Everywhere.

He apologizes when he goes over bruises, wincing, clutching you a little tighter, a little closer to make up for the pain. But Jungkook is meticulous as he cleans of evidence until you feel groomed clean. Until there’s no more blood swirling down the drain just clear water, and the light outside has turned pearly and blue in the twilight.

Tae's still silent. She's been quiet beyond the occasional heartbreaking whimper since you both killed that man. Eventually, You push at Jungkook's hands with a pointed look in her direction where she's slumped and he goes with a soft nod. Two omega's taking care of their alphas.

Jungkook’s delicate with Tae’s head, gentle in the way he cradles the bruising, half hidden by her hair. Washing out the conditioner with a quiet hum. Namjoon had diagnosed her with a concussion pretty quickly, it's not a crack in her skull plate but she's not going to go putting her hair up in a bun any time soon.

Jungkook alternates from you to Tae. One moment you're standing, the next Jungkook is taking you up gently from the floor and Yoongi is at the glass, hand on the door- looking at you anxiously. Letting out a volley of cursing. You can't remember the last time you heard him use language like that.

"Hyung she's fine- she's just slippery, I've got her."

Their voices are so soft and grave and so quiet. Or is it just that you can’t hear it? Why are their voices so far away and muffled? Sometimes Yoongi is here and sometimes he isn't. Sometimes Jungkook is holding you, talking to Namjoon about something, and other times he and Yoongi are talking. Keeping their voices low. Your ears ring. It's so loud it deafening.

“Do you need me to take over?” Yoongi asks Jungkook. Jungkook has blood on his feet, from you or Tae you’re not sure, it soaks the hair there. Jungkook’s got hairy fucking feet for an omega- you’re not sure why you’re concentrating on it. Why you’re noticing all these things now. Cataloging little things about them like you might never get the chance to notice them again.

Your heart beats quick, fear still consuming you even though the danger has passed. You look down at the tiled floor and the room spins.

You don’t feel a thing when you close your eyes. You don’t feel anything when you think of the man that you just killed. You don’t feel anything but roaring, like the crashing of the ocean or the sound when you lift your ear to a shell. The hearing in your left ear where the gun went off feels…off, muffled. You put your hand up to toy with it and freeze when you realize it isn't right.

"Guys" You paw at your ear. But they don't seem to hear you.

"No, I've got them.”

“We need to clean up the downstairs. Kookie, where do you keep the oxyclean?”

"Guys"

They still don't hear you. Maybe you're not making a sound at all just mouthing the words. Your movement gets Tae's attention and her eyes focus for the first time in hours. Slumped on the bench, her hand grips the tiled edge hard as she tries to stand but can't. Jungkook hands Yoongi something through the steam, the black trash bag full of bloody clothes.

The notice Tae trying to get to you first. she hits the floor with a small thud and tugs her way over to you. You make a noise in your throat- a distressed chirp that makes the alphas flinch. Tae cups your cheek as you dig your finger in, slippery from the plastic- and pull something small and fleshy out of your ear.

It's soft and squishy. A curved piece of pink and white brain matter. A little bloody but bleached from the water.

You try to stand to your feet but teeter, shaking, staring down at the chunk of person that you just got out of you, that was just in you.

For a second, no one says anything, but then-

“That’s so fucking gnarly.” Your head jerks up in Jungkook’s direction.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Tae actually does look a little green, but it's good to hear her voice at the very least. She hauls herself over to the drain and starts to dry heave.

"Oh tae don't-" the sound of vomit hitting the floor joins the sound of the shower. You don't look at her. just at the lump of person in your hand.

"Someone please take it from me," Jimin is already there opening the glass door and holding out a cloth for you to place it in.

Yoongi presses his hands to the glass as he watches you struggle to grab the brush that Jungkook was using on you from the floor after finally getting your feet under you. Jungkook is torn, his hand on Tae's shoulder as she wretches turning from her to you like he doesn't know what to do or who to help first.

You don't care about the state of your hands you just need to get clean. You Ignore the twinge of pain in your hands as you try and get the bottle of body wash open. Ripping off the plastic bags that cover your hands when you can't unclick the cap immediately. frustrated and panicking. You ignore Jimin calling your name. The gauze falls to the floor with a wet thwack and you take the boar bristle brush to your hands. Cuts and all.

Big hands stop you. Hands that dwarf yours. Hands that you'd know blind.

Yoongi's standing under the spray fully clothed, the water pinning down his hair and quickly soaking him. His hands tangling with yours, taking the brush from you. Wordless as he grabs your wrists and jerks you forward hard.

He holds on until you stop shaking. resting against his chest. guiding your face to his scent gland. "Take a deep breath for me now sweetheart- there you go- just like that."

Jungkook doesn't say anything and neither does Jimin, not as Yoongi starts to wash you again. Jungkook just stoops to lift Tae and place her back on the bench. She goes easy, limp, and doll-like. But she's almost done- she's almost clean. Tae pushes at Jungkook’s shoulders.

"I’m fine. I need to wait for the nausea to pass before I try getting out of here.”

With you, it's going to take a little longer.

Jungkook has already shampooed your hair, but he does it again. The telltale signs of rusty red in the peach-scented shampoo. Bubbling orange-pink. Yoongi does it slower, gentler- it feels more normal. Like the slow loving you're used to.

“Do you ever feel like-” your voice is a little crackly from all the screaming you did earlier. You hate how the terror makes you not remember all the details. Did you make any sound while you killed him? Did you say anything through the rage?

The others are looking at you but you have eyes for just Jimin. his hand tightens to fists, knuckles pressed against the glass. eyes darkening ever so slightly. “Do you ever not feel guilty? About killing people Minnie?”

You are nude, as bare as you’ve ever been before him, it's hard to be self-conscious about it. Maybe this would be a little sexier- showering with Tae and Jungkook and Yoongi with an audience if you weren't literally trying to cover up a very violent murder.

You remember the words Jimin had said to you weeks ago now. “Would you kill for me?” “I’d do worse” you wonder if this qualifies as worse. You can’t imagine what would be much worse than this.

Jungkook's hands are rough as they massage a bit of soap down your back but instead of being comforting, it feels like you’re going to vibrate out of your skin.

Jimin hums. Eyeing Tae still sprawled on the built-in bench. Jimin gathers his thoughts before he speaks. “In my contract, at the beginning-” He starts but cuts off as you start to slip. Jungkook's hands find you, helping Yoongi hold you up more properly. Your mate doesn't let Jungkook take you entirely just moves a bit to the side to give him space. Any other day you'd love to be in the middle of a yoonkook sandwich but-

“Your contract?” he nods, blond hair bobbing. Yoongi meticulously removes the dried blood from under your fingernails, careful to hold your glue sutures out of the direct spray.

“I specified that I’d only ever kill bad people. of course I got a little lazier after I got used to it." He shoots an anxious glance in Tae's direction, but she's still just sitting. "But at the beginning, I’d go back and look through their files to try to find out what they’d done to warrant a hit getting taken out on them. I couldn’t always find a reason but most of the time I did."

You can see it in his face, that Jimin doesn't want to say that they deserved it. Because if they deserved a violent ending then you could say the same about the 8 of you. Jungkook's hands get a little close to the nape of your neck and you turn to him and snap.

"Don't scruff me."

"Sorry." You need it. Is what he doesn't say.

“Most of the time it was worth it?” You cling to his words. With Geumjae you’d never had to guess if he deserved it or not but this-

Jimin’s eyebrows are brought into a hard line, “Karma is a fickle thing. Sometimes it never comes but-” his eyes are downcast, "Sometimes it's a good thing, being the karma."

You sit quietly, digesting his words. Your lower lip trembles, and you don’t know if you feel terrible or better when the tears just won’t come. Yoongi delicately cradles your body, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and pulling you back against his chest.

“Yoongi.”

“Let me hold you for a minute.” You do, body sagging under the weight of your exhaustion.

Tae teeters in Jungkook’s hold, but she pushes against his hands weakly when he tries to make her stand again. Her voice sounds warbly and fragile when she shakes her head. “I’m still dizzy.”

He tries to guide her gently back to the bench, but she doesn't make it that far. Pushing away his hands when she descends to the marble floor. Closer to the wall, Closer to Minnie who mirrors her, falling to the floor too. Getting as closer to her as he can without being in the shower.

Jimin lets out a sad and bitter-sounding laugh and Tae smiles in reply while Jungkook and Yoongi share an anxious glance over your head.

He's still grinning, words twisting, eyes shining with sorrow and fondness. “You couldn’t wait 24 hours until you had to make it even, didn’t you?”

Tae closes her eyes as her smile twists and she starts to cry “Where you go, I go. We’re the same now Minnie.” Jimin doesn't mean to ask what she means. He knows.

If you're a killer I'm a killer. If you're damned, I'm damned. Even though neither of them believes in God or heaven or damnation. Not really. Not anymore. It's very half-hearted.

(I don't know if it's worth wondering if the people you love are bad people, I think when worse comes to worse, you just put the heaviness down and keep on loving them anyway).

Jimin’s eyes are soft on her, the way that they only ever are with Tae. He places his hand on the glass fogging around his fingertips. She doesn’t match his hands, just leans her cheek against it. Love is only a thin layer of glass away.

You know it hurts her a little bit, must make the dysphoria a little harder to breathe through, to let Jimin and Jungkook see her like this; just the long hair and nothing delicate to cloth her soul in. A soul that now you’ve irreparably tarnished.

A soul that is damaged beyond repair now thanks to you.

It is your fault. All of this is because of you. all of this pain and anguish and damage is because of the choices you've made. the stupid idiotic childish choices. If you'd never needed it- if you'd just been strong enough- Tae could have been whole. Tae could have been unharmed. Hobi and Jin too- if you’d just-

Back at the hospital, Tae had so many questions about Jimin’s job, so many questions about when and where, and why. But she finds her head empty of them in the aftermath. She has no desire to learn anything else about Jimin’s job. Not now that she knows what killing feels like.

Tae is never going to be able to look at red nail polish the same way again.

Jungkook reaches over and turns off the water.

~-~

Eventually, you finish washing. Wrapped up in fluffy white towels that will have to be burned too. The house smells like bleach and gunpowder. It covers everything.

Even the noodle is looking a little more grubby than usual when he zips by, meowing for someone to give him attention. You hear the saw going and you know that Yoongi is cutting the bullet holes out of the walls while the others clean up the blood.

Your skin feels pink and sensitive were the towel brushes as you go looking for pajamas, you'll get some for the others too. Later, Jin will fuss and ask to put some cream on you. Will massage it in something of an apology and pretend that Yoongi isn't going over the whole house with a blacklight to spot any errant blood splatters.

Later Yoongi will take a wood scraper to the floorboards where the man died, will rip them up, and burn them in the house's ancient fireplace just to be sure that no one finds any evidence.

You'll all pretend that Tae doesn't shake through a panic attack when you have an informal dinner in the nest. jin's rule of "no food in the nest" broken for this. You'll all pretend that Hoseok won't choke choking on all but the smallest sips of water. You'll all pretend. You're good pretenders, good liars too.

Later, Jin will put cream on your skin and dot it all with kisses, the swelling in his hands won't take too long to go down. You'll get the love and You won’t deserve a single second of it.

You don't know how you fooled yourself into thinking you ever deserved it. The last 8 months have been stolen. Not earned.

The one-year anniversary of Geumjae's death comes and passes as you go to the top of the stairs in your towel, Ears straining to hear what's going on downstairs.

There is a lot of talking going on downstairs, between Yoongi, Namjoon, and Jin. About what to do, and how to handle this. Hushed voices kept mostly out of earshot. And other more dangerous questions get asked, with equally as dangerous answers.

One of Jimin's guns sits on the kitchen counter through all of it. No one moves to put it away. They're not sure when they're next going to need it and they'd rather not get caught off guard again.

“I could talk to some people- call them. Some people owe me favors, There has to be some section of the family that doesn’t want her too-“

"Absolutely Not, I am not having you get into some weird ass mafia debt"

"Yeah, jailcell orange is so not your color hyung"

“We stay quiet. For the next 48 hours- it’s likely no one will know what happened. They’re too hurt- we need some time to regroup and think.”

Hobi’s voice is absent from the fray. You hear something quite like he's trying to speak, and someone shushing him softly. Namjoon says that his swelling won’t go down enough to talk until tomorrow. You hear the sound of someone opening the refrigerator to get ice.

The door to the bedroom has been blown apart, and a flurry of bullet holes chewed through the top corner. It sits off its hinges and in two pieces.

You remember watching Yoongi paint the door, sitting at the bottom of the stairs while he worked at the top of it and painted it to match the wallpaper in the staircase, a dark cobalt blue. You remember all of it, every little thing you watched him do to make this house into something worthwhile. To make it into a home and now it's riddled with bullet holes and stained with blood.

It's funny, you hardly remember every little thing he did for you, to make you worthwhile.

You have always been a reminder that you don't make houses out of abandoned buildings, and mates out of monsters that bite.

The water has turned the cuts on your hands white and gummy when you look down at them in the closet room. They’re already oozing, not bleeding, it will be at least a day or two until you can touch anything without discomfort. Namjoon will scold you ever so gently later and re-do your bandages.

The pink curtains are drawn already to keep out any wandering eyes from the outside. This is a dressing room after all. The whole room feels like a blush-toned jewel box and you, the one piece of cheap costume jewelry at the center.

You get up and shut the door before you sit on a small poof- something silky and tufted that Jimin had gotten Tae right after she'd come out.

You sit in your towel and look down at your wounds. Thinking about Tae's concussion. Jin's wrists. Hobi's throat. Both of their blank looks and the violence of death and trying to live. You think it all through, every possible ending to this before you pick up your phone and dial Her number.

Moonbyul picks up on the first ring. It’s like she’s been waiting for your call.

“Did you like your courting present pup?”

Your throat is dry and you don’t know exactly what to say, even less how to say it. She hums at your silence, an alpha's imitation of a purr. Waiting until your quietness builds to a frantic pulse.

In the pack, you've always been the one with the best survival instincts. Geumjae made you this way. Although the pack has spent the last few months trying to heal you; deep down you know you've never been anything more than a scared animal. Fight or Flight. Freeze or fawn.

Bullet to bullet. Tooth to tooth. Heartbeat to heartbeat. This time is different. This time you have something worth protecting.

You stand, no longer able to sit. There is a noise at the door, and you wait with bated breath for someone to come in. They don't come. But you stand and move farther inside. Hoping that the distance will disguise the sound of your whispered conversation.

She continues when it becomes clear you're struggling to speak. “I’ve got another one on the way. Hyejin’s here, wanna say hello? You’re on speaker.”

“Pup,” she giggles, and you feel like you might vomit. It’s a struggle really, not to end the call right there, not to let the fear overtake you. “We haven’t heard back from Spider yet, and I have a feeling someone’s been a little naughty.”

You lift the curtain to look outside, the train chugs past and the cars flit by like the fast small birds searching for seed in the snow. The whole world is grey and flat. The sky is orange from the lights of the city reflecting the clouds. The trees bare of all but a few crumbly leaves. It’s strange how all at once, the train is all you can look at. All you can think about.

You think about hoseok, the night at the train tracks where he stopped you from leaving. When he asked you to stay.

“Tell me what I need to do. Tell me what I need to do to get you to stop this, please.” Your voice sounds off, even for you. Too flat, strange even to your ears.

“I’m afraid we’re too far along for that.”

"Please, please Moonbyul-" You turn, pacing back towards the door. Past Tae’s clothes, past yours, past Jungkook’s, past the alcove where Hobi hangs his sweatshirts for you. You pause there. Looking at them.

“You said- you said when it was over you’d give me anything I wanted. Well I want them alive. Even if-"

Your voice is so shaky, you're careful to make sure you're not overheard. The pack is in the other room, just downstairs. You can hear the distant hum of their sweet voices; the people you love always sound like a melody. Your absence hasn’t been noticed yet.

"Even if I’m not here.”

For once they’re silent on the other end of the line. It’s a full silence, filled with one part lust and one part hunger. Both of them are like Noodle playing with a mouse. Waiting for the right time to drive their teeth in and end this game.

But even mice have teeth. Your hand is holding your phone so hard that the plastic makes your bones ache and your cuts bleed fresh.

“If you don’t let them live, I'll never stop fighting. But if you want me to be willing- If you want me to be your pup the way I think you do."

You can’t even close your hand into a fist with how wrecked your hands are. They hurt with every clumsy movement. you hold the phone. Your every heartbeat lurching with the horror of what you're doing.

I can’t lose them; I can’t be the reason why they die. They'll keep sending people until we're all dead unless I do something.

“All of them, all of them need to be safe, Jimin- you need to let him go of his contract and let him go back to living a normal life and you need to not punish Jin for working for the FBI.” Your words rush over themselves. "Leave my pack alone and I’ll be obedient. I'll be yours. I’ll never try and go back to them again. I won’t ever try and leave. I promise.”

Moonbyul and Hyejin are silent on the other end of the phone. You wait for a few moments. They must be looking at each other, deliberating.

Everything in this room aches. The closet bedroom that Yoongi made he made for you. The wainscotting just so. Everything in this house was crafted with an equal amount of love.

It was never meant to be yours forever, you’ve been keenly aware of this fact since the moment you met Yoongi. Since the moment you met his eyes across the dining room table and the moment his teeth met your skin. Borrowed things don't belong, they never do. Good things do not last. You only get them for as long as you get them and not a moment longer.

You're looking at Hobi's sweatshirts, in the alcove where he stacks them for you to take when Moonbyul and Hyejin respond.

“We'll agree to those terms, but remember their safety depends on your performance."

"You have 24 hours to get to us pup. Make them count.”

The dial tone drones like a funeral drum.

~-~

(Hoseok, a few years prior)

The backroom at the record shop is cramped with all sorts of things from a bygone era;

A mini fridge with a decrepit desktop computer and logbook balanced atop it. Pictures and bulletins glued to the wall from the 1960's. A greasy coffee machine piled high with bags of expired tea. A cramped spot for employees to hang their coats and a yellowing old table with a pair of chairs; both occupied by people also out of place. a beta that has a thing for 1980's rap and an alpha with a broken heart who admittedly loves 2010's pop.

A poster of some glittery showgirl omega from the 20s bats her eyelashes down at Hoseok as he has a mental breakdown. Offering neither comfort nor absolution nor love.

Maybe if he'd been born an omega like that, it would have been easier. Maybe they'd have wanted him then.

Yoongi's hands rub down Hoseok's shoulder, his back, places only lovers have touched. Up and down. An endless circle. An ouroboros of affection nibbling Hoseok's fickle heart. Hoseok aches harder with every passing moment.

Yoongi looks at the clock as Hoseok continues to sob. The shop should be open right now but Yoongi won't let it. It can go out of business for all he cares. As long as no one makes Hoseok get up from this chair before he's ready.

Beta instincts are fickle things, but Yoongi has always had a third sense. Something in him always knows if people are trustworthy and if they need him. Something in their scents or faces or eyes- like small planets reflecting the cosmos back to them. Do planets bear life only when someone is willing to look for them? Do people only deserve help when they're willing to ask for it? or is it like this?

Eventually, Hoseok gets his breath back in his chest and his sobs quiet down. His eyes open bloodshot. All sadness has an expiration date (thankfully). Yoongi's hand slides down his arm and gives his hand a firm squeeze (and stays there).

It's the first time someone's touched Hoseok without wanting something in God knows how long but he's too sad to properly appreciate it or savor it. (Yoongi doesn't want anything from him that Hoseok wouldn't willingly give. Doesn't want anything but his smile. fuck- he's just a co-worker, isn't he?). Who knows when the next touch like this might come? (Yoongi is going to hold his hand tomorrow because Yoongi likes holding people's hands, Jin will give him the tacit permission to do that at least. But all of the pack are keenly aware that Hoseok needs time to heal, no matter how obvious Yoongi's crush and Hoseok's needs).

(Hoseok is definitely not just Yoongi's coe-worker at this point, but saviors come from all sorts of unlikely places)

Eventually Hoseok's sobs quiet and Yoongi sighs, pulling back. He takes one look at hoseok's red nose and pale cheeks and puffs up. "I'm making your hot chocolate and you're going to tell me what's happened."

He gets up like he needs something to do. Like he's tired of taking care of Hoseok. He doesn't take it personally, he's tired of it too.

“My mates they- they kicked me out of our den,” Hoseok confesses. Yoongi's got two mugs in his hands, they thud against the counter when he reaches into one of the cabinets.

It’s warm in here but Hoseok is still thankful for the sweatshirt the beta gave him. Not only for its warmth but for the layer of scent it provides; It’s soaked with the smell of chocolate. So comforting and heavenly that it makes Hoseok a little dizzy when he tucks his nose into it and takes a hefty sniff when Yoongi's got his back turned.

Hoseok was never given the other pack's items, never allowed or encouraged to indulge in their scents. They never asked for his either.

Yoongi hangs both their jackets above the radiator in the back so that they’ll dry faster. He bears an impressive bite mark on his arm, visible because of his short-sleeved shirt. It's bruised just ever so slightly- an alpha bite but not a mating bite because betas don't mate. A mark like that on him is as good a claim as any. Even with the other scents that cling to the sweatshirt.

Hoseok hasn’t known him long, but they’re friends even if they’ve never met up outside of work. You can't not be friends with someone you spend upwards of 30 hours a week with.

Yoongi just hums. "Have you been with them long?"

Hoseok appreciates that Yoongi doesn't use the past tense, his heart too tender around the idea of endings. Some part of him is unconvinced that it really is over. A stubborn heart for a stubborn alpha.

His hair is starting to dry when he nods. "It's been a few years." Hoseok bites his lip, "I could lie and say I didn't see signs but-" his hands end up in his hair, elbows leaning against the creaking yellow table. Tugging a little. "I'm so fucking stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid," Yoongi says, hand on the back of his head. warm rough fingers. Touching him ever so briefly as he passes to put the milk back in the mini-fridge. "It's not stupid to want to find more love where you got it."

But in truth, There's not much more than Yoongi can say. Not much more that he knows to say. He'd never met Hoseok's pack. Whereas Namjoon and Jimin and the pups have a general tendency to linger around Yoongi person at all hours and locations. Stopping by to drop off coffee or just to make funny faces at him through the window when they're on their way to work. Yoongi has never met his co-worker's pack and has never seen much evidence at all on him beyond some vague hints of scents.

That alone is enough of a hint; usually, when people have packmates they're soaked in their scents. Visceral claims to keep any wandering eyes wandering still. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't wondered why Hoseok didn't wear his packmate's scents.

It’s not like the alpha smells bad at all- a little strong sure, but less genetically dominant alphas tend to smell a little sweeter like omegas.

At least that’s what Namjoon says when he feels like info dumping. Late at night when the pack asleep around them and only Yoongi's stayed up to listen. Because Yoongi likes the sound of Namjoon's voice when he gets into the details. Stroking across Namjoon’s bare chest just to feel the alpha's words rumble against his fingertips. His heartbeat against his ear the backtrack for all of it.

Whoever Yoongi’s pack is; they surely love him a lot. That much has been evident since the second that Hoseok met him. Evident in the packed bento boxes and the bunny-eyed omega that walks with him to work sometimes. Or in the tall omega and alpha pair that Hoseok has seen perusing the shelves when he comes in to relieve Yoongi of his shift.

Hoseok has worked here for 6 months. It’s impossible not to collect these details. The hickeys on his throat that he wears after weekends, how ruffled but generally loved Yoongi looks when he comes back from rut and heat leave.

“Is there a reason why they left?” Yoongi tries to be as undiscerning as possible. Voice gentle and measured. Stirring the hot cocoa and putting it in front of Hoseok.

Hoseok takes a sip and it feels like he's drinking a cup of the beta in front of him. Yoongi melts a little into the chair at the happy noise Hoseok makes.

It's good. Really good actually, Yoongi uses twice as much Swiss mix as the package instructs and a tablespoon of honey to boot. More chocolate can never be a bad thing.

Before Hoseok has a chance to respond, The phone next to the cabinet rings. And Yoongi takes it off the stand and hangs it up again in quick secession so that it doesn’t ring anymore. It has to be important but he ignores it for Hoseok's sake. Yoongi does a lot of ordering for the shop, the rare records that their boss is always trying to source and sell. It's a lot of chasing down leads and curators.

(This is not true. This is a lie that Yoongi and his boss have fed him. This phone is set up for the family's use. Hoseok doesn’t know that most of the calls Yoongi answers are more delicate than just simple stock orders.)

“I just found out that my brother has stolen from me, what should his punishment be beta?”

“How much did he steal?”

“300k”

Yoongi swallows, fighting his narrow margin of benevolence. The drops of mercy that he's allowed to show without suspicion. He tells himself that the other beta would order a far worse. People only call him when they want lighter punishment.

“A finger for every 100 then.”

The people who call ask him all manner of things. Things like “I think my child might be planning on going to the police, what should I do before anyone finds out about it?” He is both a secret keeper and a jury.

“Send them away. Out of sight and out of mind of anything that they might be able to share. I hear the military academies are lovely this year. So much snow. Yes, they take omega recruits.”

“My firstborn child presented as an omega instead of an alpha. They're my firstborn and heir, how should I proceed?”

“I can ask around for an advantageous match but I’m sorry, there is no fixing presentation.”

Hoseok hasn’t seen a phone like that in years. Didn’t even know they made old-fashioned ones like that anymore. Ones with a dial, the blue plastic worn from the number of times Yoongi's had to pick it up. It doesn't stay silent for long, ringing soon after yoongi's hung it up.

“I'm the only- they’re an all-omega group.” As if by the mention of his sub gender Hoseok’s angry burning sugar scent fills the room. In reply, Yoongi’s sweetness rises. Hoseok takes another sip and pretends it's just the hot chocolate warming his cheeks. “I guess they wanted to keep it that way.”

"I've got two omegas and they keep me on my toes, I can't imagine four." That gets a laugh out of Hoseok.

"You've got a bunch of alphas in yours though, right?" A bunch already, I wouldn't be needed. Hoseok has seen them, the tall one with dimples that looks like something out of a soap opera. The scary-looking one with the chubby cheeks who's always holding hands with the pretty academic one who likes the jazz in the corner.

Yoongi nods, "That must be nice," Hoseok's eyelashes are all clumped together from the tears. "Having so many people to take care of you."

Yoongi hums, knuckles brushing Hoseok’s hand on the table. It’s just one tender touch but Hoseok starts to break. To crumple.

Yoongi senses Hoseok breaking, pulling him in close before he has a chance to really fracture (he comes just in time, Yoongi loves Hoseok just in time). Yoongi’s scent alone is enough to soothe him- beyond the way he guides the alpha to rest against his throat. Hoseok fights it only a little, what's a little scenting among friends?

They're not just friends, it's not just scenting.

Hoseok wants to bury his nose in the beta’s throat, but that wouldn’t be appropriate, not with the scent of so many others clinging to him. He still sags into the hug. Turns his face away to avoid the temptation.

“They didn’t even tell me- and now the lease on the apartment is up and I can’t afford it on my own and-“ I’m so scared and I just wish there was someone to take care of me. I wish I was a pup again.

They sit like that at the table and Yoongi just lets him cry, He pulls back after his sobbing has cooled. They hug until they both smell like gooey chocolate chip cookies with too much brown sugar.

Hoseok sniffles, “We have to open up the shop,” Yoongi's arms tighten around Hoseok's shoulders in reply.

“It can wait a few more seconds.” Hoseok wants to say that the owner wouldn’t like that but he doesn’t.

Yoongi sips and hesitates. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?” Hoseok pauses for a second, flushing before he shakes his head. “Okay, it's okay. You can say with me.”

“Are- are you sure they won't mind?” But Yoongi is already typing away on his phone, shooting a quick text to the pack group chat (a chat that Hoseok will be added to in exactly 23 days, but who's counting?)

“Not at all. It’s a bit cramped with all of us but we have a spare bed in the closet room that Tae likes to read on sometimes- Jungkook's boss slept there last night after they came back from drinking and Namjoon was so mad- he won't be mad about you though- it's just that Jungkook- he just really shouldn't be drinking."

"Is he underaged?"

"No, he's just got health issues."

"Oh." Yet another person who gets the love he needs, the care he needs. Hoseok tries and fails miserably not to be jealous over Yoongi's omega whom he's never met.

He won't be jealous for long. Later Jungkook is going to challenge him to an arm wrestle just to prove he doesn't need babying. Beating alphas in feats of strength is his favorite thing. He'll feel Hoseok’s hand in his and get completely distracted. "Wow, you've got like- really pretty hands!" and drag them close to his to compare sizes. He'll be smitten nearly instantly with Jungkook- for what it's worth. The jealousy only lasts for a few hours.

Within a few seconds his phone is ringing off the hook, he shows Hoseok the chorus of, “Yes it’s okay!” and “Poor thing, tell him he can stay as long as he wants.” "Of course hyung!" "Does Hoseok like kimchi-jjigae or should we just order pizza?" “Oh! Can we get some with pineapple?” “Gross Jk.” "Yeah we all know Minnie doesn't like the aftertaste of burnt fruit."

And Hoseok can't help but feel like he doesn’t deserve this kindness and such an effortless acceptance. There is a knock at the front door before he can say anything. A few short taps against the glass. Yoongi tells Hoseok to stay put while he goes to deal with a pushy customer who wants in. Leaving him alone in the backroom with his cooling hot coco and the poster still staring down at him.

(They say two can keep a secret if one of them is dead, but that's not the only way a secret stays buried; the best secrets are the ones you’re not even aware of.

Out of all the people in your pack. Hoseok is the only one in possession of a secret like this. The best kinds of secrets are the ones you don't even know are secrets see- he doesn't even know that this memory is enough to save you. Hoseok is entirely unaware that in his mind lies this memory.

Hoseok was the first person to get on the no-kill list, and it wasn’t because of Yoongi.

All packmates of a Don get put on the list;

no matter if they're active or past.)

Sitting at that yellowing wood table; Hoseok feels more settled now that he knows he has a place to sleep tonight that isn’t this backroom. Pulling the sleeve of Yoongi’s sweatshirt over his palms and sniffing at the collar where it was pushed up against Yoongi’s scent gland.

If he thinks hard, he can pick out a few scents here and there soaking the fabric. (Milky Omega Jin, Honey Sweet Puppy Jungkookie, Cinnamon sweet Alpha Tae and vanil-lalalala Jimin, Coffee Alpha Namjoon and Chocolate Yoongi).

It's so different from his ex-pack's scents. Their sugary sweet omega peppermint and sharp lemony evergreen, winter berry and pine, the cold smart of snow against his nose. His burning caramel scent- so off-putting. The one scent not Christmas-themed. The one that didn’t fit.

By comparison- Yoongi's pack smells like a bakery in summer. Every scent that could be added to a cake maybe (one day, in the kitchen, he’ll eat your tiramisu and realize yes- that’s exactly what it’s missing. Your cakey scent makes them all complete, the warmth of baking things).

He has somewhere to go now. Somewhere to be. Someone to trust. He trusts Yoongi- even if they’ve only known each other for a handful of short months.

And Yoongi’s pack can’t be worse than his last one.

As if in reply to Yoongi’s phone (buzzing with more texts that he doesn't check because Hoseok is nothing if not respectful of people's digital privacy. If he checked he would see "Is that the hot coworker you're always talking about? The one who always looks a little sad?")

Hoseok’s phone buzzes with the notification he's been waiting for.

Pack Omega 🌙 calling.

Pick up? Decline?

Hoseok hasn't yet gotten around to changing her contact information. He scrambles at it, spilling the hot cocoa across the table as he rushes to pick it up. Scrambling to get to it before it goes to voice mail. Blood pounding in his ears.

Hoseok’s voice is broken as he says his pack omega’s name, his old pack omega’s name.

“Byulyi- Moonbyul please-”

Moonbyul is cold on the other side of the phone. Maybe she’d have liked him more, and wouldn’t have given up on him if he didn't beg. But Hoseok has never been above begging. Not for love. Not for the thing he wants and needs the most. Hoseok needs love more than air and as Yoongi said- it's easiest to go looking for love where you once got it.

Even when you know it could hurt you.

Her voice is flat and unaffected. “I just wanted to make sure you found a place to stay tonight. Are you still going to be around to give the landlord the keys?”

Hoseok finds himself nodding even though he knows she can’t see him. “Yes- I can do that, I can do anything you want. Can we talk?”

“No.”

“Moonbyul please-”

“Goodbye Hoseok.” She says, hanging up after a second. Hoseok looks at the phone. Pushing the button to redial. It doesn't go. She’s already blocked him.

It will be a long time until Hoseok hears from his last pack again, a long long time until he says their names again. He will remember the way he’d begged, the way her name had sounded smack dab in the middle of it. And hate hate Hate how it makes him feel. He won't ever say their names, regret and self-disgust getting in the way.

It's a little funny, thinking of how different things might have gotten if he'd just told yoongi their names. If he hadn't let his alpha pride get in the way. A few days from now they'll talk about it together. "I don't like the way saying their names makes me feel- it feels- I hate how much I want to say it- to see them again- saying their names just reminds me of the power they had over me."

Never again, will Jung Hoseok beg for someone to give him the bare minimum. This is his lowest point. The moment where it shifts- for good.

His head is in his hands when Yoongi comes back into the room. Still sniffling, crying yet again. Yoongi sets a palm in his hair, ruffling it. Eyeing the spilled hot cocoa with a raised eyebrow.

“If you wanted coffee you could have just said so-“ he makes an attempt at levity and is rewarded with Hoseok’s small snort. Wiping his wet cheeks. Neither of them is aware of the secret. Neither of them is aware and so much worse off for it."

Hoseok grins, “Are you buying hyung?”

~-~

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~-~

Notes:

in the story there has always been this question- mainly raised by jimin during his secret chapters- if the m/c is actually in love with them or if she's just manipulating them- at the beginning of this chapter- we actually see jimin finally dispel the last bit of him that thinks even a little bit that this is the case. once he sees how much she put her body on the line- that question isn't even in the back of his mind- even a little. i ended up re-editing this part alot because of it.

every time i write something from jimin's pov i'm always like "why is everything so meandering? why are things disjointed?" and then i remember that's literally jimin's character- that he is in a lot of ways an unreliable narrator.

(TW) i have this idea in my head that namjoon DOES NOT become a good person in the event that all of them die like- a whole separate idea of him becoming a doctor for the family through yoongi's connections with the soul purpose of one day killing moonbyul and her entire pack…including their pups on accident which ends up destroying the last bit of namjoon's innocence as a person…and he ends up becoming one of the families assassins alongside jimin as a result, in this event jungkook does not stay with them and instead moves on and yoongi stays and tries to get them to stop only to ask them to kill him as their last kill because he's unable to cope with the loss of jin, hobi, the m/c and tae. BUT ANYWAY I DIGRESS THAT IS NOT THIS STORY.

i think in this story there is this really interesting dynamic of femininity and death and morality- that being said red nail polish is definitely a metaphor for whose comfortable killing and who isn't. i like the contrast between tae who will never wear red nails again- vs the moon pack who all are not allowed out of the nest if their nailpolish isn't perfect like- thats another layer of the fucked up shit.

are you suprised that the m/c is going to leave? Did you see it coming from a mile away? i mean...it is in the title of the series 😈

….the parallel between hobi losing his voice and the m/c not having a voice at the beginning of the series- you can project whatever meaning you want onto that <3

also on that subject the line "Jin’s hands. Your face. Tae’s head. Hoseok’s throat. Each of you has lost the thing most necessary to your survival." it's worth mentioning that thats not what i think is the most necessary thing to their survival but it is their own interpretation of what keeps them alive. like i for one actually think that the m/c is a lot more pragmatic than anyone gives her credit for but i digress. i could go on about all of their strenghts.

what did you guys think about hobi's secret reveal???? a fair amount of people have guessed it and i think when someone got it at the beginning of the series i lied and said it wasn't- i'm allowed to be an unreliable narrator too!!! kudos to everyone who got it! i feel like it could have been revealed better and originally the big one off was slated for next chapter but i decided to shift it to this one (mostly because i think the next chapter is about to get up there in terms of word count tbh 😭) but T-T its done now! please give me praise because i'm baby and this week has honestly been really hard

[pinkanonwrites]

So I absolutely love your writing and was wondering if I could suggest Riddle, Leona, Jamil, Azul with an s/o who had horrible scarring and doesn’t talk about it. So naturally the boys would assume it’s a sensitive topic, and treat them delicately… But turns out that those scars are from something stupid like getting into a fight with a raccoon.

Sure thing! As expected, this ended up being a bit silly. Hope you enjoy!

GN! Reader

The first time Riddle saw your scars was when you rolled up your sleeves while helping Trey bake for the next Unbirthday party, simply trying to not let your cuffs dip into the sticky batter. Both his and Trey's gazes lasered in on the horrendous scarring up and down both your arms, but neither of them said anything besides sharing a small, worried glance. He wanted to ask you about them but knew this was neither the time nor the place to do so.

Other Heartslabyul members can tell from a glance not to bring them up, lest they risk a swift and merciless collaring by their housewarden. Whenever your arms are revealed Riddle's expression tightens, surveying the room as if he's daring his fellow students to make a comment or ask a question about them.

When he finally musters up the courage to ask about them, reassuring you he finds you beautiful and just wants to know if you're hurting, boy if he doesn't feel a bit silly when he finds out you got them from trying to pick up an opossum when you were a little kid. His cheeks get all puffed out and his face turns red, promptly shutting himself up and turning away as you coo and thank him for being so worried about your well-being. He does enjoy the praise, as flustered as he looks.

Lazing around with Leona in the midday sun of the conservatory, you stretched your arms over your head and accidentally revealed to him a series of long, thin scars that ran over each of your sides, just above your hip. His brow furrowed as your shirt covered them once more, cupping a clawed hand gently over your hip and tugging you close to snuggle up to him.

He's always liked to wrap a hand around your hip to keep you close to him, to stake his "ownership" of you. But now he does it so gently, so lightly it almost tickles as he rubs his thumb back and forth over the soft skin hidden beneath your shirt. You do the same to him sometimes, running your thumb so lovingly over the scar on his face when he rests his head in your lap, the least he can do is offer the same comfort.

You finally mention where you got the scars when Leona comes to visit Ramshackle. As you liken the rickety house to an abandoned building you and your friends explored near your school, mentioning how cut up you got squeezing through one of the shattered doorways, it finally clicks for him. From there the teasing floodgates are opened, and every time he finds you with a little scuff or scrape he asks if you were reigniting your urban exploration fantasies.

After Jamil's overblot, when you rolled up your pant cuffs to splash around in the cool water of the oasis, that's when Azul first saw your scars. Dozens of jagged lines and puncture marks everywhere from your ankles all the way up to your knees. It made his stomach turn a bit, trying to imagine what or who might have inflicted you with those gashes.

He's often hovering around you, making sure you don't get bumped into or lose your balance. If he's not available you'll usually have one or both of the twins observing you from a safe distance, boss's orders. He doesn't want anyone else harming his precious pearl, after all.

When you finally mention that you got all those scars from the wild raspberry bushes around your childhood home, he assumes you're joking with him. He knows what raspberries are, he isn't stupid, but are the bushes really that dangerous? One small hike with Jade later serves to prove that yes, they are, especially if you're a reckless little kid wearing shorts in the summer. He chides you, warning you to not do anything so rash in the future.

Jamil had seen your scar the very first day you had met, along with just about everyone else in school. It wasn't exactly easy to miss; the curved line cutting across your forehead and down into your eyebrow was painfully obvious to anyone who looked at you for more than a few minutes. He didn't think about it much until the two of you actually began interacting on a daily basis.

He watches you a lot, only when he thinks you aren't looking (and often times you aren't). He's not the type to bring it up on his own, it's none of his business after all, but he does worry about you. He's on edge whenever you mention having a headache, even if it has nothing to do with your scar at all.

You mention it offhand one day, the stupid cause of your forehead scar. The man who was re-shingling your house roof when you were a kid knocked a metal bucket off the edge when you were heading out to school, and instead you had to get rushed to the E.R. for stitches. As you proudly regale the story of the ice cream cake and flowers the repairman bought as an apology Jamil breathes a sigh of relief, almost visibly melting into his seat. Now he'll just have to make sure nothing that unlucky happens to you again.

[a66-1]

HI OMG i just read all your stuff and theyre so GOOD AGHH!;!3)2):&;&??? and for any requests how about another docile!simon because hes SOO CUTE IM IN LOOVEE or a childhood!best friend 😮‍💨😮‍💨

crying and throwing up bc AHH

tysm omg..

it's giving I should do both of these

Childhood bestfriend!Simon (who's a docile soul) x Reader.

a/n: major fluff ❤️

what was a661 listening to? (Homesick by Noah Kahan, Sugar Sweet by Benson Boone, Young Blood by Noah Kahan, Like Real People Do by Hoizer)

Unedited and not proofread

Simon and you go way back, and I mean way back. You knew this boy since he learned how to tie his shoe. (Unsurprisingly you had to teach him because what the heck are you doing to the laces?)

You lived slightly south of Manchester, and only really saw Simon when your parents met up every month or so, but you and Simon were essentially locked at the hip when you two were around each other. Pinkies bound together as you walked around the pond, watching the swans swim in the water. His smile was always so.. Soft. Never a big, excited smile. One where you knew he was comfortable.

His older brother always scoffed at the two of you, opting to stick by his parents and yours as they sat on a bench, as they talked amongst themself. Simon Unhooked his pinkie from yours as he bent by a few rocks, looking through them.

"Hey, come 'ere." He gestured you over. You crouched next to him. He picked a few weed flowers, and plopped on the ground to tie the bottoms together. When he was done, he handed them to you.

"There! For you. They're really pretty." He smiled softly, as you took them. You laughed quietly, and hugged him.

"Thank you, Si." You said quietly, before pecking his cheek. You heard your mom yell at you to get your hands off eachother, as you two are only 8 and 10.

You two separate, and walk back over to your parents. Simon had a pink hue to his cheeks, but nothing he couldn't not excuse as sunburn.

Once you got in your rickety car back to your house, it's not like you knew you'd never see him again. You were packed and already on the plane 3 weeks later.

The absolute meltdown you had in the airport had your mom threatening to ductape your mouth shut, and you're pretty sure you cried all the way to America.

-

You lift your head, noticing your spot in line has moved up, again. You shift forward, a basket of food in your arms. You got your own places little over a year ago. Freedom feels.. Great, actually, nobody is on your ass and you can freely drive anywhere without a 'where tf are you??' text.

You get to the register, and give a polite nod and 'I'm good, and you?' Your accent still catches a few people off guard. Fucking hell, this state is absolute shit sometimes. Just because some people aren't the same as you, you don't gotta be weird about it-

It's not even like it's heavy, it's just slightly there. Growing up with the most British parents in a very not British town has got your accent all odd, but if anyone from Manchester heard you, they might be able to decipher you.

You take your bags and walk to your car, loading it. Just one more thing in the list... Ah, the pet shop. The place isn't far, so you lock your car and start your walk on the way there.

A few Military officers stand a block away, across the street. They don't look quite American, in all actuality, isn't that the flag from-

You abruptly run into someone. Fuck. God, why don't you keep your eyes open every once in a while? You take a step back, rubbing your nose. Crap, they had a hard fucking chest, because your nose feels half broken.

"My bad, I'm so sorry-" You glance up to notice an military officer. You stand straighter, noticing the Union Jack flag. The guy has gear on, and a.. Ghost mask? A bavaclava, I'm pretty sure, and some eye black.

"It's.." He squints, pausing, before continuing, "Fine. It's fine."

That's an accent if you've heard one. God, it's familiar as crap, you know you've heard it before. Which parents had that accent again? Sounds like.. Jack's parents were more west...

"You uh.. You from here?" He gruffly asks, "Can tell you got an accent."

You shake your head, "I was born in Manchester, moved when I was 8, give or take."

His eyes widen this time, before cursing. He turns to the group of men further down, and throws a hand signal. They nod, and continued a conversation they were having.

"Oh? I had a friand who uh.. Who.." He hesitated, but he slipped off his mask.

"Who did that too."

You stared doe eyed at him. "Simon?"

That blonde hair is impossible to forget. You choke on a laugh, before grabbing his face. His nose is definitely different, but it looks like shits been broken.

"Holy shit, it's you." He smiled. Fucking hell, his smile.

"Jesus! What're you doing here, I mean- I-I never thought we'd-" You cut yourself off with a laugh, before hugging him tightly, your hands curling into his hair. He swiftly hugged back, rocking you softly. Goddammit, he looks good.

Good, good.

"Oh lovie, you can't understand how happy I am, I remember how you left and.." He stares at you quietly, and frowned. "Never really made another friend like you again."

That made you frown, "Si, you should've made friends! I was just the example!" You throw in a smile, to show him your joking.

You both find yourself laughing together, your hands back on his cheek, his hands on your hips. And.. Some reason naturally, you drifted closer and.. Kissed. Neither of you hesitated, it was swift and you kept his head against yours, and you made sure the kiss was good.

He was good.

You both pulled away, a soft look shared among you too.

"Are we gonna brush past that, or.." He laughed, and hugged you again, swinging you around once. You yelped, and hit his shoulder.

"Put me down!!" You squealed, laughing.

Price glanced over to the two of you, Soap turning as well.

"Tha' there mus' be tha' Bonnie he mentions," Soap nods slightly, smiling for his friend.

"Sure is. I knew he'd take this mission cuz' o' her." Price chuckled softly.

You carded through his hair softly, looking in his eyes.

"I missed you, Si."

AHH THE IINSPO FOR THIS HAD ME SENT WRITING THIS.

Never seen something like this so I feel accomplished not having a clue how to keep going.

TYSM FOR THE SUPPORT!!

Request to get more fun stories like this!

Bye babes!

-a661

[the-duchess-of-domination]

the fair is in town where i live, which has got me thinking about cable knit sweaters, hot sweet drinks, apple cider donuts, and tummy aches. imagine your sweet sweet boyfriend dragging you excitedly from greasy food stall to greasy food stall. after the funnel cake stand and a candy apple you warn him to take it easy. he tells you the fair is over after tonight, so he has to eat everything in one night. after all, he won’t be able to get it again until next year. you shrug.

after a box of popcorn and a visit to pet some goats, your boyfriend looks like he is slowing down. you’re grateful for this, knowing how much of a baby he can be when he eats too much, but then you see his eyes light up and before you know it he’s got cotten candy in one hand and a corn dog in the other. you don’t understand how one man can stomach so much sugar and grease, but he seems to take it in stride. soon he is holding too empty sticks, wandering ahead of you and then returning with a cheesesteak.

you want to do some rides. in fact, you want to kiss your boyfriend at the top of the ferris wheel. you step into the line as your boyfriend chokes down his last bite of cheesesteak. he’s looking a little pale now, and has somehow broken a clammy sweat in the autumn weather. the ride operator locks you and your boyfriend in. you notice the lap bar pressing down on your boyfriend’s stomach. he’s a husky guy on a good day, but now he’s swelled up underneath his sweater. as the ride starts its rotation you notice he’s gotten a bit quiet, so you cozy up to him and kiss down his neck. he gives you a weak, tired smile, looking a little glazed over in the eyes.

you ask him what’s the matter, although you already know the answer. he groans, takes your hand, and places it on the crest of his belly, admitting that he might have overdone it. you coo sympathy and start rubbing circles on your silly little boyfriend’s tummy.

the ferris wheel comes to a stop at the top. it’s a rickety old thing put together with duct tape and gum. it starts rocking back and forth. your boyfriend breathes shallow in his chest and makes a panicked face.

“i don’t feel so good” he whimpers, and you fear for the people below you.

[ooo---hazelgrimm---ooo]

Sun and Moon

Alright the beginning is completely Billy's redemption because he deserved redemption not death. And honestly Max hurting in S4 killed me. So, Max gets her brother back. Eventually BH x Reader.

Neil goes to far and someone very unlikely fights back, Billy realizes his sister and Stepmother actually do love him. Unfortunately sometimes love hurts and you have to hurt the people you love to save them.

Also this does kind of bounce around for a bit between the present, past, and Billy and Max's childhood.

Beeaaa-Beeeeep!

"I'm coming!" Max shouted running out of the door, Billy came out behind her carrying his bag over his shoulder.

"Code Gray Code Gray." A large group of kids and young adults sat in the hospital waiting area.

"That's probably our angry little asshole." Steve muttered. El turned on him sharply, glaring.

"My sister! Where the fuck is my sister!" He fought against the security as they secured him to the bed with padded restraints.

"Someone get me some Oxazepam." The nurses and doctors were in full PPE. A nurse injected a small dose of tranquilizer into his IV line as he fought.

"Mr. Hargrove! You need to remain still. You were involved in a major fire, there are wounds and burns covering fifteen percent of your body. Your sister is fine."

"No no. You don't understand it wasn't a fire." He shook his head violently, "There was this monster, my little sister, she's in danger."

"That is the trauma and morphine talking." A doctor whispered quietly to Neil, Susan, and Max. They had his bed turned so they couldn't see anything but the top of Billy's blonde curls through the glass. All they could hear from the room was Billy's shouts. "He might say some very strange things." Billy threw his head back violently onto the pillow as the doctor started walking away.

"He's not going to get rest and his condition is only going to worsen." One of the nurses muttered.

"Fuck! Why is nobody listening to me?! Max needs help!" He called out.

"Give me a gown." Max demanded.

"Sweetie no he's badly burned you don't want to see-" Susan started.

"She said he won't get better, if he's freaking out like this he won't get better. Give me a gown, give me gloves, mask, whatever I need to be able to go in there with him. I'll keep him calm and the doctors can fix him." Max assured them, "I won't be scared."

Billy still looked like Billy to her. What the doctors mistook for burns were the wounds from the mindslayer, they probably just didn't believe what was in front of them and chalked it up to the most logical thing. By the time they had finally let her into the room the medicine they gave Billy had kicked in so now Max sat on a rickety shitty chair waiting for him to wake up again as she held his hand. Eventually she too fell asleep.

A strange feeling woke Max, before she realized someone was messing with her hair. She sat up quickly, Billy's eyes looked bloodshot and tired.

"Hey." She whispered quietly. Billy's eyes turned down, "Please look at me."

" I can't. Your face-" Billy's hands clenched at his side as he forced his head up. Those were Billy's eyes, that's how Max knew he was there.

Neil had left. Max's mom has wandered off to the waiting room to find some sleep.

"Billy that was the Mindflayer." He was looking away in the distance.

"That thing, it showed me horrible horrible things. And then when it took over completely…" Billy shook his head, "I turned into my father."

"Billy, that thing was using your body, I know you'd never hit me if it was really you."

"Not just then. Before, before the mindflayer. How I yelled at you and jerked you around, I turned into him." He swallowed, "I was just-"

"You were in pain. El, she saw into your mind she told me everything-" Billy paled.

"How much is everything?" Max swallowed.

"Your dad yelling at you for not being good at baseball, your parents fighting, your mom leaving. You beating up some kid up and calling him a pussy, meeting me."

"I swear to God Max, I did some shitty things because I'm a fucking dick. But most of it I was protecting you, I was trying to prepare you, give you a thicker skin because I wasn't going to be around forever. And I'll be damned if I have to bury another sibling." It was out before he could stop it.

"Another?" Billy shook his head. His voice echoed in her mind, much younger back in California.

'Stay away from the stairs you little punk. That's why there's a baby gate up, to keep babies like you away.' The house had a long wooden staircase that led into the backyard that they never used.

That tattered broken baby gate that was cracked and leaned up against the top of the stairs. The downstairs neighbors that would always seem uneasy when Neil would be alone with her and Billy. When she was little she thought Billy was just jealous that he didn't want his dad spending any alone time with her. Billy just didn't want Max to replace him, as a punching bag.

And why Billy seemed to relax when she went straight from the fight to his mother leaving. Something happened in between, something way worse than anything else. Max understood, but why didn't he just tell her, they could have faced this together.

"It's ok Billy. We don't have to talk about it." Max told him between tears she didn't know she was crying.

"What the fuck is going on? With Hawkins, with your little friend with superpowers?"

"We will tell you everything, but first you have to get out of the ICU."

"I don't want to get better." Billy said quietly.

"Don't talk like that. We're together now you got that? You're stuck with me and I'm stuck with you but I'm not going to let anything hurt you again. I'm going to protect you, like you've been protecting me. Billy I knew immediately that you weren't you when I saw you after the mind flayer got you. Yeah I was in denial at first, but do you want to know how I knew?"

"Because it called you my sister." Billy croaked.

"No. I have always been your sister. I could see it in your eyes. They weren't my brother's eyes, not entirely." Billy wrapped his arms around her as best as he could.

"You tell anyone I went soft on you-"

"You won't do anything, you love me." Max curled into him some.

They crowded into Billy's small room on one of the main floors.

"Hawkins. Bumfuck Hawkins Indiana is a hotspot for interdemntional fucking monsters and people with superpowers from a lab. And a bunch of kids have been fighting them off." Billy shook his head in disbelief. "So what do we do now?"

"I'm sorry 'we'?" Harrington asked.

"Nothing. We do nothing, the mind flayer is dead. We go back to normal and hope it stays that way." Max answered.

"Shit." Billy muttered.

Billy was still a dick most of the time, but not the same kind of dick he was before. Now that Max saw him a little clearer it became evident that he was trying before.

He had taught Max to drive. To ride a skateboard. Those were all things he had done in California. Neil was an asshole and her mom was always busy.

And though he had done those things in a roundabout dickish way he had done them without being asked without being told.

And those days that sent Max into panic, when Neil would come flying at Billy with fist and voices raised. Maybe Billy's slow steps back weren't cowarding, maybe they were leading Neil away. Leading him away from Max and her mom.

Now, Billy was very obviously intentionally doing things for her. Bonding with her.

A loud whistle would ring through Cherry Lane and Max would come running. At first Billy would have some excuse. 'Your running in the store and grabbing food.' 'I need you to get me a pack of Reds.' 'The new girl at the arcade is hot.' Then it became clear. He just wanted his little sister by his side.

Trees, houses, everything whizzed by. Max grabbed a hold of Billy's arm and held him tightly.

"I'm scared." She whispered to him, burrowing her head into his arm.

"I'm scared." The ocean was roaring in his ears, he was sitting next to his mom staring at the crashing waves, "It looks hard."

"You can do hard things." She promised him, "Now, up and at 'em. You are so strong and I believe in you." Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear yelling.

"Your alright sweetie just sit back please and buckle up." Susan jittered nervously. Max shook her head holding on tighter to Billy's arm. He turned his arm over in her grip and laid a hand on her head, pressing her into his upper arm more in a strange hug.

"It's going to be okay."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Was muffled by his shoulder.

"We've still got Billy baby, he's not going anywhere." Susan promised Max.

"This one's got a pulse!" Max's heart stopped. Which one? A fire burned behind them, Starcourt Mall seconds from being reduced to ash, the pavement smelled like motor oil and mucky rain. The irony was suffocating, the last time she remembered this particular smell her and Billy were much younger in California. Racing to find Neil's truck in the parking lot of the carnival before Billy paid the price for Max insisting to play that stupid duck game over and over.

Billy sat on the ride home nursing a bruised wrist from how tightly Neil had yanked him into the truck. Max sat playing with her prize and Billy snatched it from her and tossed her new stuffed animal out the window.

He took his bike out the next morning and found it in a pile of mud, though he would never admit that he was the one who went and grabbed it off the side of the road.

"Mary mother of God." They were yanking on his bloody arm, pulling blonde curls out of the black bag.

"Someone grab me something with suction, anything, I need to clear his airway now!"

"Turn him over, turn him over!" Then that horrible retching that sounded like Billy was throwing his guts up but meant one thing, Billy was alive.

"He's breathing!!!"

Max sprinted across the parking lot as they pulled Billy from the body bag onto a stretcher.

"Pulse is dimming." The paramedic called out.

"Billy no!" Max had gasped, wrapping her arms around his, "Please don't go again." Max whimpered, "I need you."

"Pulse is stronger. Kid, keep talking." Max jumped in the ambulance with them and El followed.

"She's his sister too." Max lied.

It all started with dinner. Billy had heard raised voices, he turned off his radio.

"We'll pick it up then!" One of the cabinets slammed. Billy came out of his room, and headed into the kitchen. "You got a problem, son?" Neil asked when he saw him.

"No sir." Billy started grabbing silverware and cups for the table. Max was kneeled down cleaning up a plate. Billy sat everything on the counter and kneeled down to help her.

"Oh no." Neil scoffed, "Get your ass up. We're teaching the little princess responsibility."

Everything after that was a bit of a blur. Max said something Neil considered smart. Neil grabbed her. Billy shoved him off without thinking and Neil pinned him to the wall with an arm to his throat.

Billy couldn't breathe, this was finally it. His old man finally snapped to the point where he was going to kill him.

Everything was fuzzy around the edges, Billy tried to find somewhere to look. He didn't want the last thing on earth that he saw to be Neil's anger or the look of terrified horror on Max's face. There was a weird noise and Billy fell to the floor gasping. Max was beside him holding him and he slung an arm over her shoulder.

He had to get his feet under him, had to get up, had to get Max behind him, block her from Neil so he couldn't hurt her next.

"Oh my God is he dead?!" Max was asking. Billy's eyes finally focused on what was going on around him.

Susan was holding the frying pan, Neil was on the ground knocked out.

"Get your things, quickly." Susan was telling Max. And then his little sister and stepmother were gone from the kitchen. Billy forced himself to his feet leaning heavily on the counter. It could have been an hour or five minutes Billy wasn't sure. Susan came rushing back in, pulling a coffee can down from its hiding place in the cabinet. She took a wad of cash from it, stuffing it into her bag.

"Billy, sweetie." She was touching his arm and he pulled away from her a bit harshly. "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you." She mistook his anger, "Max is grabbing you some clothes and your stuff for your hair. I already put your moms seashells in the car. Is there anything else important to you that we can't replace?" Billy looked confused. "Oh. Oh! I'm so sorry! He's your father, I shouldn't have assumed you would want to leave with Max and I. It's just- well Billy I know I'm not your mother but I care about you and I just can't stand him putting his hands on you any longer. We just almost lost you and I-I-" Susan got teary eyed as she stumbled over her words.

"You're taking me with you?"

"Of course." Susan choked, "Your my son- stepson- but-" Billy hugged her tightly.

"Plus I have a car." Susan didn't. After Billy's mom's escape Neil ensured that Susan would never be able to get her own car.

Susan was already in the car, Billy was behind Max.

"What are you doing Shitbird?" He asked as she stalled at the door. She was breathing heavily and suddenly she turned rushing past him. Billy followed after her as she rushed back into the kitchen. "Woah woah woah!" He yelled as she yanked a large butcher knife out of the knife block. She gave him a disbelieving look as she held the damn thing next to her like Micheal Myers. She cut the phone cord, shoving the phone down into the garbage disposal for good measure.

"I'm not going to kill him!"

Billy internally sighed in relief, "You did try and take a bat to my balls, after your little boyfriend kicked them." He followed after her as she went to the living room, cutting the cord to that phone as well. Max snatched Neil's keys off the hook, dropping the knife. The horn on the Camaro blew.

"I'm coming!" Max shouted running out of the door, Billy came out behind her carrying his bag over his shoulder. Billy threw some more stuff in the trunk and opened the driver door for Max. She put Neil's keys in his hand.

"Put all that stupid baseball he made you play to use." Max told him before ducking into the backseat. Billy breathed deeply, tossing the keys up into the air once before chunking them as hard as he could to the treeline. Billy always had been a great pitcher.

Billy pulled into the next gas station. Max was slumped on his arm funny and it couldn't be comfortable. Susan stirred immediately when the car stopped.

"You're okay." Billy promised. He turned in his seat to lay Max down in the back.

"How far have we gone?"

"Three hours, we just crossed into Michigan." He told her quietly. Susan rubbed Billy's forearm, for the first time she actually looked very sad.

"I need to make a call." She swallowed looking teary, "Billy I need you to take care of Max for me." Billy's hands tightened on the wheel.

"You can't abandon her."

"I'm not! But- he's going to come looking for me." She took a deep breath, "You know that and I know that. It doesn't matter if it's tonight or next week he's going to come looking for me. I can not put my kids in danger." She was right, he knew that deep down.

"Fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night. I've got Max, I'll take care of her."

"I knew you would."

Billy had smoked through his pack and bought another before the old Wagoneer and Mercedes pulled in. Billy watched as the Mercedes did a lap through the parking lot before idealing in the pullout. An older dark haired woman hopped out of the Wagoneer, pulling Susan into her arms.

"It's so good to see you again, San Diego feels like yesterday."

"Joanna." Susan sighed, hugging her back tightly. Billy sighed, reaching back to shake Max awake.

"Hmm?"

"You need to go talk to your mom."

"Why what's happening?!" She jumped into the front seat, looking out to where Susan was hugging Joanna.

"Max, listen. Whatever she tells you, act like it's fine, tell her you love her. Once you're back in the car and we are away you can scream, cry, kick. Whatever you need, but for now go tell Susan that everything is going to be ok." Max nodded solemnly and got out of the car. He watched, unable to do anything while Susan held Max tightly. He watched as his sister shrunk into herself and just nodded, she hugged her mom again tightly and the three women walked back to the Camaro. Susan put Max into the passenger side still saying a very tearful goodbye while Max told her that it was okay and everything was going to be ok. Joanna came to Billy's side of the car.

"Just follow my girl, y'all will be staying with her for a bit." She pointed to the Mercedes. Billy nodded and after Joanna pulled Susan away, he pulled in behind the black car.

"You ok?" Billy asked Max quietly as they pulled into the street. Max nodded.

"I'm fine." She unbuckled her seat belt. "Totally fine." Climbed into the back seat lying down. "Everything is great actually." Pulled one of the pillows over her face, "Amazing!" (Muffled) and then, she screamed and screamed holding the pillow tightly to her face. A while after the screaming stopped, Billy pulled the pillow away so she would smother herself. "I hate Neil."

"Me too." Billy agreed, "Who was that lady?"

"Joanna?"

"Yeah."

"She used to babysit me when I was younger, before you."

"Alright."

"Her and YN." They pulled in at a small yellow two story house.

"Whose YN?" Billy asked, just as the driver door to the Mercedes swung open.

"Her." Max nodded toward you as you stepped out of the car.

"Holy shit." Billy scoffed.

[keldae]

C. A moment’s respite.

The Last Light Inn was a small bastion of safety in the shadow-cursed lands, the darkness held at bay by Isobel's magic. It was a welcome reprieve for the party of adventurers seeking to take down the Absolute and the cultists in Moonrise Towers – the fairy’s blessing had provided protection from the shadows, but it still was good to have a safe harbour to retreat to.

Having tucked herself away in a corner, Devi sat on a rickety chair, watching the tieflings, the Harpers, and her friends mingling about the inn’s common room. Every once in a while, she could hear Karlach's laughter as she conversed with Dammon, or a shout as Wyll cleaned some other hapless dice player out of their gold with a good-natured grin. Yet her gaze kept travelling back to the wizard in the next seat, sipping on a cup of wine and intently reading a scroll that he had found on one of the bookshelves in the inn. Gale appeared to be completely lost in thought, a little furrow lining his brow, his hand sometimes abandoning his wine cup on the table to stroke his beard as he considered something.

It made for a lovely picture, the wizard so lost in thought, focused on the words before him and not on his surroundings. A man reading really shouldn’t have been that interesting – and yet, Devi found herself transfixed. Something about the angle of his brows, or the set of his jaw, or the way his long fingers moved in the lamp light made her want to study him, committing him to memory.

Because Mystra ordered him to become a memory, a little voice in her head muttered. When we find the Absolute, he's going to follow her damned orders to blow himself up taking it out. That made her look away, gazing into her own wine, lips pressed together tightly as though she could avoid having them tremble, betraying her feelings on the matter. Damn the gods for throwing them all into this predicament, and damn Mystra in particular.

A nudge to her side got her attention. Her heart leapt when she saw Gale's smile at her; he'd apparently lost focus on the scroll. “I'm surprised you're not playing against Wyll again,” he commented with a chuckle.

Devi snorted. “And lose even more gold pieces to him? That bastard’s too damn good at dice.”

Gale smirked. “Have you forsaken your goal of winning the pants off of him in payback?”

“It's taking a temporary pause. But I will say, if his left boot goes missing tonight, I had nothing to do with it. I'll get one of the tiefling kids to give me an alibi.”

That got another chuckle from Gale. “Ah, the mark of a wise criminal. As I would not like to have my own boots stolen in payback, rest assured, I'll keep your secrets intact.”

“Smart man.” Devi grinned and sipped her wine, then gestured to the scroll with her cup. “Find anything interesting in that?”

“Not as much useful information for our predicament as I'd hoped for, but it’s still very fascinating reading.” Gale looked back down at the scroll. “Apparently, if we can make our way to the cellar of the inn, we may be able to find a Selûnite refuge, hidden away from the Sharran Justiciars. The former innkeeper, before the shadow-curse took over, was apparently sympathetic to the Selûnites.”

“Huh. Interesting.” Devi nodded thoughtfully. “Shadowheart might get a laugh out of it, at least. I’m just happy she and Isobel haven’t had a spat yet.”

“Yet being the operative word,” Gale muttered. “Still, Shadowheart does recognize that not all of us have the protection that Shar lent her, or the pixie’s blessing, and Isobel is invaluable for everyone’s safety. Regardless of their… disagreements on their goddesses, they’ll keep the peace for now.”

Devi nodded again, watching as Gale rolled the scroll back up. “Sorry if I’m distracting you from your reading,” the thief said. “I know you love your books.”

“Think nothing of it,” Gale chuckled. “You are quite pleasant company to have around, even if you are quite a bit quieter than usual tonight. A gold piece for your thoughts?”

“That’s the most anyone’s ever offered to hear what’s in my head,” Devi laughed. She looked over at the sound of dice clattering, and Wyll gracefully accepting a rare loss with a seated bow to a triumphant-looking tiefling, raucous laughter drifting over to the corner. “My mind’s all over the place tonight. I’m just…” Thinking about you and how unfair it is that Mystra’s ordered you to your death. No goddess deserves that level of devotion! Forgiveness isn’t worth that much. “I’m thinking about how good it is to see everyone relaxed and safe for the moment.”

“It is pleasant to see,” Gale agreed, looking away from Devi to survey the rest of the inn’s common room. “Would that we could see this more frequently, with everything happening to us. The tadpoles, the Absolute…” He shrugged. “But it could be argued that the rarity of these moments of respite make them that much more valuable, when we do get them. We more fully appreciate them.”

“I think I’d appreciate them fully, even if we got them more regularly,” Devi grumbled. She heard Gale chuckle, then looked back at the wizard. “So… found any more interesting reading?” Usually any books that she found while exploring were immediately handed to Gale or Shadowheart – Devi could read, but she struggled in making sense of the markings on the pages. She lacked Gale’s ability to easily comprehend the written words. Education was more valued for a wizard prodigy and not a back-alley Baldurian thief.

“Quite a bit,” Gale said with a smile. “I have a small library growing in my tent from the books that we’ve found on our travels. If you would like, I could read some of them to you.”

“Would you?” Devi perked up, interested by that prospect. “Any chance that book you mentioned about, uh, stimulation is in your library?”

Gale chuckled. “Alas, no – that particular book is in my tower in Waterdeep. However, I do have a few other tomes in my collection here that may be of interest to you.”

“Consider me intrigued,” Devi said with a grin. She finished off her wine, watching Gale set his own empty cup on the table. “Shall we go investigate?”

“Precisely where my thoughts were, my dear.” Gale grinned and stood up, offering her his arm like a proper gentleman. “We’ll leave the others to their revelry for now. Time spent with you is always a pleasurable experience.”

“Even when we’re both covered in blood and gods-know-what?” Devi laughed and took Gale’s arm, letting the wizard lead her out of the inn and back towards the party’s camp, set up on the lawn outside – all the rooms in the inn had been claimed by Harpers or tieflings.

“Even then.” Gale’s smile made Devi’s heart skip a beat. “Although a peaceful moment like this is always preferable.” “You won’t hear me arguing that.” Devi smiled, savouring the moments she could spend in Gale’s company, in relative peace and quiet. Gods help me, I will talk him out of sacrificing himself to destroy the Absolute. He deserves to live, and I want him to live. She offered up a silent prayer to any god that would listen (except Mystra) – let Gale live. Even if he never loves me the way I do him, let him live.

[kidstemplatte]

absolutely need to know what it’d look like if terzo took the kid(s) to Disney💙

dad! terzo at disneyland

i’m a huge disney person so this was so fun to write! thank you, anon!! i hope you enjoy!🐭✨

i think you guys are going to disneyland (in california) rather than disneyworld. he’s not a fan of florida. hates the politics. plus it’s humid and he’s a diva.

i feel like he likes seeing the face characters. he’s a theatrical man himself, so he appreciates their talent and quick wit. and he loves the way the kids’ faces light up when they get to meet their favorite character 🥲

the kids want to meet aladdin? awesome. rapunzel? of course.

(HE LOVES TANGLED, I JUST KNOW IT. HE DOES. HE’S SO FLYNN RIDER CODED.)

but he doesn’t trust the masked characters. he’s protective.💀

you have to reassure him that it’s fine, just someone doing their job, like any of the other characters.

“that rat is suspicious, no?”

“terzo, that ‘rat’ is mickey mouse. it’s fine.”

refuses to go on splash mountain because he “doesn’t want to get his hair wet”. the kids beg and beg and beg and he won’t budge but as he sees people walk off fairly dry he’s like “it’s not like i’ll get that wet.”

yeah, he gets soaked. 💀

he makes it through the big drop™ just fine, and lets out a sigh of relief. but as your boat is outside, another boat embarks on the drop, and as it lands, splashes water EVERYWHERE. (everywhere being onto terzo. everyone else is barely sprinkled.)

the kids (and you) get a kick out of that, and he (jokingly) threatens to leave them in the haunted mansion.

of course, his favorite ride is the haunted mansion.

if one of the kids is scared of the haunted mansion for some reason (that was me, haha) he will pick them up and reassure them that papa will absolutely destroy any ghoul or goblin that comes near his precious baby.

he hates the matterhorn mountain. he says it’s because it’s rickety and makes his back hurt. but we all know the truth. it scares him shitless. he SCREAMED when he saw that yeti come around the corner. and of course, the kids laugh their asses off at this. to his defense, that yeti is terrifying.

these kids will never get bored in long lines. terzo is anything but boring. a lot of people will play the disney version of the game “heads up” on their phones in line (basically charades). terzo does too, but he is so funny. he gets so into the acting that other people in line join in.

okay so i think terzo is a foodie, or acts like one, but he’s not above a good mickey mouse pretzel. or a churro. or one of those giant ass turkey legs. yeah, maybe he’s not always a foodie.

totally takes the kids to the bibbidi bobbidi boutique if they want to. (if you don’t know what that is, it’s a place where they give little kids makeovers into a prince/princess/fairy)

and he doesn’t care what character they want, if his little girl wants to be a prince, that’s wonderful. if his son wants to be a fairy, awesome. doesn’t care. doesn’t push any expectations or gender stereotypes onto them.

i honestly think he would like disneyland. he might grumble when there are rude people, say some threatening things in italian under his breath, but beyond that, he has a great time.

and if YOU’RE a disney person too, he loves seeing you experience the magic with your kids.

anything that makes his family happy makes him happy.🥰

————————————————————

AAAA! that’s it!!!

i hope you enjoyed or it brought a bit of fun to your day!🥺

requests are always open!!

❤️, alice

[mywifeleftme]

234: Black Star // Mos Def & Talib Kweli are Black Star

Mos Def & Talib Kweli are Black Star Black Star 1998, Rawkus

Fair warning about the review ahead:

Remember dial-up modems? I croak as my dentures slide down my throat and prolapse my anus. I grew up in a pretty rural part of Ontario, so when I made a conscious effort to get into rap in the early ‘00s at age 17 or so, I was stuck downloading 72MB .rar folders off music blogs that would take 6 to 10 hours on our rickety 56k modem. We only had one phone line, so I would do the bulk of my downloading overnight, hoping that the connection wouldn’t blip out while I slept and leave me with a useless partially downloaded version of like, King of Rock or Straight Out the Jungle or whatever. Money for CDs was limited by my let’s call it principled abstention from getting a job, but when I could skip enough lunches to get a wad of cash together it went right to the music section at whatever big box store I could get a ride to. The first rock and metal CDs I bought in my early teens were predictably humiliating (e.g. Godsmack, the second Buckcherry record), but I was pretentious enough by the time I had my rap phase that my first picks were actually pretty tight: Public Enemy’s Fear of a Black Planet and Mos Def & Talib Kweli Are Black Star.

I had been trying to get a grasp on rap by downloading the canon in chronological order, but because I bought Black Star during this stretch I actually heard it at the same time I was listening to the golden age records it evokes—“Definition” and Boogie Down Productions, “A Children’s Story” and Slick Rick, De La and Tribe and Mos and Talib all in conversation. Nowadays, I tend to be skeptical of artists that pound their chests about being “old school” while aping well-worn trends, but everything comes together so well on Black Star: two emcees just old enough to be the little cousins of the first wave of true rap stars who want their own turn at making music in a style that had already moved on. With the confidence of prodigiously talented young men, they forced that closed door open just wide enough to create what might be the last masterpiece of its branch of the hip-hop family tree.

As of 2023, Mos (now Yasiin Bey) has now released more confusing press releases about his various retirements than great albums, and Talib Kweli is best known for sweatily harassing women who criticize him on Twitter, but Black Star catches each at the height of their abilities, rhyming like visionaries about real shit over tracks that turn the memory of classic beats into myths and ancient mating calls. Was any golden age track closer to the poetic soul than what Mos, Talib, and guest Common do with DJ Hi-Tek’s “Respiration”? Do any feel more true to the spirit of Toni Morrison or Amiri Baraka than the 88-keys-produced “Thieves in the Night”? As young people often do, the Black Star crew looked at a period not more than five to ten years past as though it were time out of mind—but something in the intensity of their nostalgia, the size of the legend they built up in their minds, gave them the space they needed to create a record the equal of their great forebears.

How it happened, I’m not quite sure: it seemed like there were a hundred emcees in the Rawkus orbit who could absolutely rap their asses off, and some talented producers to boot, but you can count on three fingers the number of truly essential LPs that came out of it (I’ll pause here for somebody to lose their shit over my downplaying Pharoahe Monch’s Internal Affairs). But, for a little while anyway, Mos Def could walk on water with a mic in his hand, and he softened Talib’s energy just enough that the uncontrollable torrent of the man’s flow was briefly channeled into a machine of balance and grace. I could listen to the way they pass it back and forth all my life, and I likely will.

234/365

[dicktozier]

has anybody out there seen my man?

Richie Tozier/Eddie Kaspbrak No Clown AU - Drag Queen Richie and Mechanic Eddie

Summary: Richie gets a big ole crush on the mechanic that works at the garage near his house. It seems like he might actually feel the same way!

From the fic:

Richie turned sharply to go into the office with a new surge of confidence. “Hey, I’ve got my rent and I really need to talk to you about something. Oh - ”

Inside the office was not his landlord, old man Joe. Sitting in the chair was the most beautiful man that Richie had ever seen. Round, deep brown eyes looked up at him, mournful and baring into Richie. His hair was combed back, aside from one curling piece that had fallen down against his wrinkled forehead from where his brows rose expectantly. His mouth was pulled into a thin line.

“You’re not Joe.” Richie pointed out, unnecessarily.

“Nope.” The man replied shortly, leaning back in the rickety old office chair with his arms crossed over his name tag. His expression didn’t change much as he eyed Richie. In fact, his eyes may have narrowed into something like a glare.

“I’m Richie. I um, rent from Joe. I live in the house right there.” Richie said, head nodding vaguely in the direction he was referring to.

“Okay.” The man replied in a tone that said he didn’t really give a shit.

“Did you just start working here?” Richie asked.

“Yeah.” He said. Clearly that guy wanted nothing to do with Richie’s awkward attempts at getting to know him.

“Cool … I usually pay my rent in the office, but if you need me to wait - ”

“I can take care of you.”

Richie felt himself blushing. Take care of me however you want , he thought. “Okay.”

The man pulled open a drawer and got out the receipt book. Richie was watching the way that his dark lashes almost laid against his sharp cheekbones when he looked down. When he pushed the sleeves of his coveralls, Richie’s eye caught on the tattoo on his arm. It was a desert scene with a landscape of sharp mountains and a cactus in the center.

“Richie did you say?” The guy was starting to scribble down his name on the booklet.

“Uh-huh.” Eyes shot back up to look at the guy’s face. “Richie Tozier.”

“How the fuck do you spell that?” He looked up at Richie too. 

When they caught eyes, Richie blushed a little. Richie snorted out a little laugh, despite feeling flushed. “T-O-Z-I-E-R.”

He scribbled down the name in jaggedy, rushed writing. He tore off the little receipt and handed it over to Richie. When Richie took it, their fingers brushed and Richie swore that his heart was going to jump out of his chest. He jerked his hand back quickly. So quickly that he forgot to check the man’s coveralls for what his name was.

Read more

[cdwindowss]

Do You Need Replacement Windows in Palos Verdes?

Your house is drafty, your energy bills have gone through the roof, and you’re sick and tired of those ominous rattles your windows make every time the wind blows.

You’re due for an upgrade. Replacement windows in Palos Verdes are calling your name, even whispering the sweet sounds of lower energy consumption and reduced utility costs.

Plus, you’ll reduce outdoor noises at the same time. So, you’ll live in a quieter and more comfortable dwelling. But, you’re probably wondering, “Where do I begin?”

You might feel there are more options for replacement windows than stars in the sky. Should you choose vinyl or wood? What windows are more energy efficient?

Double- or triple-pane? U-factor and solar heat gain – what does it all mean?

So, let’s take a quick stroll through the process so you can determine what’s right for your budget and home.

Why Energy-Efficient Windows Matter At this point, you’re no doubt weary of the air squeezing through those old, rickety windows. So, you want to stop this from happening. You also want to get a utility bill that doesn’t cause you to gasp or rush to the medicine cabinet for an Advil.

Save Money on Utilities Here’s the good news. When you buy new replacement windows, you’ll experience a slash in your utility bills up to 25% annually. That means you’ll have more money for those important things – like streaming videos and brunches at the Four Seasons.

Better Insulation The improved insulation also means cozier digs. No more icy and chilling swirls of wind or muggy heat making you feel too cold or hot, or downright disagreeable. Your new replacement windows in Palos Verdes are designed to seal all those cracks and crevices while keeping the elements out.

Better for the Planet If going green is your thing, energy-efficient windows are more eco-friendly. They reduce carbon emissions from heating and cooling systems, so you’ll be doing your part to save the planet. Every little bit helps when it comes to tackling climate change!

A Wide Customized Selection There are lots of options to suit your needs and budget. Do you want double-hung, casement, curved, or bow windows?

To get the most for your money, choose argon-fill windows and vinyl frames. You can get a lifetime guarantee on almond and white vinyl extrusions. Or, the windows are good for 10 years in other colors.

You shouldn’t have to suffer through another season with those outdated, inefficient energy-consuming windows. Make the switch and upgrade to something that will save you money, boost your level of comfort, and help the environment at the same time.

Types of Energy-Efficient Windows: Double or Triple Glazed? Double-glazed windows have two panes of glass with a sealed air space in between. They’re a solid upgrade from a single pane and can reduce heat loss by 50% or more. Not too shabby.

Triple glazed ups the ante with three panes of glass and even more insulation. They’ll slash heat transfer by 60-70% for the ultimate in energy efficiency.

Looking at the Specs When comparing specs, look for a low U-value, like 0.30 or less, which indicates good insulation. A high solar heat gain means the window lets in lots of free heat and light from the sun. Look for 0.40 or higher.

Still confused? Don’t worry. Your window pro can walk you through the options to find ones that fit your lifestyle and budget. The bottom line: any well-insulated, double- or triple-glazed window will significantly lower your energy bills and make your home more inviting.

Window Frame Materials: Vinyl vs Wood vs Aluminum

When it comes to replacement windows, you’ve got options—and opinions. Vinyl, wood, aluminum – which frame material is right for you? Let’s narrow it down.

Premium Vinyl Vinyl (uPVC) frames are low-maintenance and budget-friendly. They never need painting and are resistant to rot, warping, and the weather. If you want top energy efficiency and curb appeal for less, vinyl’s the best.

Wood Wood frames are attractive and high-quality but require frequent maintenance. They insulate well but can warp or rot over time if not properly maintained. Wood’s ideal if you want a natural look and don’t mind the upkeep. Or the cost. Wood windows can also be pricey.

Aluminum Aluminum frames are durable and low-maintenance but are poor insulators. They’re suitable for milder climates but may not meet energy efficiency standards in colder areas. Aluminum windows are also on the higher end of the cost spectrum.

In summary:

Vinyl: Low-cost, low-maintenance, good efficiency. Wood: Beautiful, high-quality, high-maintenance, pricey. Aluminum: Durable, low-maintenance, poor insulation, pricey. Overall, vinyl is an affordable, low-maintenance option. Wood may be a little more eco-friendly, but requires frequent painting or staining. It also deteriorates, which makes vinyl more attractive. Aluminum is sturdy but has fewer insulating qualities.

The choice comes down to your priorities and pain points. Want to save energy and money? A premium customized vinyl window will give you what you want in terms of energy saving and improved aesthetics.

When shopping for new windows, consider the climate in your area, costs and incentives, and how long you plan to stay in your home.

Replacement Windows in Palos Verdes from California Deluxe Windows

Call California Deluxe Windows to make the upgrade. It’s your go-to source for energy efficiency.

[witcher-and-his-bard]

The Baker and the Bard

Pairing: Jaskier x Sam the baker Warning(s): none Rating: explicit

Fic Summary: After his performance, Jaskier meets a fan who turns out to be more than he expected. 

As promised, my Sam the baker fic ❤ I would tag all the fics before me, but there are SO MANY now!! If anyone wants to add or read the rest of them, check out our collection on ao3: a legend in the baking

"Watch me burn all the memories of you…"

Jaskier slumps even as cheers break out all around him. He doesn't have it in him anymore, not really. He was so angry at the beginning and now he just feels… lost. Clasping his lute, he rises to his feet and heads for the bar. It's where he said he would be, after all.

He orders an ale and slips his lute to his back as he sits on one of the rickety stools, looking down at the countertop. There are names and initials carved into the wood and it only makes him more miserable. He will never be one of those people so in love that they feel the need to tell everyone who comes to the tavern. Not anymore. Truthfully, he never really had a chance with Geralt, but it still feels like the end of Jaskier's hope, knowing that Geralt is moving on without him now.

There's a warm hand pressed to his shoulder and Jaskier spins around, tipping a little in his state. He's expecting to see Geralt behind him - he always is - and half-drunk and miserable is not the way he wants to be found. But it's not Geralt behind him. It's the curly-haired man from the audience. He's been watching Jaskier all night, never taking his eyes off him and for the first time in a long time, Jaskier had felt good.

The man is a little shorter than him with pitch black curls and a kind face. A few months back, Jaskier would already be trying to get him into bed. But tonight, no one deserves to have to deal with him, so he's just about to send the man away when he speaks.

"'M Sam," he smiles, "wanted to come and congratulate you on a wonderful performance." Jaskier lifts his eyes to meet Sam's. "Thought you might be in need of someone to talk to," Sam adds gently, "maybe a home-cooked meal?"

"I'm-" Jaskier starts, defaulting to his usual I'm fine, but he's not. And Sam knows it. "Could do to get out of here," he shrugs.

Sam holds a hand out and Jaskier lets him help him down off his seat and lead him toward the door. It's a balmy summer night and the stars are bright above them as Jaskier stumbles out of the tavern.

"Sounds like someone hurt you," Sam offers, looking up encouragingly as Jaskier falls in line with him.

And Jaskier pauses. In that moment he realizes it's the first time since Caingorn - if not longer - that someone has stopped to ask if he's alright, to offer him an outlet for it.

"I've heard a few of your songs, I'm a regular at the tavern, so to speak."

"Ah," Jaskier says.

"I don't mean to pry, just thought it might be nice to have a one on one instead of sharing your feelings with the whole continent for once."

"I-" Jaskier chokes, "yeah."

"You don't have to say anything, just know I'm here to talk. What do you think you'd like for supper?"

On the walk to Sam's house, Jaskier finds himself opening up rather more than he had intended, telling Sam all about Geralt and Yen and the dragon hunt - ah, so the lutanist didn't really wind up with the huntresses after all, hm? - and everything he's been through since. Things he hasn't told anyone before, not even Geralt. And Sam seems to know exactly what to say to ease the hurt.

By the time they arrive at their destination - a bakery? - Jaskier has mostly sobered up and realized he's imposed himself on a perfect stranger. He stops short outside the door, fiddling with his lute strap.

"I- uh, I shouldn't," he says and Sam just gives him a lopsided smile that makes Jaskier's heart ache in a way he wishes it wouldn't.

"Listen," Sam says, "I invited you and what kind of host would I be if I let you leave before supper, hm? Come in, make yourself comfortable. When was the last time you had a decent meal?"

"I…" Jaskier thinks back and he genuinely doesn't know. He hasn't been making much off his performances, other than Burn, the songs don't seem to hit the way he wants them to and no one is as enthusiastic about them as they were Toss a Coin. "I don't know," he finishes honestly and Sam tuts at him, holding the door open for Jaskier to enter first.

Sam's house is small and comfortable, and Jaskier is directed to the kitchen where he takes a seat at the small table and watches. Sam busies himself in the kitchen quickly and easily pulling out flour and eggs and a variety of things Jaskier doesn't recognize.

"Ever made dumplings?" Sam asks and Jaskier shakes his head.

"I grew up with people to do that for me. Then I travelled so much it wasn't worth learning."

"Want to help?" Sam smiles up at him and Jaskier can't really say no. He shrugs out of his jacket and pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, noting the way Sam watches him as he does so.

"You know," Jaskier says, rounding the counter, "you shouldn't invite strange men back to your house."

"Believe me," Sam grins, making space for Jaskier to slip in beside him, "I've invited much stranger men home for much more nefarious purposes."

Jaskier smiles. There's something about Sam that just puts him at ease and he finds himself relaxing in a way he hasn't in months.

"Okay," Sam starts, laying out the ingredients and explaining their purposes, "first add flour into the bowl, then the salt and a little bit of sugar-"

Jaskier does as he's told, careful to measure correctly until the two sets of ingredients are mixed together. At this point, Sam instructs him to take the dough out and put it on the counter which seems… wrong. But Jaskier is neither a baker nor a chef, so he follows instructions.

"Now you have to knead it," Sam says, coming up to bracket Jaskier in, hands closing over Jaskier's. "Push like this, then fold it over itself. Just like that." Sam stays for a few turns but Jaskier picks it up quickly and is shortly left to his own devices as Sam goes to collect Vegetables. Jaskier finds he misses him when he's gone.

It's ridiculous, he tells himself, to start getting attached to someone just because he's kind and offered to cook for him. But Sam is also beautiful, with his bright eyes and dark hair and soft body that Jaskier can only imagine curling up against during the long winter nights.

He shakes his head, pushing the fantasy aside, he's clearly not as sober as he thought.

But when Sam returns to check on him, he tells Jaskier he's doing a good job and Jaskier's heart swells, thudding against his chest. And fuck. His mother always told him he'd get his heart broken falling for the wrong person, but he'd thought that was Geralt, not some tavern patron he doesn't think he'll ever see again. Then Sam's gone again and Jaskier sighs.

"Something wrong?" comes a voice from behind him and when Jaskier turns, Sam is there holding up a cup of water to him.

"No, I just- thank you, for being so inviting," he says quietly, "it's been a long time since I've met someone so kind."

"Then you've been spending time with the wrong people," Sam says matter of factly, "maybe you should stay in town a while, it's a lovely little place."

Jaskier tries to quickly wrangle his thoughts, assuring himself that Sam is not telling him to stay for his own purposes. He's just being friendly. But something tells Jaskier otherwise, even if he doesn't want to risk believing it. He doesn't realize his hands are sinking into the dough until he's being gently nudged out of the way so Sam can take over once more.

"Sorry," Jaskier mumbles but Sam just grins at him.

"No harm done, it's just about ready to rise now anyway. Why don't we go sit down? Supper will be a little bit yet."

Sam leads him next to a sitting room with a large fireplace at one end and while Jaskier sits, Sam works on getting it lit, piling logs up and striking flint. It reminds Jaskier of the nights he used to spend trying to light fires for Geralt and watching Sam makes the memory hurt a little less. He tells himself he's just being ridiculous again, but he finds he does really like Sam, even as little as he knows him. And maybe staying in town wouldn't be such a bad plan after all.

Sam talks a little about himself as they wait to continue with dinner, tells Jaskier about the bakery and how he delivers bread and rolls to the tavern.

"Is that what you were doing there tonight?" Jaskier asks, shifting to face Sam.

"Ah, yes.." Sam says sheepishly, ducking his head. "Actually, I have something of a confession to make. The first time I saw you there I couldn't stop thinking about you. You just seemed so sad and it didn't feel right. You'd sang that Kiss song when I was making a delivery and I… was enthralled. I sat down and watched the rest of your performance."

Oh. Jaskier doesn't know what to say. He feels bad for not noticing Sam earlier, but he's been too wrapped up in himself to notice anyone in particular. But the warmth that spreads through his chest now is a welcome change.

"You're too kind," he says softly, "I hope I haven't bored you with my misery."

"Not at all. The songs are heartbreaking but beautiful and I found myself waiting for you to come back, making my deliveries earlier so I wouldn't miss you."

"Sam," Jaskier says quietly, "I…" he doesn't know what to say. He's a master of words but there are none appropriate to explain how he feels at this moment. "Thank you," is all he can think of and Sam's cheeks flush even darker. It's a good look on him and normally Jaskier would use this as an excuse to tip forward and kiss his cheek, but something about this whole scenario feels more than simple teasing.

He likes Sam, would like to know more about Sam and he hadn't felt like that in a long time.

"Well, I suppose I should get your room set up," Sam says, fidgeting with his sleeve. "Make yourself at home."

Jaskier does, selling into the sofa and waiting for Sam to finish. He wonders how appropriate it would be to ask if Sam has a partner, he wouldn't want to offend or give the wrong impression. Even if the impression wouldn't strictly be wrong.

Sam is soft and kind and despite having known him for half an hour, Jaskier feels drawn to him. And after the confession, he wonders if Sam might share some of that feeling. But Jaskier doesn't want to take advantage of kindness, nor put Sam in an uncomfortable position, so despite a desire for closeness, Jaskier makes up his mind to say nothing unless Sam does first.

But the thought of him coming and listening to every performance… he can't get it out of his head. It's such a small thing, but something that makes Jaskier dust and warm to think of.

He gets up to check on the supper, stirring the vegetables in their pot and bending low to smell the stew. It smells incredible and his stomach rumbles in response. Sam was right, it has been a long time since he's had a decent meal.

Supper doesn't take much longer and after they've finished eating, Sam asks if he'd like a bath. And Jaskier doesn't want to ask for too much, but a bath before bed would be lovely. He hasn't had the extra coin for some time and he's feeling grungier than he likes.

"You've already been so kind," he tries, but Sam just shakes his head with a smile and insists.

It's already late in the evening, so Jaskier offers to pour his own bath so Sam can get to bed. He intends to clean the dishes from supper as well, but when he goes down to the kitchen to check in, Sam's tidied everything already. Jaskier will have to think of something else to pay back his generosity.

As he climbs the stairs, already unbuttoning his shirt, he considers writing a song about Sam. The best baker the continent knows. Or something like that.

Jaskier strips fully when he gets into the bathroom, laying his clothes neatly on a chair. He pours the bath, adding a few salts he finds set out for him and then steps into the hot water. It's lovely and relaxing and a pleasant change from the streams and rivers he's been bathing in lately.

Jaskier lets himself sink into the water, right up to his chin, still mentally trying to work out a rhyme for generous. He shuts his eyes, thinking about Sam, his dark curls and friendly face and his mind starts to wander, imagining those arms uncovered, strong bakers' arms. Sam is probably beautiful under all his clothes, as soft and warm as he is in personality. But Jaskier quickly cuts off that train of thought when his mind wanders lower.

He shouldn't. Sam has been kind to him and he doesn't deserve Jaskier's horny thoughts about him. So Jaskier finishes washing up quickly before getting out and drying off. He wears the bath sheet to the bedroom Sam set up for him and finds sleep clothes laid out on top of a spare blanket at the end of the bed and Jaskier smiles sadly to himself.

Sam is too kind, too thoughtful to be stuck in such a miserable little town, he deserves better things. Jaskier pulls the trousers on but leaves the shirt, still warm from his bath, before pulling the covers back and slipping into bed. He curls up under the covers, comfortable and warm, and shuts his eyes. For the first time in ages, he falls asleep quickly and without worry about what's to come tomorrow.

But in the middle of the night, Jaskier is awoken abruptly. He's soaked in sweat and panting and he looks frantically around the room, the sense of loneliness and fear only sinking deeper when he realizes he's alone and he doesn't recognize the room. A creak catches his attention and he snaps his eyes over to where the bedroom door opens, settling only when Sam's head peers around it. Immediately, Jaskier slumps back against the headboard. A dream he thinks, just a dream.

"Everything okay?" Sam asks and JAskier nods quickly, but the fear and sadness must still show on his face because Sam takes a step into the room, letting the door shut behind him. "Can I sit?" he asks and Jaskier whispers a soft, yeah.

"Want to talk about it?" Sam offers and for a moment Jaskier just looks at him. He's not accustomed to talking about his nightmares. He's been alone for months now, waking up every couple of nights this way, but even with Geralt, there was no discussion. Geralt would simply tell him he was safe and Jaskier would try to get back to bed.

"If… you don't mind?"

"Of course not."

"I just… I know it's silly, but I keep dreaming about being left behind. That I'll never find somewhere I fit, that even-" saying it out loud is harder than he imagined and his chest feels tight, but Sam just lays an understanding hand on his leg and rubs gently through the blankets. "I'm afraid," Jaskier whispers. "I don't want to lose anyone else."

"He must have meant a lot to you," Sam says gently, "your Witcher."

"He was my best friend," Jaskier chokes. "I didn't- I don't know what I did wrong."

"I don't know him, so obviously I can't say for certain, but it seems to me he's the one who's missing out. I can't imagine why anyone would want to give up someone like you."

"You don't know me either," Jaskier says softly, dipping his head. "It's not always music and joy."

"I know enough."

Jaskier huffs a quiet laugh and Sam reaches out, tipping Jaskier's head up with two fingers under his chin. Jaskier meets his eyes and there's a softness there that's unbearable to look directly at. In an attempt not to face him and without thinking, Jaskier leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Sam's lips without realizing what he's doing.

"Oh," Jaskier exclaims. Dread fills him and he moves to pull back, but Sam catches him, sliding a soft hand around the back of his neck. "I'm sorry," Jaskier mumbles, but Sam just smiles at him.

"If I can help, I want to."

"It's not- I don't want to do that to you and it's not… I'm sorry."

"Tell me how I can help, then," Sam says and Jaskier has to force his eyes away because he knows that kissing Sam, that pulling him close and feeling him against him would help. But sex is only a temporary distraction and something about Sam feels… less temporary than Jaskier wants to admit.

"Just… stay?" he asks, "for a little while?"

"Of course."

Sam lets him go and Jaskier shuffles over to make space for him on the mattress, tucking himself into the corner against the wall. And when Sam settles, he's so close and Jaskier shuts his eyes, inhaling the scent of him, a combination of ground spice and fresh-baked bread. He smiles to himself and he can hear Sam hum comfortably.

"Bet you didn't expect this when you brought me back here," Jaskier jokes, "don't suppose this is usually how you wind up in someone's bed." Sam laughs, hearty and genuine and Jaskier can't help but smile at him.

"No," Sam admits, "but this feels nicer. Can I-" he presses his hand to Jaskier's hip, waiting for a response and when Jaskier nods, Sam slips an arm around him, shifting closer. "Okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, 's nice. Thank you, for… everything. It's not often you meet someone so kind when you really need it."

"Not to be too forward," Sam says, shifting to press his forehead to Jaskiers, "but you're welcome to stay here as long as you like. I could use the company and well, it's not often you meet someone like you."

"A wreck?"

"Not at all," Sam whispers and when Jaskier opens his eyes, Sam is watching him intently. "I think you're lovely. Thought you were from the first time I laid eyes on you but now I really see it."

Jaskier is about to tell him he's wrong when Sam's nose bumps against his own and he can feel his breath against his lips.

"Jaskier," Sam breathes, "can I kiss you?"

"Yes."

Sam's lips are soft when they press against his own and Jaskier immediately presses into it, sighing as Sam's arms wind around his waist and hold him closer. It's been so long since he's had a gentle touch that it's a little overwhelming and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling a shaky breath as he reaches up to tangle his fingers in Sam's hair.

They move together softly, Sam sliding a thigh between Jaskier's legs and constantly keeping Jaskier close, and it feels so comfortable, so familiar that Jaskier settles into it with ease, the nightmare all but forgotten in Sam's warm embrace. And when Sam slips from his lips, pressing kisses down Jaskier's jaw and neck, Jaskier can't help the soft little moans that spill from his lips, the only thing to break the silence of the room.

He basks in the attention, parting his lips and deepening the kiss as Sam's hand slips to his thigh, the leg of his trousers pushed up far enough that Sam's hand skims beneath it. And Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath, aching to encourage Sam's gentle exploration but unsure of how much is too far. But when Sam moves again, pressing into him, Jaskier can feel the unmistakable press of a hard cock against his leg and he groans out loud, catching Sam's lips in a heated kiss.

He reaches between them, sliding his palm down Sam's stomach, but before he can even reach his cock, Sam pulls away.

"Sorry," he whispers, breathless and unfairly beautiful in the moonlight. "'S been a while, I didn't mean to-"

"Don't apologize," Jaskier hums, nuzzling under his jaw, "I take it as a compliment."

"You're not aroused-" Sam starts, but Jaskier cuts him off.

"It's alright, darling. I'm just- It's not you, I assure you."

"I don't want to push."

"You're not," Jaskier breathes, shuffling back into Sam's space. "Can I touch you?"

"If you want."

"I do. Very much."

Jaskier reaches down, pulling Sam's shirt up over his chest before tossing it aside and smiling over at him. He runs his fingers through the thick thatch of dark curls covering his chest and smiles as he leans forward, rubbing his nose in Sam's chest hair.

"You're beautiful," Jaskier whispers, "stunning. I'm sorry I can't make it better for you." He stretches up, kissing under Sam's jaw and again he finds himself tugged forward, but this time a hand slides over his hip, pushing his trousers down as Sam mumbles against him,

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Jaskier."

Sam's large hand slides down over the swell of Jaskier's ass, forcing the roll of his hips and Jaskier moans as Sam's prick slides against his hip, hot and hard. Any other time, Jaskier would be aching to get his mouth on him, to suck him dry and then do it all over again, but tonight feels different. Tonight he's more than happy to let Sam rut against him so long as he remains bracketed in his strong arms, held.

Jaskier gets one arm around Sam's neck, kissing him again as his other hand slides between them. He runs down Sam's chest and over the soft swell of his stomach before slipping his fingers into the dark curls at the base of Sam's cock. His fingers slip around him and Sam's hips give a quick jerk and he kisses back harder.

"Jask- oh-"

"Shh," Jaskier whispers, "you've been so good to me, let me make you feel good, too."

Jaskier slips his fingers around Sam's cock, sliding up to the head and stroking him slowly to start. A pulse of lust zips right through him, but Jaskier's prick remains stubbornly soft, despite the way Sam makes him feel. But it doesn't deter him, Jaskier just doubles down on the attention he gives to Sam, quickening his pace and dipping his head to mouth at Sam's nipples.

Sam rolls his hips, pressing into Jaskier's touch, and moaning softly into his hair.

"Just like that," he whispers and Jaskier hums against him.

As Jaskier shifts to get his leg between Sam's, Sam's hand sides over the swell of his ass, fingers dipping between his cheeks. Jaskier shudders and his hips jerk back into the touch instinctively.

"like that?"

"Yeah, 's good. Don't have to-"

"Want to," Sam mumbles, kissing him quiet. Jaskier huffs a shaky moan against him as Sam's fingertips brush against his hole.

Jaskier knows he shouldn't encourage this, that he can't actually get off this way because he was not prepared for this and he doesn't have any oil or-

"Jaskier," Sam hums, "you're thinking too hard. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"If you want me to stop, I will."

"No, no, not at all I just- just wish I'd been prepared, I guess."

Sam nuzzles under his throat, humming softly. "Do you want to come?" Jaskier looks up at him, meeting his eyes even as Sam presses against him again and JAskier's eyes flutter shut. "You're allowed to want this," Sam breathes, "and I want to make you feel good."

"Yeah," Jaskier nods, "I want you." Sam presses a little more firmly and Jaskier groans.

"Tell me if it's too much?"

As Sam pushes further, breaching the first ring of muscle, Jaskier's grip on Sam's cock falters, but Sam seems unconvinced, more focused on where he's touching Jaskier than anything else. Jaskier tries to keep steady, but soon Sam takes his hands and wraps them around the back of his neck, whispering that he wants Jaskier to relax.

And it's hard for Jaskier to just lie there and take, but Sam is insistent and Jaskier tries his best for him. He can't keep himself from touching though, stroking Sam's face and brushing fingers through his hair as Sam sinks deeper into him.

He's slow and cautious, careful not to hurt Jaskier as he presses a second finger around the second. He doesn't push in, but Jaskier can't help but push his hips back to get him to try. When he does, Sam withdraws altogether and Jaskier whimpers against his collar bone, burying his head in Sam's chest. But Sam shifts against him, reaching away behind him and when he returns, his fingers are slick and cool.

Jaskier gasps at the first touch and then his leg is hiked up over Sam's hip.

"Shh," Sam whispers, "it's okay."

He slicks Jaskier's hole and presses into him, hips shifting again to rock against Jaskier's hip. And when he sinks two fingers into him, Sam kisses him hard and Jaskier twitches against him, rocking back onto his fingers even as he arches into Sam's chest. And when Sam's hips stutter against him, his motions speed up, sinking deeper into Jaskier's body and thrusting hard.

Jaskier gets caught up in it, panting against Sam's mouth as the pressure builds within him. He's obsessed with the way Sam ruts against him, with the feeling of his cock against his skin, and he's so close. Closer than he should be considering he can't even get it up. Then with a groan, Sam jerks hard against him, spilling over Jaskier's hip, and Jaskier comes with him.

They move together, panting and kissing between breaths, Jaskier shuddering through his orgasm until Sam pulls out and wipes his hand clean on the sheets.

Jaskier expects him to leave now, either because he regrets it or because he's finished, but Sam just cuddles closer, wrapping his arms around Jaskier and hugging him close. And Jaskier isn't quite sure what to do with that. But he doesn't want Sam to leave, so he presses up against his chest, leaving soft little kisses against Sams' bicep.

"You're incredible," Sam mumbles, "so, so lovely." Jaskier just buries his face in Sam's chest, but Sam draws him back up again to kiss him gently. "You don't have to hide from me."

"Okay," Jaskier whispers and Sam hums as he lets Jaskier settle against him again.

They lay in silence for some time and Jaskier settles himself to the sound of Sam's heartbeat, steady and comforting in the stillness of the room. He wants to stay here forever, comfortable in this space with this brilliant man, but he doesn't think he can say that just yet. He can, however, stay a little while.

"I think, if you don't mind, that I would like to stay for a while."

"Mm, I'd be more than happy to have you."

"You don't even know me," Jaskier teases, tracing a line down Sam's stomach.

"I know you well enough."

[bittermuire]

a nightlight and a bottle of wine

recently I’ve really loved nezriel and wanted to write a lil thing for them. this will be two parts, this is the first. modern au

---

It’s not like Nesta really knew what she was doing when she moved out. All she knows is that there is a rift between her and Feyre; a scar splitting their shared skin, a wound opening and reopening, never to heal.

And so she’s away. They’ve made their mistakes and let them be. They’ve hurt each other and even tried to love, but sisters love each other too much for love—and so she’s away. The guilt is still there, but farther from her, now. Nesta stirs it into her morning coffee and drinks the sleep, wiping it from beneath her eyes and the lines around her mouth.

Every so often Cassian will text her, inviting her out to dinner or to a work party, and Nesta resists the urge to throttle him. He’s a very smart, thirty-five year old man. He should know what cutting off someone means.

(He knows, of course he knows. She guesses he just thinks it doesn’t apply to him.)

His roguish charm, his smirk, his low voice, all inviting her to one thing—sex—was beginning to exhaust her. It’s a surprising relief to be away from him. She feels like she can wear tank tops and let her hair down and go out without a bra, relieved he won’t be there to stare.

(Was she really so afraid of him?)

So Nesta lives her life and drinks her coffee, wears her tank tops and sleeps in her underwear, finally a woman in the way she’s always wanted to be; she feels discrete from the rest of the world but in a near comforting way. She has no one to disappoint, no one to miss. Her world is confined to very few people and her mind allows for one.

•

But there are things that trip her up. Remaining ties.

One such: the nightlight clipped to her bed. It’s cheap, a gaudy silver. She’s sure Azriel bought it for no more than two dollars.

But she uses it every night.

(This trips her up.)

It’s a routine she’s given to herself, written into the margins of her life; she climbs into bed, smooths the blankets over her legs, grabs her book, opens it on her lap, then twists and switches on the light. It illuminates the page with a pretty, golden sun. She uses it religiously. She thinks that if she lost it, some intrinsic part of her might be lost as well, and this frightens her.

Remaining ties should be snipped. These last threads should be spooled up, put away, hidden in the bottom drawer.

She switches it on anyway, watches the light trace the letters.

(Sometimes she thinks she is the black stamp of letters. The utter bleakness of them on the smooth page. Sometimes she thinks she is what ruins the paper. She is what ruined the paper. There’s a reason she is here and they are there.)

•

November 19th.

Happy birthday to me.

She buys a cake from the supermarket and blows out the candle.

There’s a knock at the door, late at night. Not thinking to check, she goes to open it, and there stands Azriel, still in the doorway, bottle of wine in hand.

“Happy birthday,” he says bluntly.

She lets him in for some reason she still doesn’t understand, and they end up drinking a glass together. It’s from Cassian, the wine—his favorite. Azriel tells her that Cassian didn’t think she’d take it from him.

“So he asked you,” she says.

He smiles. “Because you like me.”

1:00 AM, and they’re still drinking. They barely talk. They just sit; they sit on the kitchen stools, then the rickety chairs, then the floor, then the couch, then back to the floor. His cheeks are pink, his words slurred.

“Why’d you come?” she asks, peering down at where he lays, splayed out, on the carpet.

(He’s not the kind for favors, she knows that.)

Opening his eyes, he fixes his gaze on her. He smiles sleepily.

“Happy birthday, Nesta.”

•

She doesn’t really celebrate for the holidays. Her apartment is bare, save a pair of twinkling bells on the kitchen counter, tied with a red ribbon. Sometimes when she’s cooking she’ll give them a little ring.

The letter comes in the mail—from Feyre, clearly put there by her own hand. It’s an invitation to dinner, for the winter solstice. They’re celebrating early this year because they’re going out of town for a few weeks.

(Please don’t feel pressured to come. We were going to leave you be but Az, since he’s so considerate, thought you might appreciate an invite.)

Nesta picks up her phone and texts Feyre a simple no thanks.

•

The next morning, she opens her door to a bottle of wine. Its neck is tied with a cherry red ribbon, and there’s a note—“If you’re ever lonely, give me a call. It’s my favorite.”

She doesn’t need to see who it’s from to know.

She smiles and picks it up, taking it inside.

•

It bites, the loneliness.

She wasn’t prepared for the quiet.

She traded in insults and jabs and sweaty hands at dinner tables for nothing, nothing, nothing. Silence in the shower, silence over breakfast. Over time, it’s begun to grate on her skin, sift between the strands of her hair, and she feels like she’s swimming a meter below the surface, ears clogged, vision blurred.

And slowly, she’s started to cry; she cries when the silence is too loud, when her aloneness is real, when she realizes the ugly truth of it all. She’s alone, she has nobody, she’s alone.

She picks up her phone and dials his number. “Let’s drink your wine.”

A small quiet. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“I know, Nesta,” he laughs. “I’ll be there.”

•

They don’t drink at all, actually. She starts crying again the minute she sees his face.

“Nesta?”

•

“I’m fine, really.”

They’re walking down the aisle of the grocery store, weeks later.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m doing better, I am.”

He shrugs. “I don’t care. Pick a flavor. We’ll eat it, we’ll watch a movie.” He looks her up and down, brow creased. “You need two things—no, make that three things.”

She huffs a laugh, sticking her hand into the freezer and pulling out a carton. “What?”

“Sleep, ice cream, and company.” He grins. “And now you’ve got me.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky you.”

•

He’s seen her beautiful; he’s seen her ugly. He’s seen her in her rattiest apron with flour crusted into her fingernails. He’s seen her laugh so hard she cries, watched her slam her head into an open cupboard door, driven her to the hospital when she sliced her hand open with a knife. They’re together a lot, she realizes. They’re not halves; they’re one and one, and one and one make two, and they stand as two together on sidewalks, squinting at menus in the windows of restaurants, and they pet dogs in the park (Nesta always asks, because Az gets shy), and they take walks at midnight, and they live their lives contentedly next to each other’s. She starts to wonder if he splits his life into two—into Cassian and Rhys and Mor and Feyre, and into her, the girl who walked away. She’d like to know why he followed her.

Sometimes she’ll catch herself staring. Even before Cassian, she’d thought Azriel was the most beautiful of the three; all graceful, sloping shadows, soft and deep eyes, curling black hair. Her heart doesn’t know what to do anymore. It skips a beat when she sees him, but calms when she’s near him. It races when he leans close, falls to steadiness when he slings his arm over her shoulders. She can’t decide if she loves him like this or loves him like that. He means so much to her, means so many different things, that to give him a singular word wouldn’t fit.

She calls him Azriel, Az, Steve, Steven Shadow, Mr. Shadow, Ralph, Ron, He of the Candied Pecans, You. He responds to all of it. Recently he told her that it wasn’t because of the name, but because of the voice—(of course I don’t know who Ralph is, Nesta, but your voice, it’s your voice you use for me)—and she felt warm for reasons she couldn’t understand.

She shows up unannounced at his apartment when it’s a bad night. He does the same.

•

“Tell me the truth,” she begins, tipsy. “Did you like me before?”

“What?”

“Did you like me before?”

He frowns. “Elaborate.”

“Before you learned I’m a nice person. Back at the townhouse. When I hated everyone and was rude to you.”

“Oh.” He laughs a little. “I always liked you,” he says, and then his face settles into something like sadness. Nesta watches him closely. “I didn’t like… the way you made me feel, though. I’d see you down the hall, tired and everything, a stick of a person, and Rhys would make some joke, and I’d hate him.”

She blinks.

He looks down. “I’d never hated him before.”

There’s a tension between them. It’s common enough to be recognizable, but not enough to be familiar. She’s on edge, unsure.

The silence seeps in.

“And I hated myself, too,” he says. His eyes flick back up to hers.

Her breath catches in her chest. “I hated myself because I didn’t do anything. So I stayed away.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, overwhelmed. Everything is building; everything is quiet. His eyes are deep and dark and swirling. He shakes his head slightly, leaning closer, slowly, slowly, and she sees it all happen—he takes her face in his hands. She can see the stray strand of hair on his forehead, the one eyelash resting by his nose, the mole right above his mouth.

“I watched you fade,” he breathes. “I watched them pull you around.”

She twines one finger into his hair, trying to bring him closer, trying to have him closer. Come here, Azriel. Come with me. Be with me, love me, because I love you.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, because it’s all she can say.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he murmurs, and kisses her.

•

“Wait,” he says, reaching up.

“What?”

He touches the nightlight. “You kept this?”

She laughs, curled into his side, and says, “Of course I did.” He drops a kiss to her hair. “They all bought me books. You made it easy to read them.”

—-

@acosfisfeysandpropaganda I finally wrote it!!

[red-archivist]

Not quite part of the liveblog but, lil post-092 hc fic :3

~~ 

As he leaves Elias’ office, Jon’s feet automatically take him down the stairs leading to the archives.

  It is a habit that his long absence hasn’t managed to break but he stops himself from walking straight into his own office.

To do so, he would have to pass the open space where the assistants work, and call him a coward but he just isn’t quite ready to see the state that Elias’ little reveal has left the others in.

  He retreats to the breakroom instead, keeping the lights off and taking a moment to take a few steadying breaths in the cool darkness.

As soon as he stops moving, the injuries he has been ignoring loudly make themselves known.

The constant ache of his burned hand provides a low steady hum of contrast to the staccato pulse of his throbbing throat.

He needs to clean them both up in order to avoid infection, and if he doesn’t want some concerned passer-by to call an ambulance on him when he leaves, he will have to bandage his neck as well.

He walks to the nearest press and begins rooting around for the first aid kit. It doesn’t seem to be where he last saw it months ago and a stumbling search in the dim light reveals nothing to him.

Jon is about to give up and just try to give himself a bit of a rinse in the sink when suddenly the door creaks open, and the lights click on behind him.

He whirls around with his heart in his bloody throat expecting something to pounce on him. Perhaps it is Tim come to take his weary anger out on him? Or Daisy aiming to finish what she started? Or maybe Elias with some other unsolvable puzzle to dump into his lap?

The fright only lasts an instant however, when he sees who is standing in the doorway looking even more surprised to see him.

“Martin,” He sighs with relief.

Martin’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he manages to find his voice.

“Uh, h-hi?”

“…Hi. Did you- Ah. W-Was the first aid kit moved?” Jon points to the mess he has made of the open presses.

Martin jumps in place before rushing forward.

“Oh! Uh, y-yeah, sorry!”

He crouches down to pull the kit out from under the sink and when Jon raises a questioning eyebrow, he shrugs meekly.

“Melanie moved it,” He says, “She said we all had to be able to reach it in an emergency.”

“Right.”

He takes the box from Martin with just one hand, keeping the bandaged one away from his body at an angle so it won’t bump into anything.

  It’s a heavy, clunky thing and hoisting it onto the counter makes his joints sting. Ignoring the pain, he flips the latch and starts rummaging through it. A thin roll of bandages, antiseptic cream, gauze and dressing are placed in a pile on the counter as he mentally goes through the half-remembered steps of cleaning an open wound.

Just as Jon starts to unravel the hand bandage, the side of his face burns with awareness. He looks over to find Martin staring at him.

  His gaze lingers on his hand, taking in the old bandages and his cracked nails, both still caked in grave dirt. Jon does his best not to squirm under the scrutiny.

 When Martin’s eyes dart to the mound of medical supplies Jon is compiling, he also realises he is taking up most of the counter space.

“Am I… in your way?” He asks, about to sweep it all to the side.

Martin starts, as if he just remembered where he was and stammers as he turns away from him

“N-No! Sorry, sorry!”

He fusses with the kettle, taking out mugs as it boils, and does not face Jon again.

Jon is glad for the privacy. He doesn’t want to look at his own hand any longer than he has to, no-one else needs to see it.

As he peels the rest of the dirty wrappings off, they catch on his ruined skin and he can’t quite hold back a pained hiss. The burn is still dreadful to see, blistered like bubbling wax and so red it’s almost black. It weeps a clear discharge, making the whole thing reek a fluid, animal smell.

  He rinses it off in the sink, pats it awkwardly dry, smears the whole thing in antiseptic cream and clumsily wraps it up again. It’s a messy, slow process and he barely remembers to clean his other hand as well.

Martin stays stock still as he works, standing guard over two brewing mugs and, as he glances at him, Jon can practically see the questions he wants to ask in the stiff line of his shoulders.

  Jon feels both grateful and guilty that Martin holds his tongue. He owes him answers but his mouth is so tired of talking.

Tentatively, he starts prodding at the cut on his neck. It is long but shallow, already clotting. He can feel the skin around it is tender with a blossoming bruise. Daisy wanted it to hurt.

Jon pries his mind away from that thought. If he thinks about how close he came to dying today, he won’t be able to keep himself standing, nevermind clean up.

He just needs to get through the next few steps, and then he can go back to Georgie’s, lay down somewhere quiet and try not to have a complete breakdown. Laying out gauze and dressing, he wets a clean tea towel. He is halfway to raising it to his neck before he realises his mistake.

“Damn.”

“…Jon?”

Martin is peering over his shoulder at him, concern drawn in deep lines around his face.

Jon blinks back at him. He had almost forgotten he was there.

“I… uh,” He waves the tea towel, “I need two hands, should have done this first.”

He is going to ruin the clean wrappings on his hand. He will either have to do them again or wait to get back to the house and hope Georgie won’t be too pissed off to help him. Clucking his tongue, he weighs up his options.

“Um… Do you…” Martin’s soft voice cuts across his thoughts, “I mean, I can… i-if you want?”

“What?” Jon turns and sees him holding out a hand for the tea towel, “Oh.”

“O-O-Only if you, y’know, you’re comfortable with…”

  Jon stares at him for a moment and regrets flickers across Martin’s face. He starts to draw his hand back.

“Uh, yes, no, I mean, I-I appreciate…” Jon stammers, “You don’t have to. I-I don’t want to interrupt… what you’re doing…”

The sheepishness fades from Martin as he chuckles slightly.

“I just came in to get a bit of a break from everyone else, really,” He immediately winces, “God, that sounded bad, didn’t it?”

“No… no, I understand.”

  Martin smiles slightly and Jon’s feels his lips twitch upward in response.

“So, uh,” Martin holds his hand out again and Jon passes him the towel, “Might be easier to sit.”

“Right.”

Jon brings the gauze and dressing to the rickety coffee table while Martin wrings out the towel in the sink. They sit facing each other, and Martin scoots close enough that their knees brush.

“Can you lift your chin?” He asks, “And please tell me if I hurt you?”

Jon raises his head and stares into the yellowing florescent light embedded in the ceiling as Martin starts delicately dabbing at the cut.

It stings, of course. He can feel the edges of the wound prickle with pain as the meagre scabbing that covered them is wiped away. He hopes he isn’t letting it show on his face.

It is a little uncomfortable, letting someone else touch his neck. Especially someone he hasn’t seen for over two months. He peers at Martin out of the corner of his eye.

  He looks exhausted. There are heavy bags under his eyes and the light from above washes him out terribly, making him seem even paler than usual. His hair has grown a bit, more from neglect than choice. His fringe droops over the frame of his glasses.

Guilt bites at the back of Jon’s mind. Without him here, he is almost certain Martin has been doing the lion’s share of the work in the archives. Melanie is only new to the position and Tim… Jon is doubtful Tim has been working at all.

  Martin mumbles a pre-emptive apology as he moves the towel slowly over the cut. His touch is soft but steady, gentle in a way that is completely alien to Jon.

Martin’s gaze is focused on Jon’s neck, intent on washing away every speck of pain scrawled onto it. Instead of the sting of the wound, Jon feels something in his chest ache.

He can’t remember the last time anyone was this careful with him. That thought, more than the pinch of physical pain, makes his eyes water.

He blinks rapidly and rattles his brain for anything that will keep his mind off of how tender Martin’s touch is.

His mouth runs ahead of his head and he tries not to swallow too hard as he speaks.

“Martin… ah…”

“Sorry, am I pressing too hard?” The pressure on his throat eases slightly and Jon wills himself not to chase after it.

“No, no, I just, ah, I wanted to-” Jon bites his tongue in his haste to speak, “H-H-Have you been getting on alright?”

The pressure disappears entirely as Martin reels back to gawk at him, his mouth hanging open in shock. Jon might be offended at his surprise if he wasn’t too busy kicking himself.

He keeps babbling before Martin even has a chance to respond.

“God, that’s stupid- stupid question, of course you’re not-!” He sighs, “Just- Ignore me. Apologies.”

He looks back up to the breakroom lights, his face burning hot.

Martin chuckles.

Jon dares to glance at him.

The surprise has faded into something softer, a not-quite-there smile lingering on his lips.

“Yeah…” He agrees quietly, “That… is pretty stupid.”

“Well-! Pardon me for asking,” Jon snaps.

Martin’s smile grows.

“I’ve… I’ve got a pretty stupid answer for it though?”

“Uh,” Jon leans forward in his seat, “Yes?”

“Despite um, well, all of it…” Martin swings a hand around the room, “It’s… It’s really good to see you, Jon.”

He stares.

  It’s Martin’s turn to try and hide from the scrutiny. Jon watches with fascination as he starts to turn a blotchy red.

He doesn’t understand. The last time they spoke, Jon gave him nothing but a weak apology after suspecting him of murder and invading his privacy for months. Martin should be angry at him, or maybe even afraid. Jon doesn’t want him to be, but he would understand if he were.

Instead, Martin sits in front of him with a shy smile and soft hands, helping him, missing him. Jon can’t possibly understand that.

He opens his mouth without any clue as to what to say.

“That… doesn’t actually answer my question?” He says weakly.

Martin laughs. Not a chuckle or a giggle but a full-throated belly laugh. It is a sound Jon has never heard from him before. His face feels even warmer.

As soon as he calms down, Martin shakes his head before delicately placing his fingertips on Jon’s chin and tilting his head upward.

“I guess not.”

He finishes cleaning and dressing the wound in silence. When he presses the dressing against the cut to make sure its smooth, Jon can’t help but shudder.

A frown crosses Martin’s brow.

“Don’t suppose I can convince you to see a doctor about this?”

“You suppose correct,” Jon sighs.

Martin clucks his tongue but doesn’t push him any further.

Jon is overcome with the sudden desire to sit in this chair for the remainder of the afternoon, resting in Martin’s half-joking disapproval with their kneecaps just about touching.

He is also keenly aware that that desire isn’t something he can afford to indulge in.

With a weary groan, he hauls himself upright.

  “I… appreciate the help.”

Grabbing the now-stained tea towel, he turns away to toss it in the sink.

“O-Oh, uh, sure, anytime,” Martin says automatically, “Well, n-no, not anytime- I didn’t mean- I don’t want you to get hurt again or a-anything!”

“It’s fine, Martin, I know what you meant.”

He puts the first aid kit back under the sink and pats his pockets to make sure he has all the things he came in with. It’s not much.

“Right, I won’t be back today, but I’ll be in the office tomorrow.”

“You’d better not be!” Martin exclaims, suddenly loud.

Jon blinks at him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re hurt! You need rest!” Martin squeaks indignantly, “Proper rest, Jon not just a half-day off!”

“I- Wh- You can’t stop me coming to work!”

“I bloody well can!”

Jon boggles as a memory suddenly strikes him full-force. He had tried coming back to the archives early after Prentiss’ attack as well, hadn’t he? Martin had practically carried out of the building. At the time, it was just another reason for Jon to be suspicious of him. Now, he can see it for what it was.

  Martin cared.

  He still cares, whether that care takes the form of washing his wounds or scolding him for his poor work-life balance. It’s not a feeling Jon is familiar with.

Martin still sits at the coffee table, arms crossed over his chest, colour high in his cheeks. With a wistful smile, Jon decides to let him have his way. It’s paltry thanks for his ministrations, but it is all Jon has.

“Alright.”

Martin’s glare vanishes under his shock.

“Alright?”

Jon nods.

  “Alright. I’ll rest.”

“Oh! Oh. …Good!”

“It’s what, Friday now?” Jon says, “Maybe I’ll even take the weekend off.”

“Wow, let’s not go overboard,” Martin grumbles.

Jon snorts, hiding his laughter behind his bandaged hand. Martin smiles brightly and somehow, gets even redder.

“I’ll see you Monday.”

“Y-Yeah.”

Jon heads for the door. His feet are like lead weights and he already knows he is going to have to stop himself from napping on the tube. He can sleep properly once he is back at Georgie’s. It might even be nice to rest, for once.

He pauses in the doorway, glancing back.

Martin has stood up, his arms still crossed even as he flicks a hand up.

“See you.”

As he stares at him, Jon’s chest aches again. He is overcome with the urge to speak, as if that will ease it.

“For what it is worth… It is really good to see you too.”

Martin’s face goes slack with a look as soft and tender as his hand was on Jon’s throat. It makes the ache worse.

Jon turns away without another word, knocks once on the doorframe and walks away.

  As he heads for the stairs, his hand still throbs, and his neck still stings but it is the hurt in his heart that distracts him. The sound of Martin’s laughter echoes in his head and Jon thinks that this particular pain is one he doesn’t mind keeping.