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ugh-yoongi · 7 months

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the very last thing i decide | pjm

(or, the one in which a love exists that's easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.)

✘ PAIRING jimin x f. reader ✘ SUMMARY you learn what it means to love with blood on your hands. ✘ GENRE hitman/assassin au; angst, smut ✘ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✘ WARNINGS they are both hitmen (hitpeople?) so there's all the content that goes along with that: violence, death, mentions of blood (a lot) and weapons, murder, but no explicit gore. everyone is morally grey at best and downright psychotic at worst (especially yoongi). reader gets stabbed. no one knows how to be a functional human being. swearing, smoking, light smut (penetrative & oral sex), miscommunication and unrequited love but not really, i drop a classic tumblr meme in a line of dialogue. ambiguous/hopeful ending!! some of the themes here are kinda heavy and i am not entirely sure how to tag them so if you have any questions pls don’t hesitate to ask! ✘ WORDCOUNT 12k ✘ LISTEN TO manchester orchestra - telepath ✘ THANK YOU i cannot remember everyone i’ve showed this to over the years. @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over and brainstorming with me today. @hot-soop for always being a help. @effortandmore because you told me an embarrassingly long time ago this was worth finishing. and i’m pretty sure i also sent this to @jihopesjoint at some point too. i did a quick edit of this on my own, but after nearly three years i just wanted it posted and out of my wips so i'm sure i missed things. pls ignore them. ✘ AUTHOR'S NOTE fic drops two days in a row?? who am i?? i started this in may 2021 and it was supposed to be a simple pegging fic. i abandoned it bc i was convinced no one would want to read it. between today and yesterday i have written thousands of words and made it across the finish line. i hope you like it. the violence is a metaphor for love or whatever.

[37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA]

Jimin’s hair had been red the first time he met you.

How fitting, he thinks, considering he’s currently bleeding out on a table.

Well, there’s still a bit of fight left in him. He hasn’t lost consciousness yet, which he assumes is a good sign; he can still hear Hoseok barking out orders quite clearly. The edges of his vision are fuzzy and the pain in his abdomen is sharp and unrelenting, but he still has enough brain power left to wish he’d died instead.

Because you’d saved his life. And now he’s further indebted to you.

(Jimin never leaves a debt unpaid, but he’s not sure how to make even on something like this.)

Jungkook and Taehyung are fetching supplies faster than Hoseok can ask for them. Two pairs of frazzled, spaced-out eyes. Four sets of trembling limbs. Namjoon’s wearing burn marks into the floor, his cuticles bloody and nearly worried to the bone since he can’t keep them out of his mouth.

And then there’s you.

Sitting cross-legged in a chair as you scroll through your phone. Jimin’s blood is still drying on your hands, leaving smears as you drag your thumb back and forth across the screen, and this doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.

Behind you, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano and starts playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and Jimin simply cannot die like this. He can’t die on a wooden table in a room with a piano on which Min Yoongi is playing Baroque organ pieces.

“What is this, a fucking funeral?” Hoseok snaps, though there’s a desperation creeping into his tone that Jimin does not like, does not want to hear. “Cut it out, Yoongi.”

Said man staunchly ignores the doctor, transitioning flawlessly into the fugue. Jimin barely hears the tinkle of your laughter but he hears it all the same, and he wants to pretend it doesn’t calm him, bring him back down to earth when he starts drifting too far away. But you do, and it does, and all he can think about is: will you miss him if he dies? Will it take you long to wash his blood from your hands?

Hoseok’s absolutely incensed, pushed to the limits of his stress at the thought of not being able to save Jimin’s life, and Jimin appreciates this, really, but not when Hoseok pushes two gloved fingers deep into the wound in his stomach so hard all he can do is cry. “Yoongi—”

You snort. You don’t even look up from your phone.

Namjoon, for all his leadership and stoicism and poise under pressure, is just as frantic and panicked as the rest. It’s not everyday one of his people is inches from death ten feet away from him. Most people usually die in the shadows. Kim Namjoon has faced down death more times than most, yet watching the life slowly fade from Jimin’s eyes is too much even for him. “Yoongi, please—”

But the fugue keeps going, tempo change after tempo change, the two pillars of this organization spiraling completely by the time the coda starts, unfocused and sweating and praying. To gods they don’t believe in, to hope, to chance—whatever and whoever might be listening. Jimin usually loves hearing Yoongi play. It’s the only thing that humanizes him, and Jimin had spent so many restless nights shoulder to shoulder with him on that exact bench in the blue hours of the early morning, hypnotized by the way the older man’s knobby fingers moved across the keys.

This is it, he thinks.

Jimin’s going to die with Toccata and Fugue in D minor playing in the background.

He’s imagined his death so many times. Stupid not to in this line of work. Violent, quick and painless, in his sleep, drawn out and gory, a message. And in all of those scenarios, it’s either jarringly silent or there’s someone screaming. Usually him, sounding much like he is now, two fingers stuck in his gut. In all of those scenarios, Min Yoongi is never playing Bach as everything fades to black.

You sigh. “Shut the fuck up, Yoongi,” you say, your tone as blasé and inconvenienced as ever.

Shocked at your audacity, one of Yoongi’s fingers slips and hits the wrong key, something dissonant and metallic as it rings out. But the music stops all the same, the silence nearly giving Jimin whiplash. Now he can hear the clinkof Hoseok’s tools, the squelching of his wound, Jungkook’s desperate pleading for him to just be alright, please God, just hang on. He wants the music back. He doesn’t want Jungkook’s crying to be the last thing he hears. Doesn’t want the sound of his own organs imprinted into his memory.

“What’d you say?” Yoongi asks, because no one talks to him that way. They wouldn’t dare. Most people try not to talk to him at all.

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

You roll your eyes. “You go deaf in your old age? I said shut the fuck up. Hoseok’s two knuckles deep in Jimin’s fucking stomach and you’re over there having your little Amadeus moment.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Yoongi repeats, and Jimin can’t see him, but he knows his eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl, fists clenched at his side.

“Oh, princess,” you coo, and Yoongi’s fury is palpable, permeates every inch of this place, overrides all the fear and anguish. “I’m talking to you, baby. I know Jiminie’s busy trying not to die and that’s stressful for all of us, but please do try to keep up.”

Jimin hears the flick of Yoongi’s switchblade. Then he hears him say, “Please let me fucking kill her,” in that lazy Daegu drawl of his, like forming full words are beneath him. Not worth the effort when they’re directed at you.

Still seated, you uncross your legs and, through blurred vision, Jimin watches you grab Yoongi by his belt loops to tug him closer, grab the wrist that holds his knife and press it to your own throat. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Yoongi. Be a good boy and make it hurt.”

Jungkook’s near hysterics at Jimin’s side. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? He’s dying!”

Jimin tries to say I’m not, Kookie, I’m okay but the pressure on his abdomen is too intense. He can barely breathe, and Hoseok’s still digging around, still looking for that stupid fucking bullet, had to do something and do it quick so there’d been very little anesthetic and finesse, and he’s silently screaming for someone to just comfort Jungkook, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but instead—

“Serves him right for being a fucking idiot,” you say, words muffled by the knife still pressed to your throat. “What a painful, permanentlesson in not forgetting your fucking vest.”

“Stop it!” Jungkook sobs, fingers ghosting along Jimin’s matted fringe.

Yoongi’s still scowling. “Just say the word, Joon-ah. I’ll make it quick.”

You actually laugh at that. The kind of full-belly laugh Jimin would kill to be able to produce. “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Someone snarls. Probably Yoongi. “You’d look so good gutted on the floor like a fish,” he replies, and if Jimin knows him at all, he knows he’s got that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. The one he always gets when he’s about to kill—the one that makes him so unhinged and dangerous. “Left there to bleed out and die all alone like the trash you are.”

No one’s survived that look before, but you just grin, as if being on the receiving end of it is nothing more than another simple inconvenience. “Do it, then,” you prompt. “You’re so big and bad, yet here you are, waiting for Namjoon’s permission like some kind of pathetic fucking dog.”

“I’m no one’s dog.”

Your eyes slowly flick over to Namjoon. “No?” you ask, smile widening as Jimin watches you drag your heeled foot up the inside of Yoongi’s calf, his thigh, stiletto coming to rest in the center of his sternum. “That’s a shame, princess. That pretty neck of yours was just made for a collar.”

There’s no doubt in Jimin’s mind now that he actually died back in that penthouse and is now residing in whatever level of hell is watching you give his associate a semi despite him being a millisecond away from murdering you.

Yoongi would do it, too. No hesitation. You’ve been on his shit list for as long as Jimin can remember, and you’ve been daring him to put his money where his mouth is and just kill you already for just as long.

Taehyung groans. “Can you two just fuck already so the rest of us can be spared of this?”

You click your tongue, tone melting like butter. You’re fond of Taehyung, soft on him. “No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie, and god does that hurt his little feelings.”

Your wicked smile gives away nothing—whether you’re telling a bold truth or just unnecessarily needling Yoongi further—but Jimin’s caught off guard and chokes on your words nonetheless.

Hoseok’s forceps still digging around in his stomach, there’s a quiet hurrah of triumph as he finally locates the bullet. Jimin feels nothing as he retrieves it and plucks it out, a reverberated clank! as he drops it into a kidney dish, your words the anesthetic he’s needed as they play on a loop in his head.

When he finally blacks out, either from the pain or the adrenaline or both, it’s your face that greets him. He never gets the chance to tell you why he forgot his vest.

[64.1466° N, 21.9426° W | Reykjavík, ICELAND]

Jimin’s hair is blue when it happens the first time.

It’s November. Namjoon has sent the two of you to Reykjavik and it’s dark all the time, the midnight hue of his hair blending into the impenetrable nighttime that surrounds you. Jimin works best like this—out of sight, part of the shadows. He’s light on his feet, lithe in ways no one else is, not even you, and he’s impossible to anticipate under the cover of darkness.

That’s why Jimin always takes care of the appetizers.

It’s your job to clean up the main course.

The two of you are two halves of the same lethal coin, working together flawlessly after years of carefully honed practice. Jimin slams an unsuspecting man’s head into a wall and you’re right behind him to put a bullet in it.

It’s just how it goes.

And he trusts you. He has to, otherwise he would’ve gotten taken out years ago. You’re not always in his line of sight, but he always feels you, senses your movements before you’re even on your feet. The times it’s gone wrong—and it’s gone wrong so many fucking times, despite how cautious and skilled the two of you are—you’re always right there to catch him before he even hits the ground. Just like a ghost, as if your only purpose in life is keeping Jimin safe and alive.

(It isn’t, but it sure feels that way.)

Tonight it’s another hit carried out in an overpriced penthouse overlooking the northern shore. You’re in and out, don’t waste a second more than you need to. Jimin doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage left behind. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before. All blood bleeds the same, but he still wonders, foolishly, if his looks different to you. If it feels wrong when it stains your hands and seeps into your clothes.

Jimin has never been covered in your blood before, but he likes to think it would.

The two of you don’t speak until you’re in the quiet safety of yet another hotel room, chain lock thrown across the door, deadbolt secured. A small arsenal of weapons is retrieved from ankles and waistbands and cleaned and packed away meticulously. Jimin’s the one who makes the call to Namjoon, tells him in code that the job’s done. You’ve barely broken a sweat, but under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Jimin can see a small smattering of blood just along your temple when he closes the distance between you.

Someone else’s, of course.

Anyone who made you bleed your own blood wouldn’t be a quick, clean kill. Jimin would make sure of that.

There’s less to be done about the half-inch scar in the hollow of your throat—a pearlescent reminder of the twin scar he has just below his navel; a callback to the day your devilish mouth said the words Jimin can’t stop thinking about.

“No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie.”

Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s the feral, years-long build up that’s been simmering between the two of you—low enough to keep warm, contained enough to never evolve into a rapid boil. Maybe Jimin’s just finally desperate enough to go seeking out answers to questions he’s far too scared to put a voice to.

(Really, Jimin knows it’s adrenaline. Nothing more than chemicals. The two of you high on it, heads floating above the clouds. Powerless; or, at the very least, indifferent to stop the very clear path that’s unfolding on the ground below.)

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

Needs to know if there’s even a chance you feel it, too: the magnetic ebb and flow the two of you have been dancing around for years. If you see how fondly he looks at you. If you have any idea how easy it is for him to get lost in you. If you know he’d let someone put a bullet between his eyes before he placed his life in the hands of anyone else.

Jimin knows he loves you. He’s known it for a long time, just like he knows all those other things that are second nature to him. Loving you is easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.

At least that’s what he’d thought. Until your devilish mouth said those devilish words and sent him into a tailspin he’s yet to recover from.

You have to feel it. God, can’t you? The way the air crackles between you. The way his skin ignites with a simple look from you. The trembling of his fingers at his sides, desperate to just reach out and touch you—fingers that have been bathed in blood, that have taken life. Fingers that now just want to graze softly across your cheekbones, catch on your bottom lip. Fingers that want to hand you the world on a silver platter. Jimin would do anything for you, give you whatever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

Jimin is composed, elegant. He kills with grace and still maintains as much of his softness as he can. Isn’t ruled by emotion the way Yoongi and Jungkook are. But now, as he teeters on the edge of the unknown, all he wants to do is jump. Wants to buck all his training, all his resolve and forethought, and jump.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice thick. Fingers curl into the expensive silk of his shirt just so they have something to do—something to keep them from reaching out and touching you. “Back in Seoul.”

You’re the smartest person Jimin knows. When you ask, “Did I mean what, Chim?” he knows you’re fucking with him. Dragging this out. You know exactly what he’s asking and he knows you’ll never give anything away so easily.

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

You tsk, eyebrows raising in intrigue. As much as Jimin trusts you, as well as you know him, know all those dirty, dirty secrets he’d never tell anyone else, he’s never been so bold with you. “That those long fingers of his would look good wrapped around my throat? Yeah, I meant that.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches at your taunt. “Don’t play games with me.”

A smirk graces your lips. “Trust me, sweetheart,” you say, voice sickly-sweet as the affection starts popping at the last seams holding him together, “if I wanted to play with you, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

With Jimin pressed into the wall behind you, you turn to meet his eye in the mirror. Another smile, teeth bared as you run your tongue across your lips, and this one is his undoing. Makes his cock twitch in his dress pants. Makes him bold. “Do you want to, then?” He takes a step forward—close enough to smell the gunpowder stuck to your clothes, your hair. Close enough for the sulfur and metal to sting his nostrils each time he breathes you in. “Do you want to play with me?”

You love Jimin. Maybe it’s a trauma bond or the implicit, unwavering trust the two of you have in one another, but you know you love him limitlessly. But you also know you can’t love him the way he loves you, the way he deserves to be loved by someone, which is why your mask slips as you say, “I can’t give you what you want, Jimin.”

You try to make him understand that. Really, you do—because Jimin is the smartest person you know, and you know he’s thought about every possible consequence down to the most minute detail and has decided this is worth it anyway. You want to believe in something the way Jimin believes in you, even though he’s wrong. You want something worth throwing all of this away for.

Maybe it’s Jimin, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just been so fucking long since someone has looked at you with any gentleness in their eyes at all that when Jimin meets your gaze and says, “I don’t want anything more than you’re willing to give,” you take his hand and jump, too.

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

It’s all raw, urgent need, Jimin trying desperately to convince himself it’s more than it is while you convince yourself it’s less.

It’s the two of you finally giving up and giving in, letting yourselves be pulled taut by that invisible string tying you together.

It’s Jimin’s sharp intake of breath when you fully step out of your clothes, the sight rendering him immobile. Whatever plans he’d had before seeing the curves of your body, all the scars from years of working by his side, the mottled yellow-greens and purples from the bruises lining your skin—he has no plans now. Can barely think. Wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from you with a gun to his head.

It’s the final bricks of the wall he’d built around himself—around his heart, around all those words and feelings he’d never put a voice to—crumbling into ash at his feet. Now he knows he can’t go back. Can’t return to a reality where this isn’t his truth. Where there’s no you and him, him and you. Where it’s just a physical exchange, a give-and-take, tit for tat.

And god, he knows he shouldn’t think like this; knows he’s keeping the truth buried somewhere deep behind lock and key.

…But now that he knows how it feels to move inside you, what else is he supposed to do?

You’re everywhere. Clenched around him. Your taste on his tongue. The feel of you on the pads of his fingers. The smell of you making a mockery of all logical thought. No—no, he can’t do a goddamn thing to stop the avalanche now it’s started.

“Fuck,” he whines, fingers digging into your hips. The soft skin he finds purchase in such a contrast from your hardened exterior, but Jimin knows. He knows you, knows the person behind the mask, sees straight through you each time it slips.

What stared back at him had always been just out of reach.

Taunting him.

Screaming come and get me, come make me yours, come and fucking take what you want.

Until now.

Now it’s tangible. Now it’s breathy, fractured moans that echo off tile walls. Now it’s the sound of his name thatleaves your lips like a prayer. Now it’s the sheen of sweat that covers both of you. Now it’s nails scraping down his back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

(And Jimin won’t tell you this, but those red welts are proof that this is real, this happened, and later on when he’s alone, when his mind is working overtime, he’ll look at them and he’ll smile. Because they’re real. Because this happened.)

Now, it’s the way blue becomes his favorite color. Because he can see his reflection in the mirror as he unravels and comes to his own demise as he spills inside of you; can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hue of his hair.

Jimin’s hair is blue when he realizes he’s in love with you.

[34.6037° S, 58.3816° W | Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA]

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

The details had been scarce: a diplomatic advisor with a rap sheet of human rights violations that have been continuously swept under the rug and his equally-corrupt lawyer. A candid photograph paperclipped to another manila folder, Namjoon a fan of all those old cliches. Likes being a little cheeky that way when he can get away with it, because god knows he can’t get away with much, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.

It’s a simple job. You and Jimin will have it dealt with in a matter of hours. Less if you’re lucky and the universe is agreeable. But the humidity sticks to your skin, has sweat seeping into your clothes and rolling down your temples, and if there’s one thing you can’t stand it’s the heat. Makes it hard to think. And Namjoon—Namjoon, who makes sure all of his agents want for nothing—is a cheap bastard. Rarely approves nice lodging, says it’s too risky despite your arguments to the contrary, that people don’t care what you do when you have money, so you’re stuck in some shithole motel room with an aircon unit that keeps blowing out stale, warm air.

And maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should be more cognizant of Jimin and all his feelings, but it’s fucking hot, so you peel your shirt over your head and undo the button of your pants. Sit on the edge of the bed and try to think about anything other than the temperature, how it’s starting to prick uncomfortably at your skin.

Jimin clears his throat, keeps his eyes glued to the disgusting carpet. “Got a text from Seokjin-ssi,” he says, words strained. “Looks like they’ll be solo jobs.”

You groan. Leave it to Seokjin to change the plan at the last minute. “Tell Kim Seokjin he’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Tell Kim Namjoon if he ever sends us to South America in the summer again I’ll kill him myself.”

Jimin has a laugh like an anodyne. A laugh that takes all those broken, bleeding parts of you and soothes over them like a balm. “Seokjin-ssi says he’s not passing along that particular message.”

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

“He hasn’t done field work in years and he’s probably too vitamin D deficient to leave the basement. He couldn’t even kill a fucking rat.”

There’s another laugh. More forced, less tinkling. You recognize it right away, the sound of anxiety. Solo jobs aren’t common for the two of you. For Yoongi and Taehyung, sure, but not you and Jimin. You’re a team for a reason, and though you’re more than capable of getting this done and out of the way, it doesn’t feel right. Settles in your gut like something rotten, knowing you’ll be without Jimin.

And you know he’s thinking it, too. How he turns the burner over and over in his hands, as if there’s some combination of words he can send back to Seoul to get Seokjin and Namjoon to reconsider. Plans don’t change often; not like this, anyway. These have been declared solos for a reason, and that’s a thought you can’t linger on too long.

“Are they leaving it up to us?” Jimin nods, still not meeting your eye. “Do you have a preference?”

He shrugs, tossing the phone on the small table in the corner. Nothing else to be done. “Not really. What do you think?”

“Nah, don’t care, either. Just toss me one.”

Santiago Aguirre… 47 years old… Resides in a high-rise luxury apartment in Retiro…

Your eyes skim the file, study the black and white photograph of the lawyer. Read over the list of all his high-profile, degenerate clients and all their high-profile crimes. You read about the previous attempts on his life, the seemingly never-ending list of people who want him dead. Your eyes go back to his photograph, frowning at the smug look on his face. What stares back at you is a man who thinks he’s invincible, who thinks a penthouse apartment on the top floor and a security team in the lobby means he’s impervious to harm. A man who has made money off people just like him: dirty, corrupt, hands stained red.

“Okay?” Jimin asks, looking up from his own file.

He’s so striking. So safe. And you know what he’s done, giving you the hit he thinks is easier, willing to risk himself on a solo mission to ensure you make it out. There’s no guarantees in this line of work, in life in general, but Jimin’s brand of selfless love is certainly one.

So you just nod, knowing someone slimy like this can quickly go sideways, and decide you can do the same.

“I’m gonna get ready,” you say. “The plan is the same as all the other solo jobs. Get in, get it done, get out as quickly as possible. Lay low. Don’t come straight back here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anything else?”

You exhale. Try to quiet the nerves roiling in your stomach. Barely resist the urge to press a lingering kiss to Jimin’s forehead before you swallow hard and say, “Yeah. Stay alive.”

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

Rarely feel much guilt over it, either, which—well, you’re not sure what that means. That something is permanently broken in your psyche, probably. Being able to take life so easily and without remorse. It’s not natural.

Kim Namjoon is a man who plays God, is the one who decides who gets to live and who has to die. His word is the only law you adhere to. And that’s… that’s something. Makes it less burdensome, takes some weight off, because Kim Namjoon wouldn’t accept a morally-ambiguous job. He wouldn’t ask you to put your life on the line for some petty bullshit.

This is how you’ve lived for the last four years. Four years of blindly following Namjoon’s word, of being a good little soldier and doing whatever is asked of you. Four years of being responsible for not only your own life, but Jimin’s as well, just as he is for yours. Four years that have served you well, all things considered.

Until now.

Something about this job hits you hard. Doesn’t settle quite as quickly as the ones that have come before. For the first time, you’d looked down at the lifeless body at your feet and couldn’t stop the trembling, could barely quell the nausea. Thought what the fuck am I doing, what kind of life is this for the first time. Thought back to that day four years ago when Kim Namjoon saved your life and offered you a job and wondered, for the first time, what would’ve happened if you’d said no.

Now, as you suck on a cigarette, legs dangling off the roof of a building looking not far from collapse, a new thought:

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

He’s taken care of you. For four years you’ve wanted for nothing. Have socked away more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, even if you live to a thousand. You could go anywhere, become anyone, and no one would suspect a thing. There’d just be you and a million lifetimes’ worth of transgressions, alone under the weight of all that burden; alone, except for all the ghosts that come to greet you every time you close your eyes.

Doesn’t matter. Namjoon might be willing to let you go, give you the chance to salvage something from this life in the name of normalcy, but Yoongi would gladly put a bullet in your head before he let you disappear with all his secrets.

Doesn’t matter.

You stub out the cigarette and put the butt in your pocket. Make your way down to the street. Stay under the shadows—just visible enough to redirect any suspicion shot your way. You pretend to take a call, flawless Argentinian Spanish falling from your lips as you tell the imaginary person on the other end all about your fucked up day at work. How your manager never gets off your ass, doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re too fucking stupid to run a simple executable.

No one spares you a second glance.

Not here, on this nondescript street in a nondescript Argentinian neighborhood, and not when you stumble into the tiny lobby of your shithole motel. The poor kid behind the desk doesn’t even glance up, just mutters a good evening, miss under his breath that you return in a voice far too high-pitched to be your own.

Better to be seen and be unremarkable than draw attention to yourself trying to stay invisible, you figure.

The cameras in the stairwell are broken so you take the steps two at a time. Pull the room key from its place inside your boot, happy to no longer have it digging into your skin. Pause just long enough to make sure you don’t hear anything on the other side of the door before you’re unlocking it with your free hand wrapped around the trigger of your gun.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Jimin stashed the burner in a place no one but you would think to look. You text one simple word to Seokjin—Hey!—and you get two in return: Who’s this?

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

It takes a few seconds, but the reply is a simple—

Sorry.

Then you toss aside the phone and float in the darkness of the room. There’s nothing to do but wait, because you don’t dare to do anything alone. There’s sweat and blood and fuck knows what else stuck to your skin, your hair, but you can’t risk taking a shower. Can’t risk the water dampening your senses. Can’t risk being cornered in a moldy bathroom, only one way out. Can’t risk doing anything alone. Can’t take a fucking shower.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that has your body flushing with rage.

What kind of life is this?

Namjoon had never mentioned repaying your debt. He’d never insinuated you owed him anything at all for saving your life, but you know something like that never comes for free. Namjoon doesn’t do anything just because. Has no goodness in his heart to do anything in the name of it. Watching Jimin nearly die in front of him had been the exception to his usual nature; a rare slip-up by an otherwise detached, uncaring man.

Still, whatever you owe him has surely been repaid by now. Tenfold, if the bloodstains along your collar are anything to go by.

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

Two hours have ticked by and there’s no word from Jimin. No word from Namjoon or Seokjin, either, which is the only reason you’re still in this nauseating motel room and not out on the streets searching for him. Solo jobs don’t go like this. The two of you are always in and out, tragically efficient. Back to where you started and then back on a plane, nothing left behind except a singular bullet hole and another fragmented piece of your conscience.

You’ve had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never two hours.

You’re about three minutes from coming out of your skin. Sick to your stomach with worry, anxiety weighing you down like an anchor. You wouldn’t be able to go out searching for Jimin like this even if you could, and there’s no point in dwelling on that, examining it further. All you can do is wait.

It’s another hour before you hear the click of the lock. You’re nearly on your knees in relief, but you stay rooted to the flimsy mattress. Try not to think about how you’ll have to sleep on it, even though you’ll be up half the night with residual worry. All those lingering ghosts.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, so neither do you.

[55.6761° N, 12.5683° E | Copenhagen, DENMARK]

Jimin’s hair is orange when you go to Copenhagen.

Not for a job, just to breathe. You wanted to see the city at Christmastime; Jimin’s never been.

You crack a joke. Point out buildings of similar color, have him stand in front of one as you take a picture. Everyone smiles when they pass the two of you on the street, Jimin’s eyes fond even though he rolls them as you pose him how you want. Still stands against an apricot-colored wall and flashes a smile and a peace sign, cheeks pink from the cold. Does a good job of pretending the two of you aren’t here just for fun, that this is something more.

It’s not.

The two of you fucked in a hotel room in Reykjavik and haven’t spoken a word of it since.

You nearly lost your mind over him in Buenos Aires and haven’t spoken a word of that, either.

Instead, his hand finds yours as the two of you walk around Tivoli Gardens. You marvel at the lights and Jimin marvels at you. You share mulled wine and spiced doughnuts. Jimin tries to drag you on the swings but you plant your feet and refuse, laughing through your refusals. As dangerous as your lives are, motion sickness might be the most. He gets his revenge and poses you in front of a giant nutcracker, then again in front of one of the endless Christmas trees.

Jimin pays for the two of you to decorate honey cakes. You’re surrounded by families with shrieking children and palpable adoration, and it’s all you can do not to wonder if anyone you’ve taken out had ever had something like this. Something that makes your soul warm; something that still lingers in your bones years later.

The two of you take a selfie when it starts to snow. It stings when you have no one to send it to, so it just lives in your phone. Maybe it’s enough.

On another day, Jimin holds your hand through Torvehallerne. This time you marvel at him while he marvels at all the food, eyes wide each time he turns to ask if he should buy something. You always say yes and he always shares, and it’s all you can do not to think about why you don’t have to budget yourselves. Why you’re able to walk through the market and buy whatever you want; how you could buy every item for sale and it wouldn’t make a dent.

(You pick up small trinkets for Taehyung and Jungkook. Not because you want to, but because it feels nicer than remembering that you have no one to buy gifts for. Not really. Not anymore.)

Jimin wants to ice skate, so you do. He holds your hand then, too. More out of necessity than anything else, and he has none of his usual grace. Someone hands you a free cup of hot chocolate, just because. Jimin pouts and then it’s his hot chocolate. It’s all you can do not to kiss away the whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

Back in your lavish hotel, after countless days have blurred together and Jimin’s fresh from a shower, skin flushed, you finally ask yourself if it’s worth putting up such a fight. If it’s really all that bad to care for Jimin and be cared for in return. If it’s all that bad to be someone else, just for a little while: someone with a normal life who makes a normal living and has a normal capability to love. Someone who isn’t damaged beyond repair.

That will never be you. Not fully, and certainly not in this lifetime, but maybe it could be, a little.

“Jimin,” you say, because you need to try. Jimin loves you in ways you’ll never understand, and you want to be better for him. “We should talk.”

Your voice is small and hesitant, and Jimin hates it. Sees trouble where there’s only vulnerability, so he misreads. Shakes his head. Takes a risk and stands between your legs at the edge of the bed—yours, because there’s two—as he tilts your head back, thumbs pressing into the contours of your cheeks. The scar still sits in the hollow of your throat, and that version of you feels so far away. That life feels so far away.

There’s no violence here. There’s no blood, no fugues. There’s just you and Jimin, whose voice is small like yours when he shakes his head and says, “You should kiss me instead.”

The second time is nothing like the first.

Jimin moves delicately. Feels like silk lace, tastes like spun sugar. Moves both his mouth and his body fluidly, no hesitation, yet he still takes his time. Still pauses to look at you with endless devotion; with awed reverence. Makes a map of your body and marks all his favorite places with his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Speaks the words against the skin just beneath your ear. “Anything. I’ll give you whatever you want, just have to ask.”

What you want isn’t tangible, isn’t possible, so you stay quiet. Thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, gasp when he mouths along the column of your throat. Jimin reserves all his softness for you. Bathes you in it. Would kill anyone to keep it that way.

So you say, “Want your mouth,” and let slip a quiet moan when he gives you what you’ve asked for. When he situates himself between your thighs and sucks and licks until you’re writhing, making a mess, grasping fruitlessly at the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, only calming when his hands find yours and your fingers interlock.

Jimin mouths at you until you’re trembling. Until you’re needy and desperate, hips moving on their own, fucking yourself against his face. Until nothing exists except the heat in your belly, the stars behind your eyelids, the heady, fucked-out sound of Jimin’s voice as he talks you through it, murmurs praise against your cunt.

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

This isn’t your life. This is not something you can have.

But, in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? You’ve made peace with death, and there’s only one of two ways it’s going to come for you in the end: by Namjoon’s hand or someone else’s. So what does it matter?

This time, Jimin fucks you slow. Kisses you with your taste still in his mouth. Thumbs over a hardened nipple just to see what earns him a reaction, and what you truly want is more time—something else that’s impossible.

Jimin’s hair is orange when you think you might be in love with him.

[ 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E | Paris, FRANCE ]

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

Soaks a washcloth in warm water. Wrings it out. Stands in front of you, and there’s water dripping onto the floor and Jimin doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to see anything in this moment except for you, your hands covered in someone else’s blood, and he reaches out, gently grabs your wrist. Palm up. Someone else’s blood. Everything smells like copper and iron. Looks too surreal beneath the fluorescent lights of this hotel bathroom for your mind to make sense of it.

There is care in the way Jimin cleans your hands. There is tenderness in the way he both refuses to see what you really are and the way he’s the only one to ever see you so entirely, when you look down at the blood he’s washing away and all you can see is stigmata. When all you see is sin.

“I know you don’t love me,” he says, and there is a conviction in his words that stuns you into silence. “Not the way I love you, anyway.”

That tenderness is still there as he says this. As he presses the wet fabric into the meat of your palm, wipes the stains away, and the warmth is as calming as it is undeserved. It feels like something forbidden. It feels like salvation and condemnation all at once, like whatever sick depravity permeates you is contagious, will take over Jimin, too, just from touching you.

Jimin is close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see the violence that he exists in alongside you: the rips in his clothes, the scars that decorate his skin. Close enough to know he smells sickly-sweet, just like death. Your hand shakes as it reaches for him and never follows through. Doesn’t want to contaminate him.

“I do,” you finally say. Whatever is in your voice is not conviction. “I can’t.” You suck in a breath, try to steady your breathing. This is where it all comes crashing down, you think, because in all the years you’ve done Namjoon’s bidding, you’ve never cried. You can take life so freely and without thought, but you cannot love Jimin. “Someone like me isn’t capable of it.”

Jimin pauses, the washcloth stuck in the space between your ring and middle fingers. “And who is someone like you?”

Water is still dripping to the floor. Serosanguineous: blood tainting something untouched. Not something one thing or another but both, watery-pink. Looks like Jimin’s hair. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” you answer. “More than I can count. More than I can name. More than the ones that come to haunt me at night.” Your free hand moves to your chest, covers your heart. “There’s nothing here, Jimin. I’m not sure there ever was.”

The washcloth drops to the floor, and all that blood belonging to a man whose name you never bothered to learn before you put a bullet between his eyes finds a new place to rest. “I think,” he begins, clasping your unclean hand in his own, voice dropping to a whisper, “you forget, sometimes.” You gasp as he places your palm to his cheek, drags it across his face, smears a stranger’s blood across his skin. “That we’re the same.”

Jimin is always overwhelming, but the love he has for you is even more so. It consumes you entirely, embeds itself beneath your skin, makes a home, would tear you apart, body and soul, to return to him.

[ 47.4979° N, 19.0402° E | Budapest, HUNGARY ]

Jimin’s hair is lavender when it all goes to shit.

“You’re being followed.”

Seokjin’s voice is garbled through the earpiece, tinny and metallic, and you roll your eyes. Some things don’t need to be said, because you’ve known someone was following you for the last three blocks. Average height, black peacoat, close-cropped haircut. Not the kind of person that’d stand out here, and that’s exactly why you’d sent Jimin in the other direction.

“No shit,” you respond in Hungarian, because you already know the man following you doesn’t speak or understand it. “Give me somewhere to go.”

It takes Seokjin a few moments to run the translation. “There’s a side street up on your right,” he answers. “It’s tight, but there’s an alleyway at the end. You can buy some time if you’re quick.”

“Where’s Jimin?”

You pass a vendor selling lángos and duck into the street behind the stall. Just as Seokjin had said, there’s a small alleyway up on the left, and your footfall is near-silent as you break into a sprint to reach it. “Safe,” is all Seokjin says.

You take a second to steady your breathing, knowing you’re good on time—the man following you was close enough to know where you’d turned, but, if you’re lucky, not much after that. That plays on a loop: if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky. What is luck, what does it look like, in a life left entirely to chance? In a life with no guarantees?

You tuck yourself away, focus on Seokjin’s metallic breaths. Think about his basement in Seoul, why he’s in it. Ask, “What happened in Addis Ababa?” because it feels important to know.

There’s not much you know about Seokjin’s life. Whatever happened in Ethiopia had been before your time, reduced to hushed whispers and gossip fodder after your arrival. No one spoke of it, Seokjin especially, but every now and then something would slip in the same way weeds grow in sidewalk cracks.

A job gone wrong. A bombing at the consulate with Seokjin inside.

His reply is simple, words spoken carefully: “I loved someone once, too.”

He can’t see it, but you nod nonetheless; an answer that doesn’t require a response, because you know. It’s enough to fill in the rest. What Seokjin’s trauma looks like. Why he doesn’t do field work anymore. Why he prefers the solitude of the basement, rarely a sound beyond the electric thrum of the server racks.

Who had gone in to retrieve him, and why Yoongi has the scar over his eye.

“You loved someone,” you conclude, “and he would’ve been willing to die for you.”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and it’s like the word’s been punched out of him. Sounds like something repressed, something left to rot in the darkest corner of the world.

Love, to Seokjin, looks and sounds the same as death.

“I think most people spend their entire lives searching for a love like that,” he continues, and if you could see him you think he might look dazed, off-kilter. You think he might be an avatar. Seokjin is prying his ribcage apart, unwrapping the barbed wire from his heart, saying I once was in love and this is all I know of it. “But, to me, in this life, it’s a prison. Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? How do you—I kissed that skin. I worshiped it. I pressed my lips to it with whatever softness was left in me. How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled?” He exhales, all tremor. “You can’t. You can’t.”

You know this all too well. You know what it feels like to look at Jimin and know, intrinsically and subconsciously, that you wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d take and give life to keep him alive and safe. You know that when you exit this world at someone else’s hand his face is the last thing you want to see.

You know it’s a liability.

You know it’s a target painted on your back. Between your eyes.

You know there’s nothing left to say, that this particular conversation has run its course. The two of you sit in an amicable silence, and you hope Seokjin can hear the life that surrounds you, however mundane. Hope he can hear the lángos vendor trying to hawk his goods; hope he can hear a city 8,000 kilometers away; hope he can hear these regular, everyday people going about their lives and remember there’s hope beyond his four walls.

I think you’d like it here, you think, but you don’t dare to say it aloud.

Time passes in a meaningless blur. Could be minutes, could be hours. No one’s come to kill you, so you reckon you’ve long since been in the clear. And maybe it speaks to Seokjin’s idea that love is a prison, because you know something’s happened to Jimin long before Seokjin speaks it into existence.

You’re up and out of the alleyway before you’re told to move. Have no idea where you’re going, but you’re racing through the streets of Budapest with a panic you haven’t ever felt in your life. Feels like quicksand; feels like molasses; feels like you have to wade through all the blood you’ve spilled, now congealed, to get to him.

“Where am I going?” you demand. Your lungs are on fire. In the split-second of silence it becomes a desperate scream. “Seokjin, tell me where the fuck I’m going!”

“The—fuck, the wa-warehouse up on your right.” You can’t think about why he’s crying. “I don’t—I don’t know wha-what’s there, you need to be careful. Please, you have to—”

Twenty seconds and you’ll be there, you’ll be with Jimin, you just need to keep running. You need to keep your head on straight. Remember your training. Remember you’ve built a life in a viper pit.

A man in a uniform is unloading a shipment around the back of the building. Faces away from you, bent at the waist. Takes very little effort to smash his head into the stone exterior and knock him unconscious, pocket his badge. You can’t get stupid now. Tell Seokjin to make sure all the cameras are cut, ask what floor when you shut yourself inside the freight elevator, unwilling to take the stairs and run into anyone who might be waiting. All the way to the top, he says, so all the way to the top you go.

—

Over the course of your life, you’ve made peace with death. Have stared it in the eye more times than you can count. Have dealt it out, evaded it, shook its hand.

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

Red. Everything is red—the walls, the floor, what used to be a beautiful parquet pattern in the wood. In the center of the room: two bodies, maybe three. Not much that’d be able to identify them beyond a pile of teeth, no saying whose is whose. Slaughterhouse scraps.

And this is not—Jimin doesn’t work this way. Isn’t his MO. Jimin’s kills are elegant and neat, topped with a bow. What you see before you is ultraviolence. It is unhinged, it is fury, it is a complete loss of control. It’s what love looks like to Jimin, because he sits at the very edge of a rotted chair, legs crossed. Face streaked with blood, clothes covered in it.

“Jimin,” you say, because what else is there?

He tilts his head to the side, smirks a little, looks at you beneath his lashes. Eyes that used to find you across a room and calm you. Eyes that have locked onto you in the throes of pleasure. Eyes you’ve seen yourself reflected in, bathed in love and adoration.

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

He removes his gloves with his teeth and doesn’t flinch away from the taste of iron. “They said they hurt you,” he states simply, “so I did what needed to be done.”

“What—” Nausea claws at your throat; for the first time, it’s all too much. This isn’t Jimin. This isn’t your Jimin, who smiled as you posed him against apricot walls in Copenhagen, who took a bullet to the stomach to protect you and never, ever told you. This is not the Jimin who wasted the last of his goodwill on loving you. “What did you do?” you whisper.

He rises to full height and it makes you flinch. You are scared of Jimin for the first time in your life: scared of who he is in this moment, what he’s capable of. And he sees it, lets that brand of anguish overtake him. Reaches for you before he decides against it and lets his hand drop to his side. Says, “I would never hurt you,” as if the words could brand themselves into your skin so you’d never forget.

“No, you’d just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t think about how one of the men nearly embedded into the floor was the one trailing you earlier.

Instead, you think about Seokjin: Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? You think about: How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled? You think about: In this life, it’s a prison.

You drop to your knees. Let the blood seep through your clothes and into your skin, undeserving of shying away from it.

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

You think about the men in front of you. Who they were, who they loved. The grief all of this is going to leave behind, and it becomes impossible to breathe. You grasp at your throat, think about all the times you’ve been strangled and who’d been there to cut the rope. There is no limit to Jimin’s devotion, and you understand now, how it drove Yoongi to madness. How he loved someone so much he would’ve retrieved their corpse from a building and how that same person can no longer bear to look at the damage they’d caused.

“This isn’t love, Jimin,” you choke out.

He stands in front of you. Stigmata. You’re worshiping at the altar of some kind of devil. At least his hands are clean when he places his fingers beneath your chin, forces you to look up at him. “What is it, then?”

“Destruction.”

A quiet huff of cruel laughter. “See, this is the difference between me and you, darling.” He takes back his hand, runs it through his blood-streaked hair, and your chin sags to your chest without his support. “Because I already knew that. Because I have destroyed myself every single day loving you.” He squats down, eye-level, and he says, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, sweetheart: you do not love me the way I love you, because I would do worse. When it comes to you, there is nothing on this earth I would not destroy to keep you safe.”

He clears his throat. Collects whatever’s in his mouth and spits onto one of the bodies. “If this is enough to have you tucking your fucking tail between your legs, then go, because this doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, and sometimes that says it all.

Jimin presses a kiss to the top of your head. Makes a call. Cleaners will be here soon, he says, better get going.

You watch him go.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair is black when Namjoon calls the meeting.

He takes the seat across from Namjoon’s desk because they don’t meet like this often. Assignments are usually manila folders slipped under doors, hushed whispers in hallways confirmed with a nod or a text on a burner phone. Assignments are not last-minute assemblies in conference rooms and offices.

But the way Namjoon is looking at him, with his clenched jaw and a gaze that’s meant to look barbed to anyone who doesn’t actually know him—Jimin doesn’t need to ask what this is about.

Had he bothered to look, he would’ve known by the way you stood in the far corner of the room, face obscured by the mid-afternoon shadows. Yoongi’s close to you, for some reason: dressed head to toe in black, perched on a lateral file cabinet, using a metal corner to sharpen his switchblade. Just like a harbinger of death. Some sort of fucked up omen, a warning that’s come too late.

Didn’t I tell you this would end badly, he hears Yoongi taunt in his head. This is what happens when you lay with trash.

Easy for Yoongi to say when he doesn’t know what it means to be cared for by you. Doesn’t know how it feels to give in to the freefall and plummet at your feet, stripped back and laid bare. Doesn’t know how it feels to kiss secrets into your skin like constellations, to map his tongue along every unspoken confession.

Easy for Yoongi to say, because he doesn’t have to survive the aftermath. Doesn’t have to feel the heartbreak, the agony of having you and watching as you slip through his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t have to struggle just to breathe, doesn’t have to endure the nights staring at the ceiling, watching as the daylight creeps into the corners of his vision. Doesn’t have to watch you looking so unaffected.

“Jimin.” Namjoon’s tone is flat, needlelike.

Behind him, Yoongi chuckles lowly. “What?” Jimin asks, his gaze trained on the painting behind Namjoon’s head. Looks like one he’d seen in Berlin, the time the two of you had gone just because and spent an afternoon ducking in and out of museums to escape the rain.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees the raindrops stuck to your eyelashes. The beads of water rolling off the sleeves of your leather jacket. How blinding your smile had been. The laughter in your voice as you ordered beer after beer after beer for the two of you in flawless Berlinisch. A brief, fleeting glimpse at normalcy. At the kind of life the two of you could have if you were just… different. Lived different lives. Were different people.

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

Namjoon’s words are a cold bucket of water. Snap him back to reality, yank him back to the present where he’s forced to leave those river-lined streets behind. You’re silent and Yoongi’s still snorting laughter. “Okay,” is all Jimin can bring himself to say.

Jin had gotten sloppy once, too, and Namjoon stuck him down in the basement to work logistics. Might not be so bad, Jimin reckons. He’d be away from you, spared of this fucking misery. “So you know that’s unacceptable.”

Jimin just shrugs, resigned to his fate, whatever it may be. “I’m reassigning the both of you,” Namjoon continues. “You’ll both have new partners for your next assignments, since you clearly can no longer be trusted together.”

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected an argument. “You’re being sent to Shanghai with Jungkook. You,” he says, turning his attention to you, “are going to Moscow with Taehyung.”

She’s fond of Taehyung, Jimin wants to say. But you’d been fond of him too, once upon a time, and that’d only ended in heartbreak, so who fucking cares.

They’re cruel, the tricks Jimin’s mind plays on him. How he convinces himself you look pained. How his fingers wring together at the thought of entrusting his life in the hands of someone else, someone new. At your life being just as at stake; at Taehyung being tasked with keeping you alive. Would you die for him, too, the way you’d always told Jimin you would for him? Would Taehyung take a bullet to the stomach to keep you safe the way Jimin had?

Even more cruel is the way you scoff, pushing yourself off of the wall as you fold your arms across your chest and say, “That’s bullshit, Kim Namjoon.”

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

Yoongi’s knife stops twirling. Just like a bird sensing a storm, senses on high-alert as he flicks his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry?” Namjoon says. “What part of Jimin losing his mind and nearly outing all of us seems like bullshit to you?”

“Hm, let me think,” you retort, a manicured finger tapping against the hollow of your cheek. “The part where you’re reassigning me for someone else’s mistake?”

Which part was the mistake? Jimin wants to ask. Needs to know how much you regret. Was sleeping with you the mistake? Falling in love with you? Getting too caught up in all these daydreams and letting reality get away from him?

“This organization is more important than Park Jimin getting his goddamn dick wet,” Namjoon snaps. “Keeping all of you safe—keeping you alive—is more—”

You scoff. Take an entire container of gasoline and pour it right on top of Namjoon’s flammable ire. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain to me why Min fucking Yoongi can fuck damn near everyone in this establishment, yet I have to sit here and listen to your goddamn mouth—”

Jimin doesn’t think Yoongi even knows his arm is moving.

There’d just been the trading of barbed words. His own name being spoken into the ether. Yoongi’s arm moving away from his body, switchblade clasped tightly between his fingers as he plunges it into your flesh.

Jimin watches it puncture your arm in slow motion. Feels the bile in his throat, the heat in his belly. Looks first at Namjoon whose jaw has gone slack, skin pale, as he stammers over words that won’t come. Then he looks at Yoongi—expects to find shock or guilt but finds only a muted disinterest and flared nostrils.

Finally, he looks at you. Watches the white cotton sleeve of your shirt slowly turn red and sticky-wet. Watches as your lips move around syllables and vowels and consonants Jimin can’t decipher.

“—fucking piece of shit, this is my favorite shirt! I’ll never get all this goddamn blood out of it—”

Jimin thinks he hears Yoongi say you deserve it. But Jimin isn’t really thinking much as he clambers out of his chair and moves in Yoongi’s direction. Doesn’t think at all as he lets instinct take over, lets adrenaline steer him headfirst into yet another bad idea.

He’s always known there’d come a day he’d be face-to-face with the sight of your blood. Had always known it’d come from someone else’s hand. Had always promised himself that hurting you would be the last thing anyone ever did.

Jimin has his fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s throat and he finally understands it—the joy Yoongi finds in taking life.

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” Yoongi taunts. Jimin tightens his grip. Suddenly hates that fucking scar across Yoongi’s eye. “You’re never on clean-up duty. Always make your girlfriend do the dirty work. Finally grew some fucking balls, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin says stupidly. Can’t think of anything more to say. Not that he needs to. Wrapping your hands around someone’s throat sends enough of a message, he thinks.

Namjoon’s still tongue-tied as you yank Yoongi’s blade from your arm, immediately pressing your other hand over the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of your blood is making Jimin dizzy; the smell of the iron hanging in the air. All he wants to do is choke the life out of the man in front of him, but more than that, he just wants to hold your hand. Wants to comfort you, even though he knows you don’t need it. Not from him, not from anyone, but he still wants to. Wants to press his lips to the sweat at your brow.

And Yoongi can see it, too, because he starts laughing. It’s an odd, fractured noise. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ever heard him laugh before, decides he also hates the way it sounds. Feels all wrong watching it leave his crooked smirk. Makes Jimin’s stomach plummet to the ground.

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you?” Yoongi teases around Jimin’s slackened grip. “You weren’t just fucking her, you’re in love with her.”

Weird how Jimin is the one with his hands around someone’s neck and feels like he’s the one suffocating.

[ 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E | Shanghai, CHINA ]

Jimin watches the life drain from an innocent woman’s face and feels nothing.

Jimin watches Jungkook cut a man down and feels even less.

When it’s over, he cleans up wordlessly and doesn’t eat for three days.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair has faded to brown by the time he returns from Shanghai.

The more complicated job had gone to you and Taehyung. Jimin had tried not to take it personally. The Russian hits are always unnecessarily violent and Jungkook still isn’t fully trained. There’s still a phantom pain in Jimin’s stomach that warns him of the consequences of taking on more than he can chew. So, sure, Shanghai had gone fine, but his mind had been nearly 7,000 kilometers away the entire time.

Good thing he’d returned to Seoul unscathed, too, because he’s sure Namjoon would’ve eliminated him without a moment’s hesitation if he’d fucked up again.

But Shanghai had only served to prove the leader right. Jimin can’t work with you anymore. Can’t focus, can’t stomach the violence, can’t keep his goddamn head on straight.

He sighs as he glances at Jungkook to his right. Jimin had watched him murder two men in cold blood not even thirty-six hours ago and now he’s doe-eyed and sucking down his third banana milk of the morning. It really makes his head spin, being paired with this grown-up infant of a man now instead of you, but for all of Jungkook’s apparent shortcomings, he’d kept Jimin alive. He isn’t dead.

And then you walk in with Taehyung and he wishes he was.

Because you’re laughing and Taehyung’s got his arm slung around your shoulder and you look happy. It’s the kind of happiness that should be contagious, bloom warmth in his chest, but it doesn’t. It just takes the last frayed strand of hope he has and sets flame to it.

You don’t look like you miss Jimin at all. Don’t look like you’ve lost sleep or skipped meals.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” Jimin says, because he’s wounded and lashing out. Not because he means it.

You must know he doesn’t, too, because you don’t react. “Watch your mouth, Park Jimin,” Taehyung warns, because he doesn’t know, and this only sets Jimin off more. You don’t need defending. Or had you, and Jimin had simply thought it wasn’t his place to provide it? That you wouldn’t want it?

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung is cherubic. It’s part of his charm, one of many reasons why he’s so effective. If you’re looking to die, you look for the guy who looks like Yoongi, not the one who smiles wide and warm like Taehyung. So when he sets his jaw and pokes his tongue into his cheek and says, “Or I’ll cut your fucking head off, you stupid fuck,” your attention is finally piqued.

“I’m so sick of this,” Jungkook wails, banana milk tossed carelessly in the trash. “All of you need to get your fucking shit together!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at the same time you pretend to inspect your nails. “Is that why you’re so temperamental, Chim?” Taehyung prods, looking every bit the pretentious, murderous angel he is. “Because you got sent to China on a babysitting mission while the grownups did real work?”

“Fuck you,” Jungkook snaps, rising to full height. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.” Taehyung’s words are razor-sharp and smell like kerosene. “Tell me, then: were you on babysitting duty? Had to look after our precious little Jiminie while he nursed his broken heart?”

You sigh, full of faux-exasperation, and place a gentle hand on Taehyung’s forearm. Dig your nails in just enough to be a warning, and if Jimin hadn’t been looking he’d miss it: the way Taehyung deflates instantly, anger dissipating like smoke, back in control. Just because you’d touched him. Just because you were there. Jimin knows that touch, how it feels to be under your control, and it makes his chest ache. Makes everything feel like it’s sitting wrong in his stomach, and he’s either going to be sick all over Namjoon’s overpriced fucking rug or wrap his hands around Taehyung’s throat the way he’d done to Yoongi.

He’s out of his goddamned mind; he feels untethered. Helpless. Like it was always going to end like this, and maybe Jimin knew that and had just ignored it. Maybe now he’s paying the price—maybe he’s finally found something he can’t afford.

Jungkook’s still going off, nasty gaze set on Taehyung because he’s the only one playing along. They’re exchanging words Jimin can’t make heads nor tails of. Words he doesn’t care about. Words that ring empty and hollow because they sound nothing like the way you say his name. Shapeless, unlike the way your lips move around those syllables.

“Jimin,” you say, the sound finally registering and bringing him back down to earth. All he can do is stare. “Can we talk?” Taehyung and Jungkook are still trading barbs.

Wonders how he got here. Looks around the room and wonders if each and every one of them is destined for this same fate, this madness. Wants to tell you why he forgot his vest, why he was three hours late in Argentina. Wants to grovel and beg and leave this place and never look back.

More than anything, he wants to know what it feels like to actually be human.

So he shakes his head. Tries not to be haunted by the way your face falls at the rejection.

There is a scar on his abdomen and a scar on your arm that both tell the same story. There is a man in the basement who is in love with a man above ground and is too weighed down by guilt to do anything about it. There is a man here who plays god, has soldiers to do his bidding, and there is very little here that Jimin has only for himself.

The two of you will have that conversation, but he needs to be human, first.

[ 34.6901° N, 135.1956° E | Kobe, JAPAN ]

This is a waste of your fucking time.

Whatever Namjoon had thought would be here doesn’t seem to exist. Yoongi can barely tolerate you on a good day, threatens to stick a dagger in your neck at least twice an hour, but the more time the two of you waste chasing ghosts, the closer he comes to unraveling entirely.

“Stop fucking staring at me,” he snaps, blowing the smoke of his cigarette right in your face.

You tut. “But you’re so beautiful, Yoongi, I just can’t help it.”

He digs his switchblade from his boot. Makes a show of flipping it open. “I can cut your fuckin’ eyes out of your skull,” he intones. “Maybe that’ll help.”

In your ear, Jimin’s laughter rings like crystal.

Ricochets off of all the corners of Seokjin’s basement, makes the echo sound warped through the earpiece. “Please tell Yoongi-ssi to keep an eye on the man with the shaved head. In front of him, roughly sixty degrees to his right.”

You relay the message. Watch as Yoongi transforms—sharpened gaze, rigid posture, disappears into the shadows. More apex predator than man. “And me?” you ask.

“Backup,” comes Seokjin’s voice. “We haven’t found your mark yet.”

You hum. Pick up the cigarette Yoongi left behind and stick it between your lips. Smoke it nearly to the filter. “You got it, boss,” you tease, just because it flusters him.

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

Exhale. Stub out the cigarette. Butt in your pocket. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and his voice is soft, sounds like spun sugar. “Stay alive, all right?”

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

if you've read this far: thank you so, so much! i am more appreciative than i can put into words. this is very different from what i typically write, but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. <3

#jimin x reader #jimin smut #bts x reader #bts smut #jimin imagine #jimin scenarios #jimin fanfic #jimin x you #jimin x y/n #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts x you #bts x y/n

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thebest-medicine · 3 months

Text

The Harm in Trying

MHA - BakuDeku & the Bakusquad lee!Bakugo, lers!Izuku Kaminari Kirishima & Sero - [read on ao3]

Summary: Bakugo is put into a ticklish situation by Midoriya with the rest of his friends… and of course he denies he’s ticklish.

A/N: I am so weak for giggly smiley Kacchan…it’s a problem and I’m making it all of y’all’s problem now. On a fucking roll with these BNHA fics lately, sorry not sorry for my bkdk brainrot~.

Words: 2.3k

…

“Wait, no way! Kacchan! Are you still ticklish?”

Bakugo can feel the heat of his blood burning across his face and ears with embarrassment. “The fuck? Of- of course not!” He dares a glance at Midoriya—and finds a knowing grin on his classmate’s face, instantly regretting the decision. “Don’t even think about trying—”

“Aw, why not? If you’re not ticklish~, then why does it matter?”

“Shut up, Deku!” Katsuki hisses.

“No, no, Midoriya has a point.” Kirishima agrees, holding up a finger to get the attention of the rest of the group.

“Seriously, what’s the harm in trying~?” Kaminari grins.

Bakugo rolls his eyes at Izuku despite his prominent blush. “Look what you did. Damn it, nerd!” He cracks his knuckles and shifts his weight so he’s in a good place to spring up from his seat quickly if he needs to. “Hope you guys know, if you try this, I’m gonna kill—”

Sero is quick with his tape and has the advantage of being out of Bakugo’s line of sight. At the first sign of movement, explosions start to crackle off of his hands, and Katsuki leaps to a stand to put up a fight with his classmates.

Instead of a fight, it’s over in moments, to Bakugo’s dismay, as tape wraps its way around his arms, legs, and whole body tightly. There’s a tug, and Bakugo feels himself tumbling backward, only to be caught short of the floor by Midoriya.

Katsuki’s eyes flare with alarm as he realizes the brief battle has taken a severe turn out of his favor, and fast. He also notices Izuku looking down at him with.. Amusement? Concern? Interest?

“What the hell?! You guys are seriously dead! Let me up! Now!”

“…Sounds like something a ticklish person would say.” Kirishima smirks, moving closer.

Kaminari laughs, joining in. “Hehe yeah, you seem worried Bakugo… What’s wrong? Are you like reeaaaaally ticklish or something?”

“No you idiots! I just don’t like being jumped by my so-called friends! What the hell?!”

Ignoring his barking, they reach in to help Midoriya lower Bakugo gently to the floor of the common room. Kaminari throws a leg over Bakugo’s legs while Kirishima untangles one of his arms and drags it up over his head, exposing his side. Sero sits down beside them. Katsuki’s other arm is taped against his side, and his legs are haphazardly wrapped together, meanwhile his idiot best friend now has one of his arms in a vice grip over his head. Kaminari settles into a spot just above Bakugo’s bound knees, holding him in place further.

Midoriya leans in closer, shifting around the Bakugo’s side opposite Sero, clearly remembering the tickle fights they had gotten into as kids. “Uh oh, you’re in trouble Kacchan~.”

All four of his classmates have excited grins on their faces. Fuck. Fuck. Red blooms across Katsuki’s face.

Kirishima brings a super wiggly teasing hand down slowly, frustratingly slowly, toward Bakugo’s exposed armpit, and he can’t help his eyes locking to it. “Seriously, cut this crap out!”

“Not a chance!” Kirishima exclaims with a giddy smile.

Bakugo growls in frustration as the claw draws closer, just a few inches from his skin. Suddenly, it dips down faster, and a gasp fills the room just as quickly.

Bakugo growls again when he realizes the trick… and his mistake. His attackers snicker with glee.

“Did you see his eyes just now?” Kaminari observes excitedly.

Sero chuckles along. “Yeah, oh man.”

“You’re totally ticklish Bakubro.” Kirishima laughs, delighted, and continues his teasing descent.

“Bet you we can get him to giggle.” Kaminari suggests.

“I don’t fucking g-giggle.” Katsuki swallows, quick to stop talking as Kirishima’s fingers touch down, poking curiously.

“Actually, Kacchan, I’m pretty sure you do have some giggle-spots.” Izuku chimes in, biting his lip to fight back his grin.

“You’re gonna be the f-first to die, Deku!”

“Hey! That’s not very nice.” Izuku chuckles. “You’re not really in a good position to be rude right now.” He pokes his fingers into Kacchan’s tensed abdomen which jumps slightly under the touch.

Bakugo’s skin is alight, his nerves tingling in anticipation. His focus is forced in on the points of contact his friends have with his underarm and stomach. “Don’t.” He grumbles weakly, energy focused on keeping his composure intact.

The hesitant yet curious fingers pick up pace, encouraged by his stonewalling. Kaminari joins in, pinching the tops of Bakugo’s thighs, and Sero starts poking at his exposed ribs.

Katsuki twitches more and more under each touch, his chest starting to rattle a bit with held back laughter. This led him to the conclusion that he was absolutely, definitely, undeniably still ticklish. It was much worse than he remembered.

As his friends grow more and more confident by the moment, he finds it harder and harder not to laugh. A wide smile works its way onto his face and Katsuki curses himself internally. Soon, giggles are starting to slip through. He only wishes he could at least have a hand free to cover his ridiculous face.

“It’s working! Look!” Kaminari concludes triumphantly, reaching up further to prod at Bakugo’s hip bones.

“Ah! Stahahhop it—”

Kirishima and Sero grin in turn, encouraged, and start to tickle with more determination at their respective spots. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for Katsuki’s laughter to begin leaking out.

“Nahahaha- idiots! Cuhuhuhut it out! Thihihis is stuhuhupid!” Bakugo complains, chuckling through his torment.

“It’s working, let’s get him worse!” Kirishima and Kaminari agree, suddenly tickling with fervor over their respective spots.

“No!” Bakugo shouts, panic rising with his laughter as he realizes he can’t move.

“Guys…” Izuku clears his throat for a moment. “Wait a second.”

They pause, turning to look at Midoriya.

“Let’s just… take it easy ok? I don’t think we should be too mean…”

Kaminari shrugs. “I mean… He’s already gonna kill us all for this, regardless of what we do going forward.”

“Yeah but.. I still think we should be...” Izuku pauses, drawing a lazy finger down Bakugo’s midsection, feeling the muscle tremble beneath it. Little protection is offered in the form of casual dorm clothes. “—well, try to be… nice. I think.” Izuku brings the rest of his fingers out into a spider-y crawl up to his ribs. “He always hated it if you went too hard, back then.”

“Sh-shuhut the fuck up!” Katsuki growls between fading laughter. “Stop tahahalking about mehehe- while you’re—”

“Hey! He’s trying to stick up for you, bro.” Kirishima chastises, pinching Bakugo’s upper rib cage, sending his head back with a shout. He keeps up wiggling his fingers softly into the ribs.

“I don’t cahahahare! All of you shut uhuhuhup! Gehehet off already! It’s ahah- hahaha obviouslyhehehe not wohohohorking!” The fire of Katsuki’s embarrassed rage burns its way into the words, finding its way through despite the cackling laughter surrounding his words.

“Listen.” Kaminari leans in, trying to force eye contact with the flustered, angry blond. “Even though you’re being a big fat liar and a total jerk right now and you totally deserve to get it worse… We’re gonna listen to Midoriya and take it easy on you.”

Part of Bakugo wants to scream, ‘don’t you dare take it easy on me! Ever!’ —but the ticklish part of his brain keeps that other part silent. He scoffs instead and tries again to kick his legs out unsuccessfully. “Whatever! Either get off or get whatever the hell you’re gonna do over with already!”

Kirishima beams. “…That almost sounds like an invitation.”

“Shut up!”

“You need to work on your attitude, Kacchan~.” Kaminari snickers, poking a few times into Katsuki’s sides, and Bakugo tenses again, face still lit up with a warm blush. Midoriya continues to scribble gently at Bakugo’s stomach and up to his lower ribcage, searching for the perfect spot on his ribs that always made him.. Ah, there it was.

“Ehehehe, stahahaha— Deku d-dohohon’t!” Katsuki giggles.

“Are your feet ticklish too?” Sero asks, happy with his tape bonds and feeling a bit crowded with the other two up near Bakugo’s chest.

Bakugo’s toes curl in his stupid, measly, unprotective slippers. “N-no! I told you— I’m not fucking tihihicklish!” He blatantly lies. “Sh-ahaha-shut up, stupid ehehextras!”

Kirishima sighs dramatically over the sound of Bakugo giggling. “Sounds like we’re gonna be here a while guys…”

“That’s fine by me!” Kaminari adds gleefully, pinching at both of Bakugo’s hips every few seconds and watching him buck faintly at the touch.

Katsuki continues his mantra of cursing and denial, only encouraging his tormenting friends to push him, tickling and teasing with a greater boldness with each passing threat he makes. And well, damn if his own competitive steak isn’t to a fault — he can’t help the instinct that he doesn’t want to lose. He knows it’s stupid at this point to keep denying that he’s ticklish. And yet…

“Shuhuhut up! I’m nohohohot! I’m not! Ahahah- don’t! Shihihit-fuck you Deku! Hahaha nooo—”

“Ooh what’d you do?” Curious voices crowd Izuku, faces trying to catch on to what he did to attract Bakugo’s ire.

“Nothing—” Izuku lets out a little laugh. “Just—”

“Nothing!” Katsuki reiterates, interrupting and glaring up at Deku.

Midoriya laughs awkwardly. “I think Kacchan would actually murder me if I showed you… sorry guys.”

They think for a moment, then shrug in agreement. “We’ll just have to keep doing this until we find whatever that spot was, then, I guess. Start a weekly tradition.” Kirishima says as though it’s a new chore they have to complete.

“Don’t. Don’t you fucking dahaHAHAhahare!”

“Wow, Bakugo, for someone who’s definitely not ticklish, you’re laughing a lot.” Kaminari teases. “What's so funny?”

“Your stuhuhuhupid fahace!” Bakugo laughs back without missing a beat.

Kaminari narrows his eyes, then pulls away his hands. He pulls his hand in close to examine it, flexes his fingers a few times; he rests his fingertips gently on his other forearm, watching thoughtfully. Electricity crackles, quiet enough to miss over Bakugo’s strangled laughter. With a grin, both of Kaminari’s hands are back, reaching down toward Bakugo’s middle, who groans with frustration.

When Kaminari touches his stomach this time though, he pushes his hand under the shirt and against the bare skin. Bakugo tenses even further, his mind stumbling between a mixture of embarrassment, lightness, anger, laughter, and an overloading nervous system.

“The fuhuhuhuck are yOU-HA! STAHAHA-NO! WHAHAT!? WHAahahaha whahahat iS THAHAT!?” Comes Katsuki’s increasingly frantic response to the feeling of tiny, popping electrical stimulations pulsing out from Kaminari’s nimble fingers.

“Oh man, seriously what is that?” Kirishima asks with a grin.

“If you want us to stop, all you have to do is admit that you’re ticklish~.” Kaminari reminds a cackling Bakugo. He drags his fingers in light, slowly closing and widening circles along the skin he can reach under Bakugo’s shirt that isn’t fully closed off by tape. “It’s nothing really, just getting a little creative with my quirk.” He says casually to his friend as though there were not a writhing Bakugo between them.

“That’s so cool! How’d you come up with that? Is it easy to manage the minimal electrical output? Oh man, it seems like it tickles really bad! Poor Kacchan..”

“Hey, if you want to try it out next…” Denki snickers.

Izuku holds his hands up, crossing and uncrossing them in front of his chest quickly. “No! No, I’m, heh, I’m already really ticklish so…” He blushes crimson with a nervous smile.

“Oh are you now?” Kaminari winks, grinning. “Maybe we’ll have to test that some time.”

“N- uh. Heh.” Midoriya’s face is red as he stumbles over words and eventually just turns to focus on poking at Kacchan in front of him rather than his future possible victimhood.

Sero, meanwhile, tickles up and down Bakugo’s soles and pinches at his ankles and calves and shins, gaining him some suppressed kicks and jerking muscles.

When Midoriya returns to tickling along his ribs, Bakugo feels that he isn’t going to be able to take this much longer, with Kirishima on his underarm and occasionally neck, Sero on his feet, and Kaminari spreading his terrible little sparking tickles all over his sides and stomach now.

“Fuck! Stahahahahop- ehehehehenough already!” Bakugo growls through his increasingly desperate laughter.

“You just have to admit it~.” Kirishima sing-song’s.

Bakugo shouts through his laughter, frustrated and nearly at wit’s end. He grapples with the few options he can think of right now, landing on nothing but the obvious out. Deku’s fingers start crawling back up toward his ribs and he panics, shouting out between laughs. “Fine! Fihihihine I’m ticklish! It fucking tihihihihihickles! Ahahahahhare you happy nahahahow? I am! Ahaha- haha is- is thihihis what you wahahahanted?!”

Everyone slowly pulls their hands away, leaving a panting, flustered, still-giggling Bakugo taped up between them all.

“See, that wasn’t so hard!” Kaminari laughs, starting to tug at the tape securing their friend.

Bakugo flinches when he first reaches in, which makes everyone laugh again. Soon, everyone is helping, and Bakugo is quickly free enough to stand up and rip the rest off. He tries to glower, to stare them all down, but the red hasn’t left his cheeks yet, and the smile is still fighting its way onto his lips.

“You’re all gonna fucking die. I hope you know.” Katsuki cracks his knuckles, then turns and points accusatorily. “Especially you, Deku!”

“Wha- me?!”

“Obviously! This was all your fault!”

Midoriya squeaks, shrinking in on himself and putting distance between him and Kacchan.

“I have better things to do right now. But you’re all gonna get yours.” Bakugo threatens as he heads toward his dorm to ‘do better things’ (totally not just take a nap because he’s exhausted from laughing so hard).

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shellbilee · 3 months

Text

Hey There Darlin' - Chapter 6

A Glen Powell RPF series

Thank you for all the love on this story! x

Glen

Glen is turning the heat on the stove down when he hears the doorbell ring, Brisket’s shrill bark ringing out throughout the house. He jogs down the hallway, scooping up Brisket on the way, aware that he’s already smiling even before he reaches the door. He lets out a breath and opens the door, feeling his whole body heat when he sees her standing there.

Billie.

She’s still dressed in her jeans and shirt from earlier, though her hair is now loose and flowing, framing her face in long soft waves. She looks beautiful.

Nugget is wagging his tail excitedly, happily panting from his spot at Billie’s legs, Brisket immediately scrambling in his arms to meet his new friend again.

“Hi again”

“Hey gorgeous” he says, loving the way Billie’s smile grows even bigger.

She steps inside and Brisket launches from his arms, Glen immediately reaching for Billie's waist and pressing his mouth to hers. He kisses her tenderly, his mouth firm but gentle against hers, her lips soft and plush and exactly as he remembers from only hours ago. His hands grab at her waist and her arms reach up to wrap around his neck, Glen only pulling away when he feels his lungs start to burn.

“I’ve been thinking about doing that again since the moment we left the restaurant” he whispers after a moment, smiling down at her breathlessly before bending and kissing her again.

It’s like he can’t get enough of her.

Billie bites her lip when they part - her perfect, plush lips, and Glen has to stop himself from groaning out loud, his grip on her waist momentarily tightening.

“Me too” she replies with a shy smile, her cheeks now flushed a lovely pink, her fingers unclasping and sliding down his chest.

They smile at each other and eventually separate, Glen closing the door behind them as the dogs take off down the hallway.

“Your house is incredible” Billie breathes, looking around when they step into the expansive open plan living area, Glen watching as she scans the room around her, “This makes my place look like a studio apartment”.

She looks back up at him with a smile and Glen feels his chest tighten at the sight.

He chuckles, his hand brushing the small of her back.

“Drink?”

Billie raises one eyebrow and tilts her head as she looks at him, “Only if you’re having one?”

He smiles as he walks into the kitchen and sets about pouring them both a glass of pinot, Billie walking over and running her hand over the black marble benchtop.

“Smells amazing too. What’s for dinner?”

Glen winks conspiratorially. “It’s a surprise. My specialty”.

Billie grins adorably as she sets down her bag. “I’m excited”

He walks around the bench and hands her the glass of red, tapping his glass against her in a cheers.

“Want a tour?”

Billie nods enthusiastically.

“Of this mansion? With that view?” she says gesturing dramatically over to the glass doors that line the whole side of the house - the outdoor deck and luxury pool sit in view just outside, an expansive, stunning view of the Hollywood Hills just beyond it, “Absolutely I do”.

Glen laughs and takes her hand, leading her down the hallway to show her the rest of the house.

Ten minutes later, awe is etched all over Billie’s face.

Glen is in awe too, except it’s got nothing to do with his house and absolutely everything to do with Billie.

How can anyone be so utterly adorable and so God damn sexy at the same time?

He can't think of anything he wants to do more than pull her to him and kiss her until his lips are sore, to feel her skin beneath his fingertips, to taste her on his tongue.

The house tour is basically torture - it’s even worse than their workout this morning, something Glen would have previously believed was impossible until just now. He can’t stop his brain from picturing himself taking Billie on every available surface in his home.

The way she’d look bent over the back of his black leather couch, his hands running over every stunning curve of her naked body.

Or the way she’d look lying spread open in the middle of his bed with her head thrown back, as he licked between her thighs like a man starved.

Or the way she’d look pressed up against the stone wall of his luxury shower, water dripping down her luscious frame as he drove into her again and again and again.

Billie is all but oblivious to the sinful thoughts running through his brain, Glen struggling to listen and respond appropriately to her comments about each new room he takes her through.

Fuck.

Every part of him is already hoping she'll stay the night, but he knows he's being forward. After all, he's only known her for forty-eight hours.

But still.

The way her ass looks in those jeans? The way her ass would look out of those jeans and instead spread in his hands as he bent her over?

My God.

Glen manages to hold himself together and eventually they finish at his favourite spot in his house - the lounge on the outdoor deck that overlooks the pool and the rest of the expansive yard.

Glen instructs Billie to take a seat while he goes to check on dinner, Brisket and Nugget full of seemingly boundless energy as they run chaotic laps of the grass chasing one another.

When Glen returns outside minutes later, he can't help his smile at the sight he’s greeted with. Brisket is standing on Billie’s lap, his little tail wagging furiously as he looks down at Nugget in front of them, while Nugget stands on the floor barking at his tiny friend to come down and play.

Before Glen can open his mouth to comment on the scene in front of him, Brisket launches himself from Billie’s lap and sprints down the deck, Nugget tearing off after him and giving chase onto the manicured lawns below.

“Dinner should be ready in about forty-five” Glen says when he walks over to Billie and sits down on the lounge beside her, stretching one arm out along the back of the couch.

“Can I help in any way?”

Glen scoffs and Billie laughs and shakes her head, clearly knowing her answer without him even saying anything.

She shifts on the lounge to face Glen, tucking her now bare feet underneath herself, her phone slipping off her lap in the process.

It's then that Glen notices there’s a video playing on her phone, his brow furrowing as he picks it up and inspects the screen.

“I didn't know there was a game on today?” Glen comments, instantly recognising the video as a sports channel.

Billie laughs and shakes her head, reaching up to tuck one side of her long hair behind her ear.

“There isn’t. It’s Aussie rules, from back home” she explains, taking her phone from Glen and looking down at it almost wistfully, “Football. My team is playing”.

“Do you want to put it on the TV?” Glen asks, gesturing to the enormous TV mounted on the wall of the outdoor deck area.

Billie frowns and looks at him oddly, causing Glen to let out a laugh.

“I have every sports channel available Billie”.

Her face softens then, her teeth flashing in a gentle smile.

“Of course you do” she says with a chuckle, shaking her head in amusement, “But no, it’s ok, I don’t want to force you to watch a sport you know nothing about”.

Glen scoffs for the second time in two minutes.

“Don’t be silly. I love sports” he says as he suddenly sits forward and reaches for his own phone, unlocking it and scrolling through to the TV app, “Besides, I wouldn’t say I know nothing about it. I got to stand on the Sydney stadium when I was in Australia. The SCG I think it was called?”.

Billie laughs as the TV starts up, Glen leaning over to double check the channel from the video on her phone, “I wouldn’t exactly call that knowledge of the game”.

Glen grins and shrugs, clearly unphased, putting his phone down on the coffee table in front of them when the game starts playing on the screen. He leans back on the couch and stretches his arm along the back, this time his hand finding Billie and pulling her back into him.

“You’ll just have to teach me the rules then”

She smiles gorgeously up at him - that same fucking smile that's blessed his nearly every thought for the last two days, and Glen feels himself melt.

“Thank you” Billie breathes, shifting beneath his arm, reaching up to cup his cheek and pulling his face down to hers in a gentle kiss.

He smiles when Billie cuddles into him, the sweet scent of her peachy perfume filling his nose, his arm draped across her front giving her a soft squeeze.

Billie's fingers wrap around his and Glen looks down at their intertwined hands, feeling a wave of contentment wash over him at the sight.

He lets out a silent sigh and relaxes back into the couch, holding Billie's body against his as they watch the screen together.

---

“He’s holding him!” Billie nearly screams at the TV, throwing her arms up into the air in exasperation, “How do you not call that umpire!?”

The play continues without intervention from the referee and Billie drops her arms dramatically, muttering curses under her breath and running her fingers through her hair.

Glen can't help the way he's grinning at Billie, loving how fired up and passionate she is about her team. She's exactly like he is with his Texas Longhorns.

“Holding him?”

Billie turns back to look at Glen, her previously angered expression instantly softening.

“You can't hold another player and block their attempt at getting the ball” she explains, making quotation mark signs with her fingers when she says hold, “So like if the ball was coming to you, I could try and bump and contest with you, but I couldn't say, hold your arm down and stop you from trying to mark the ball”.

Glen shakes his head and laughs.

“This sport has so many insane rules” he says, taking a drink of his wine, “And I still can't believe the players don't wear any protective gear”.

Billie laughs, sitting forward on the lounge and reaching for her own glass of wine on the coffee table.

“The tackles aren't nearly as rough as they are in NFL though”

“Are you kidding? That guy almost took that other guy's head off before”.

Billie chuckles and taps her fingers against her wine glass before taking a sip. “Yeah but that wasn't allowed either. I'd almost guarantee that he'll be written up for that and get at least a one week suspension from playing”.

“They should at least wear helmets to protect their heads”

“They can wear helmets, but they're not a full on one like the NFL players would wear. They're not hard, they're made of a moulded foam material so I'd call them more of a head guard than a helmet”.

“Crazy”

Billie laughs again. “They wear mouth guards though. Gotta protect the teeth you know”.

Glen shakes his head. “I swear you Australian’s are just on another level”.

Billie chuckles and slides back on the couch again, sitting back beside Glen. He wraps his arm around her as she does so, pulling her back into him and giving her waist a gentle squeeze.

“I wouldn't say another level” Billie replies with a soft chuckle that makes Glen's insides warm, “Perhaps just tough?”.

She grins and winks one gorgeous eye at him, Glen grinning back in response.

“My worst injury when I used to play, back when I was in my early twenties” Billie says suddenly, sitting up and turning to Glen, pulling aside the collar of her shirt and exposing her golden collarbone, “I got tackled by this girl and she just crunched me underneath her. Dislocated my shoulder and snapped my collarbone in half”.

She points at a long white spidery scar on her collarbone and Glen does his best to pay attention, trying his hardest not to notice that she's just given him a now near uninterrupted view of her cleavage. His brain almost short circuits as he eyes the swell of her left breast, the hand that was previously holding Billie now gripping at the soft material of the outdoor lounge.

“Part of it came through my skin. Honestly it was the most sickening sound, I still get shivers thinking about it” Billie explains, looking down at her shoulder and back at Glen.

“The sound? Not the pain?”.

Billie shrugs. “I remember it hurting, but the sound is what really haunts me”.

Glen just shakes his head.

“See? Another level”.

Billie drops her head back and laughs, her eyes crinkling and her cheeks bouncing in a way that Glen finds adorable. He smiles at her, his eyes dropping back to her scar.

He reaches out and runs his fingers over it, feeling the thickened, bumpy ridges that are still somehow soft beneath his touch. He swears he sees Billie shiver then, and all at once he has to fight the overwhelming urge to lean in and kiss along her scar, to run his tongue across her collarbone.

Before he can actually do it though, the beeping of the kitchen timer stirs him from his thoughts. His hand drops from Billie and she readjusts her shirt, Glen instead putting down his wine glass and hauling himself to his feet.

“Are you sure there's nothing I can do?”

Glen nods.

“I'm sure darlin’. You stay out here with the boys” he says looking down at Billie, gesturing to the lawn where Brisket and Nugget are still chaotically chasing one another.

“You can let me kiss you though” he adds with a mischievous smile, loving the way she grins back up at him.

“That I can definitely do”

His own grin grows and he bends to kiss her, cupping her cheek and pressing a gentle kiss to her waiting lips. He winks at her when he pulls away, making his way into the kitchen and leaving Billie outside with the dogs.

—

Billie

“You don’t need to help me with dishes Billie”.

Billie ignores his words and pushes past him in the expansive kitchen, earning a deep chuckle from Glen.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?”

Billie laughs this time, unable to help her grin.

“Nope, I’m just a good dinner guest” she fires back as she bends to put her plate in the dishwasher, looking up in time to see Glen’s face split into a wide grin.

They’d just finished dinner - an amazing dinner of Glen’s apparently famous Texan pulled pork tacos, sitting down outside on the outdoor lounges as the sun had set over the valley in front of them. Billie had been in love from her first bite, almost moaning out loud when the spicy smoky flavours hit her tongue, both Nugget and Brisket sitting close by on guard for any dropped pieces of food.

She stands up and holds out her hand, Glen reluctantly passing her his empty plate for her to stack next, along with their dinner cutlery. He steps around her and moves to the sink, setting about cleaning the dirty stove pot. For a moment Billie can’t help but smile at the domestic-ness of the moment, of something as small and simple as doing the dishes together.

“On another note though, that was amazing” she says when she stands back up again, moving to lean against the marble bench, her front facing Glen beside her, “You really are a man of many talents. Acting, running, cooking. Is there anything you can’t do?”.

Glen chuckles, his hands soapy with dishwater bubbles, the overhead lights of the kitchen highlighting the planes of his face covered in the smallest amount of stubble. For a second, Billie finds herself wondering how his face would feel beneath her fingertips. Beneath her fingertips, and against her skin.

God.

“I can’t touch my toes”

Billie can’t stop the bubble of laughter that escapes her throat then, covering her mouth with her hand to suppress the sound.

“Really?”

Glen nods his head earnestly. “Really”.

“I stand corrected then. Acting, running, cooking, but most definitely not a gymnast”.

They both laugh and Billie grins happily, looking up when Nugget and Brisket come bounding into the kitchen. She bends to pat Nugget, smiling at his goofy, golden smile, standing up again and turning to Glen as he rinses the pot and rests it on the drying rack beside the sink. She rests her hip against the marble bench top, folding her arms across her chest as she looks at him.

“Seriously though, dinner was incredible Glen. Thank you so much for inviting me tonight” Billie says, watching as dries his hands on the dish towel.

The smile he gives Billie then makes her want to melt into a puddle on the floor, right there on the luxurious kitchen tiles.

“You’re welcome Billie”.

Her name in his voice makes her stomach flip flop, just like his stupidly handsome smile. Never mind her heart rate that suddenly goes through the roof when Glen steps towards her, her breath catching in her throat when his hands find her waist.

Billie can’t help it when her eyes flicker to his lips, his stubble covered jawline, his soft, sandy hair that’s messily slicked back. She feels his eyes search her face, soft and pale green, the colour making her want to stare at them forever.

All at once her mind is empty except for how much she wants to lose herself in Glen, and then as if he can hear exactly what she's thinking, his hand is snaking up her back and coming to rest on the side of her jaw. His eyes move to her mouth and she feels herself exhale, and all of a sudden Glen's lips are on hers, tender and wanting, and delicately coaxing hers apart.

Billie lets him take the lead, lets him deepen their kiss, feeling like putty in his hands as he all but steals the breath from her throat. His lips move against hers, a delicate dance of push and pull, his fingers moving to her hair and holding her head in place. She feels his free hand slide down her back and then finds leverage on her ass, her feet suddenly leaving the ground as she's lifted onto the bench.

The marble is cold against her thighs, even through the denim on her jeans, but she barely registers the feeling as Glen's tongue suddenly finds hers. She can't help the soft moan that falls from her then, the sound having a clear effect on Glen - his fingers tightening their hold and his hips pushing her legs apart so that his front is pressed against hers.

Billie feels herself slipping. She's losing herself, feeling almost entirely consumed by Glen and his mouth. His kiss feels like heaven, a delicious, intoxicating feeling that she just wants to drown in, his scent, his taste, his feel, completely overwhelming her. She can feel her heartbeat in her ears, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, her fingers gripping desperately at the nape of his neck as he kisses her over and over.

She can’t remember the last time she felt like this. And all they’d done is kiss.

Just when she thinks she can’t possibly slip any deeper, any further into the blurred fog of hedonistic want, Brisket’s shrill barking pierces her ears and she feels Glen’s lips suddenly slow. She’s instantly aware that her chest is heaving, lungs burning from being temporarily oxygen starved, Glen’s own breath heavy as he pulls away and rests his forehead against hers.

Her lips tug into a smile at his tender action, her hands slipping down to cup his face. He smiles back at her with that soft, handsome grin that she’s quickly learning is classically Glen, bending and kissing her once more before pulling away and turning to look at Brisket at his feet.

He’s wagging his tail furiously, looking up at his owner standing beside him, letting out another high-pitched bark that’s almost insistent and tapping his two front paws.

Billie grins and raises one eyebrow, tilting her head as she looks at Glen, now standing with his hands on his hips and looking down at Brisket.

“I assume that means it’s dinner time?”.

Glen clicks his tongue, shaking his head in an almost annoyed amusement.

“You’d assume right. God forbid it gets past seven-thirty and he hasn’t eaten yet”.

Billie laughs and jumps down off the bench, bending to pat Nugget - who’d since taken a seat beside Brisket, and was watching his new friend with curious interest.

“I suppose that means you’re hungry too then hey?” Billie asks, smiling when Nugget’s head snaps to face her at the word ‘hungry’.

Billie grins down at her golden fur-child and chuckles. “C’mon bud”.

She walks over to her bag and pulls out the kibble mix she’d packed earlier, Nugget following happily behind her, drool already starting to form on his jowls.

“Another wine?” Glen asks when Billie’s walking back inside, having taken both the boys outside to feed them on the backyard deck.

She notes that there’s a soft country music song playing in the background now, a candle burning on the wooden coffee table in the centre of the room. The lights are dimmed, shadows thrown across the space and broken by a soft glow from the lamp in the corner.

Billie smiles, reaching up to run her fingers through her long hair.

“I shouldn’t. I have to work tomorrow”.

Glen laughs. “That doesn’t sound like a no darlin’”.

She exhales heavily, grinning as she flops down onto Glen’s luxurious black leather living room couch.

“Okay but this has to be my last one or I won’t be able to drive home”.

Glen chuckles, low and deep, the sound making Billie’s muscles squeeze. She can’t help but think for the thousandth time how handsome he is, watching his muscles ripple beneath his tight shirt as he walks over to the couch, two red wines in his hand.

“Maybe that’s my plan”.

Billie shoves him playfully as he sits down beside her, causing Glen to chuckle again.

“You know you can stay if you want to” he adds, passing her a glass.

Billie shoots him a look and Glen lifts his hands innocently. “No no, not for that reason, I’m just saying, you’re welcome to stay”.

Billie smiles inwardly, taking a sip of red and feeling her chest flush. She wonders idly if it’s to do with the wine, or the fact that her brain suddenly can’t help but imagine what would undoubtedly happen if she stayed the night. Either way, she struggles to keep her thoughts in line for a moment.

She tips her head back against the couch and sighs softly, turning to look at Glen beside her.

“As much as I’d love to, I know I have a crazy day tomorrow since I took Friday off for Rufus” she explains, swearing she can actually feel the fibres in her body protesting the moment she says that.

“Do you have a busy rest of week?” Glen asks, shifting closer to her on the couch and making Billie smile when he picks up her legs and drapes them over his lap.

She nods, explaining that she has a couple of athletes doing qualifiers this week, so it won’t necessarily be busy, but it will certainly be a full on week. She tells him about Hayley, one of her favourite clients, a seventeen year old junior getting back to her first gymnastics meet following a dislocated shoulder.

“Do you always go to their events?”

“It would be impossible for me to do it for all of them, but for the ones that I can, I try my best” Billie says, taking another sip of her wine, “ But I've been working with Hayley for the better part of a year, so I definitely don't want to miss hers”.

“When is it?”

“Thursday lunch-time” Billie explains, already looking forward to her late morning start.

She looks over at the dogs, the two apparently having run out of their seemingly endless energy, now snoozing peacefully on the grey living room rug.

“Do you have set hours at work or is it all over the place?” Glen asks, his free hand falling to Billie’s left knee.

She can’t answer him for a moment, too caught up in the way her skin is suddenly burning from his touch, even through the material of her jeans. She looks down at his hand and swallows, her brain conjuring the image of his hands on her skin without clothes and temporarily blanking her thoughts.

Fuck.

She clears her throat, gripping her wine glass tighter.

“Ah for the most part it's the same, but occasionally it's thrown around when there's games and events for me to go to” Billie answers, looking back at Glen and loving the way he’s watching her face so intently, “Generally Tuesdays and Fridays I start early and finish early, whereas Mondays and Wednesdays I start later and finish later. Thursday is usually my paperwork and mentoring day so they’re always a bit more low key”.

“What about you?” she asks after a beat, taking another sip of red, “I imagine you have absolutely no routine to your schedule and every week is different? I have no idea how you deal with that” she adds, shaking her head with a smile.

Glen laughs and says that he’s used to it after all this time, and that he has a relatively quiet week coming up - a couple of meetings with his agent and publicist, and a photo shoot later in the week. He adds that most of his projects have finished filming and that his next press tour isn’t for a few weeks yet.

It’s then that it dawns on Billie that this is the first time they’ve actually spoken about his work, and she can’t help but notice the gaping difference between their two lives.

“What project is the press tour for?”

“Twisters”

Billie tilts her head. “As in like Twister, the tornado movie from the nineties with Helen Hunt?”.

Glen nods, “That’s the one”.

“I used to love that movie. I didn't know they were re-making it” Billie says, eyebrows raised in surprise, looking down when Glen moves his hand to her foot.

“How’d you get this scar?” Glen asks suddenly, changing the subject, running his finger tip along her left ankle, “Another football injury?”.

Billie shakes her head and smirks.

“Nope. Worse”

Glen looks back at her expectantly. “I'm not sure you can get worse than your collar bone coming through your skin darlin’”.

Billie chuckles, tilting her head as she looks back at him.

“Stung by a jellyfish when I was eight”.

Billie can't help the laugh that escapes her when Glen's eyebrows shoot up in shock.

“A jellyfish?”

“Specifically, a box jellyfish”

“Wait, can't you die from those?”

Billie laughs again. “You absolutely can”

Glen just stares for a moment, and Billie swears she can see his brain searching for an appropriate answer to say back to her.

Instead he just shakes his head and takes another sip of his wine, looking back at her with an expression that she can't help but grin at.

“Like I said earlier, you Australian’s are literally on another level”.

Billie just laughs and shrugs her shoulders, Glen looking back at her scar and running his fingers along the deep purple lines on her skin.

They settle into a comfortable silence then, the soft background music the only sounds in the room, and Billie realises how content she is. More content than she expects to be with a guy she's only known for forty-eight hours. A guy who happens to be absolutely gorgeous, and also just happens to be an A-list celebrity.

If someone had told her last week that she’d be on a couch with Glen Powell, drinking wine with her feet in his lap, she’d have flat out laughed in their face. Billie smiles to herself, letting out a silent breath, looking down at her almost empty wine glass.

“I suppose I should probably go. I need to get my ass into gear for tomorrow”

Glen bends forward to put his now-empty wine glass on the coffee table in front of them, turning to look at her with a gentle smile.

“Again, you know you are more than welcome to stay”

Billie chuckles.

“As tempting as your offer is Mr Powell, respectfully, I must decline your sleepover proposal” she says, finishing her own wine and nodding her thanks when Glen takes her empty glass and puts it with his, “This time anyway”.

Glen looks at her with one eyebrow raised, the sudden mischievous glint in his sage green eyes nearly making her moan out loud.

“This time?”

Billie shrugs her shoulders innocently.

“This time” she answers quickly, offering her own mischievous grin and loving the way he looks back at her.

Billie swings her feet out of Glen’s lap and stands up from the couch, fully aware of the way he’s suddenly staring at her ass as she stands in front of him. She walks over to grab her bag, the movement stirring the dogs, Nugget suddenly standing and stretching out his front legs.

“So when can I see you again?” Glen asks when she’s finished putting on her shoes, his hands finding her waist and pulling her flush to him.

For a split second Billie wonders if her breath will ever stop catching in her throat every time she feels his hands on her body.

She reaches up to wrap her arms around his neck, bending to press a quick kiss to his waiting lips.

“How about Wednesday? We can grab a drink? Or, you and Brisket can come to mine for dinner?” she suggests, her gaze flickering back to his lips when he wets them quickly with his tongue, “I finish a little later on Wednesday but… I don’t have to go in until midday the next day”.

She knows the insinuation hits Glen immediately, feeling his grip on her waist momentarily tighten. Her own muscles squeeze deliciously and suddenly she has no idea how she’s possibly going to wait until Wednesday.

“Wednesday’s perfect”

Glen grins down at Billie and for a second she forgets how to breathe, threading her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck as he bends down to kiss her. His mouth is insistent, his tongue quickly finding hers, their kiss tender and heated as if they both know what’s inevitable at their next meeting.

Eventually they part, and Billie silently sucks air into now her starved lungs, feeling her chest heave as she gazes up at Glen. His lips are parted and his eyes are almost glossy as he looks down at her, and in that moment Billie's almost certain that his thoughts mirror her own.

She bites her lip, her fingers gripping tighter in his hair, the corner of her now swollen lips tugging into a salacious grin.

Wednesday cannot come quick enough.

---

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TAGLIST:

@angclvings @auntiegigi @friedchips94 @memories-in-bw @maeleelee @jessicab1991 @bellaireland1981 @queenslandlover-93 @itsjustkhaos @kneelforloki @djs8891 @lovemesomevesey @entertainmentgirl80 @buckysteveloki-me @stankface

#glen powell #glen powell fanfic #glen powell fic #glen powell series #glen powell smut #glen powell x ofc #glen powell fluff

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emilvr · 10 months

Text

┆ ° ♡ • ➵ ✩ ◛ ° boyfriend spencer !

oh lord have mercy this man is sooooo ( ∩ˇωˇ∩)♡all my boyfie spencer thoughts in one place.. <3 this man deserves a happy ending and if cm won’t give it to him i certainly will!! click the link 4 a surprise … & also send me ur spencer reid thoughts before i collapse!!

warnings: just swearing/slight suggestive tones (like smooches..) and gender neutral reader i think !!

spencer, at least— according to derek, is a tough nut to crack. he doesn’t trust easily at all, and the fruits of your labour may not actually show until years down the line. but if there’s one thing about him you could never doubt, is his loyalty to not just you, but his entire team. especially when he tells you, “i’ll do anything you need me to. always.” and the earnest tone he whispers it in, his brown eyes flickering up to meet your [e/c] ones. the soft, glowing warmth of the love of a thousand lifetimes burns bright in his irises and you will find that you simply don’t care how long you have to wait for him to allow you to hold his heart in your hands.

he may not say i love you in the traditional sense; but it is as clear as the turning shades of the leaves in autumn. it’s clear in how he wants to know everything about you: the things you deem mundane and unimportant, the things that make you embarrassed and the things that make you avoid his eyes as you grin childishly. it’s clear in the way he remembers everything, which isn’t all that surprising given:

“did you know i actually have an eidetic memory and an iq of—“

“187. yes i know, spence. what a smart cookie!”

(in response, he flushes always when you coo the words ‘smart cookie’, although in the same breath he will stare at your face and whisper ‘angel’ in your ear like you’ve been sent down from the heavens just for him.)

he treats you like you’re made of delicate rose petals, and a touch that is too forceful will cause you to wither away. his lips graze your cheek gently in a kiss, his fingertips softly pet the top of your head and slowly follow the curve of your cheeks to the slope of your nose. and when you giggle and go “that tickles,” he’ll only grin in response and nestle his nose into the crown of your head and hum knowingly.

although, most infuriatingly, he will not make the first move. now, doesn’t mean he won’t drive you absolutely insane with soft smiles and eyes full of love and want. he puts all of shakespeare’s sonnets to shame, truly. he keeps it up until you break and march over to his apartment with wobbling lips and twinkling irises (and emily’s encouraging “go get ur mans!!!! GET HIM!!!!” text on your phone. her, jj and penelope are the worst enablers ever.) and even then, he stands still (like the whole world has come to a standstill, really) and waits for you to utter the words. he waits, quietly and patiently. his attention is on you.

“it’s okay. you can say it.”

“you’re torturing me here.”

“am i?”

“‘am i?’ i will pretend you never said that, smarty pants. you infuriate me.”

“ooh, big words.”

“hey! i can talk fancy too!”

“mhm, i’m sure you can angel.”

“not fair. i love you, by the way. more like adore you. or any other word you can think of.”

“i can think of a few.”

in the before, he may tease you when you put a hand on his shoulder or trace the outline of his knuckles; but don’t let the teasing trick you. spencer is atrocious. a mess, even— without you. when you get pulled into a case three days before him, he spends the three days with absolutely zero sleep. and when jj and emily (knowingly, grand masterminds!) ask him if he’s doing okay, he just barely grumbles out a: “i can’t sleep without them anymore. feels cold. not right.” jj awe’s at him and clutches her hands close to her chest, whilst emily barks out a laugh and goes “oooh he wants them baaaaad!”

the grumpiest thirty-something year old man you know, by the way. smug as shit, too. lays with you in bed, head on your stomach as you call him pretty.

“but am i the prettiest?”

“oh, absolutely, my love. there is not a man in the land prettier than thou!”

“ … -__- can you ever give me a normal reply.”

“hehe.. absolutely not.”

henry knows all about you. against his will. someone save this boy he knows your birth date and time of birth down to the hour. knows your big three against his will. (despite the fact that spencer says astrology “isn’t scientifically accurate” … my when i’m in a big ass loser contest and my opponent is in-love spencer walter reid….) spencer puts henry to bed and starts rambling:

“the other day, [y/n] and i were in the kitchen and it suddenly hits me how effortlessly beautiful they are, i mean seriously, i feel sick th—“

“uncle spence. please. i want to go to sleep. i’m gonna call mama.”

“not your mom. please.”

(he tells jj and will when they get back from their date. you wake up to 23 text messages from jj saying “marry this nerd please henry can’t do this anymore!!!”)

also may i propose: classical music lover spencer, rock music lover emily, pop music lover jj and [y/n]. spencer absolutely gives you shit for your music taste and jj threatens him by saying she’ll marry you before he does. he goes pale at the thought. goes even paler when jj starts calling you “her darling baby” … your whole relationship is tug of war between jj, emily and spencer. spencer won’t try tug of war with derek like ok whatever you say handsome!!!

also, there have been many times spencer has woken up in the morning and reached his hand out to stroke your cheek and give you a kiss, when halfway he opens one eye and sees either jj or emily sleeping behind you. he’s the third wheel. in his own relationship.

and it’s all great until you give emily or jj too much attention and he starts sulking at home like… bitch you are in your thirties. and then you have to kiss all over his face and jokingly (or not???) call him your ‘pookie’… he sticks his tongue out and goes ‘bleurgh!!!!!” but we all know he loves it. silly scorpio man is fooling no one.

also read: candid photos of him where he always looks good ??? and when you mutter “you make me sick.” he takes it seriously and you spend the next week buying him his favourite donuts and kissing him until his cheeks go pink. most dramatic man ever!!! now does he pretend to be upset so you kiss him all the time… who knows.

he also places his forehead on yours when he gets overwhelmed and can’t calm down. and starts giggling when you go “helllooooooo!!” but in like, the way where your voice hits several octaves. a very, very giggly boy around you. and he also always has cold hands, and goes “oh no sweetie looks like i have to hold your hands!” (emily makes a gagging sound)

but truly, he is the softest man /ever/. when you two lay in bed at night and he leans down to kiss you, he goes so slowly that his eyelashes brush against yours and your chest starts to throb with how fast your heart is beating. he leans forward slowly and the kiss he presses to your lips is so soft that you squeeze your eyes closed because looking at him sends you into cardiac arrest. doesn’t kiss you much in public, but the way he looks at you makes up for it. eyes crinkled in the corner, brown irises reflecting your beauty as if you’ve been blessed by aphrodite herself. his chest lifts and trembles slightly, index finger twitching with the need to hold yours <3 (emily catches him in the act and she grins, then goes ‘booooo’ and cackles how he’s ‘whipped’ — which makes derek’s head snap up.)

also he absolutely calls you bunny and pretty like no one say a word to me… bunny is the cutest term of endearment ever im gonna throw up and throw myself down the damn stairs!!!

&&— marriage is absolutely in the cards for you two. he looks down at you, chin tilted, and he can’t imagine a future where he doesn’t watch you style your hair every morning or watch you grumble over a stain that won’t come out of one of his cardigans. (“spence, baby, you got anymore sweaters that need washed? i’m putting a woollens wash on!” and he blushed a soft fuchsia and has to resist the urge to cradle your face in his palms.)

although he has faced many tragedies and painful memories in his life, you’re his solace. the pain of his father leaving, his mother’s illness, prison, his drug addiction— you provide him with the normalcy and soft, angelic happiness that makes him smile until his cheeks hurt.

spencer (look at the absolute beauty i pulled by being an autistic nerd) walter reid <3

#spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader

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giasfolklore · 11 months

Text

ONE OF YOUR GIRLS

“i just wanna be one of your girls tonight.”

꒰ synopsis ꒱ྀི with the need to stand up for working overtime and still not getting paid enough you were challenged to talk to the chief of the medical department but things took a wild turn there and guess what? It wasn’t just talking.

୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ note: posting today about my cutie!! this is all just porn with plot tbh not proofread

꒰ content warnings ꒱ྀི nsfw (17+), fem!reader, praise, dom!geto, oral (f! recieving), pussy drunk geto, rushed, unprotected sex, porn with plot.

｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡

I imagined trudging into his office and slamming the door shut. Before he could ask me what I was doing, I’d take of my shirt. Then I’d walk over and sit on him, and kiss him. Let him remove my bra. He’d have a hand on my back and the other on the back of my head. That way I couldn’t back out. I’d pull off his shirt and work with his belt.

Once the fly was down he’d carry me onto his desk, and we’d work together to push off all the papers. Then he’d pull out his cock, and quickly pull down my underwear. He’d be so horny that my panties would only be at my knees and he’d penetrate.

Then he’d pump as hard as he could and I’d moan as loud as I wanted to. Who cares who hears? I’d squeeze the cum out of him. It would be something that seemed perpetual. And, no, there’s no part where I imagine us putting our clothes back on. We wouldn’t. Instead, we’d try some more; on the floor, me sitting on him, me against the wall. We’d fuck our brains out.

These scenes repeated and altered themselves in my mind as I bit into my sandwich.

“… right, y/n?”

I turn suddenly, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Our overtime. It’s unfair,” Paris said.

“Yeah,” Ashley agreed, “We’re overworked and underpaid.” As she continued her speech, the other nurses were nodding their heads and making affirmative noises. “They should stop letting the doctors get off so easy. Otherwise, pay us more or hire more of us. Now who’s gonna’ march into the chief’s office and tell him?”

“Not me,” Paris shook her head, “It’s a lost cause. He’s too busy with his divorce and whatnot.”

“I’ll do it,” I said without thinking. They all began to laugh.

“You?” Ashley said in disbelief.

“Yeah, no offense, y/n, but you’re not exactly the type who wins arguments,” Paris said.

Another girl, I forgot her name, said, “Yeah, what’re you going to do?” She began to mock me; put her hands behind her back, looked down at the ground, and wiggled her feet, “Umm… sir… C-c-could you please…” She didn’t even finish. They all laughed once more.

I stood up and threw my sandwich onto the table. “Oh yeah? Watch me.”

I could feel their wide-eyed stares as I marched down the hall. What was I doing? What am I thinking?

That was stupid of me to ask. Of course I know what I’m thinking. The circumstances were perfect. I was thinking to get some, that’s what. This was my chance. I had an excuse to go down to his office.

But when I got there, I choked.

“Hi, y/n,” he said absentmindedly, looking down at his papers. “What do you need?”

“Well, I…” I tried to remember bits and pieces of Ashley’s speech, “We work overtime, and we’re not getting paid enough, and you should pay us more, and hire more nurses, and… Wait, that’s not…” I slammed my forehead with my palm.

Smooth, Tiffany. Smooth. That was definitely sexy. How could he resist you now? Coward.

Suddenly, I thought of kissing him. I imagined him undressing me. I couldn’t think of a good argument. My clit had an itch that only his cock could scratch. It was warm, tingly and empty.

“ y/n-”

“I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer,” I barked out, and immediately regretted it.

Overly demanding nurse equals mistress with whip? There are just some lines I can’t cross.

Geto looked up at me. He stood up and said, “Why should I? What will I get out of it? What are you willing to give me in return?”

This is your chance. Make it sexy. Seduce him.

I walked up to him until our faces were only a few inches away. I looked into his eyes and said, “Anything.”

He looked into my eyes, and then down the length of my body. Was he finally noticing me as a woman? Was he sizing me up? Was he looking at my boobs? I sure hoped so.

“On your knees,” he said.

“W-what?” I stuttered.

“You said you’d do anything, right? On your knees,” he demanded.

This wasn’t going the way I planned it, but I had to learn to be flexible if I wanted him to take me seriously. So I got on my hands and knees. Then Ken proceeded to walk around me. I assumed the worst as I heard him shut the door and unzip his fly.

Before I knew it, his cock was right in my face. It was fully awake. White and its tip almost touching my nose.

“Suck me,” he demanded.

Well, at least it’s not anal sex, I rationalized. So I opened my mouth and put his cock in. I tried to move my tongue around, but suddenly his hand was at the back of my head. He jerked my head forward, “Suck me.” Now it was stuck down my throat, and I couldn’t breathe. I began to choke, but he didn’t care. He started pumping, with his hand still at the back of my head, and the tip of his dick was hammering on the back of my throat. I thought I was going to puke.

Before I knew it, Geto was pumping even harder and he began moaning. Then I felt something slimy slide down. I swallowed. The moment he pulled out I started to cough. I ran out of the office as fast as I could.

I hid inside a bathroom stall, ashamed. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be romantic. It was supposed to be a moment where he finally saw me as a sexy, independent and confident woman. But all he needed was to jerk off.

No, c’mon. That was a good thing. I must have gotten his attention. I went out of the stall and looked at myself in the mirror. I washed my face so it wouldn’t seem too puffy. I traced the dark circles under my eyes from all the overtime. That’s sexy, right? The implication of long, sleepless nights, doing unspeakable things from the cover of night-time ‘til the break of dawn. I let my long raven hair out of its bun and shook my head a slightly to give it a messy, bedhead look, to give the idea that I was rolling around in a bed… with someone else. Then I looked at my uniform… Not much I could do in this area… Except maybe…

I went back into the stall and I removed my undershirt. Then I went back to the mirror. Now the silhouette of my black bra was more visible. In fact, the top edges of the cups were peeking out of the collar. Okay. Now I could go back outside.

I walked down the halls and went back to my regular duties. I was both excited and nervous for when the chief would see me again. This was a big hospital, but I knew he was going to look for me.

Before I knew it there was a tap on my shoulder and a sheepish Geto when I turned.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asked.

“Sure,” I smiled.

My heart was beating fast as we turned the corner. As we passed the janitor’s closet, I saw an opportunity. I was breaking a lot of personal boundaries today, so what was one more? I opened the door and pulled him in.

“I thought we might need a little privacy for this,” I explained as I closed the door.

“I’m sorry,” he began. “What I asked of you was inappropriate and out of line.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I slowly moved towards him, in an attempt to sound seductive. “I’d do it again, if you wanted.” I very slowly pulled off my shirt. Then I placed my arms around his neck and pushed my crotch up against his, “How about right now?”

Surprisingly enough we began kissing, and it was like I couldn’t pull him close enough to me. I ran my fingers through his hair as the stubble on his chin scratched on my skin. His fingers traced a line from the nape of my neck down to the small of my back, sending shivers down my spine. I felt his dick harden against my cunt, and I began to undo his belt. He pulled off his shirt, and I pressed my chest against his and began kissing him some more.

I was so hot my leg was starting to vibrate. Geto suddenly pulled away, “I think that’s your phone.”

“Oh.” Oh.

As I was about to read my text, he said, “Listen. I really want to make it up to you. Do you want to have dinner tonight?”

I smiled, “Yeah, I’d like that.” I bent down to reach for my shirt when he suddenly said,

“Can I see them?”

I got up slowly and turned to face him. I moved closer, and he unhooked my bra. I let it fall onto the floor, and he stared at them as he placed both hands on each of them. Then he looked up at me and cupped my face. We began kissing again. Only, this time, we did it much slower. But both our phones buzzed, so it was time to go.

We helped each other dress and went on with our duties. But I couldn’t concentrate. I needed more. I wanted his penis inside my vagina. It was screaming for it, involuntarily contracting throughout the day. I was even tempted to sneak a masturbation session in a bathroom stall. But I controlled myself. I told myself that it would be nothing compared to the real thing. It was the only thing that got me through the day.

When I finally finished my shift, I went home, took a shower, and got dressed. He picked me up at 8 and took me to a restaurant. It was really fancy, too. We sat in an where the seats formed a semi-circle with the open side facing out into the rest of the restaurant. The entire thing was padded with soft material. We sat almost beside each other.

The first thing we ordered was wine. Lots of it. We started talking about anything and everything. Then the subject moved to his divorce.

“My wife is very dominating and controlling,” he was explaining. “She knows what she wants, but she doesn’t care about the consequences.”

“Well, that’s better than being shy and quiet, isn’t it?” I laughed then looked down.

“No,” he put a finger on my chin and made me face him, “I get to learn new things about you. Especially after today.”

“Well,” I slid a little closer to him, “maybe after dinner you’ll get to discover more.” I rubbed my leg up and down his.

“Why wait?” he leaned in closer and began kissing me, sliding his leg up my thigh. I was a little startled when I felt a tug on my panties. I lifted myself up a little so he could pull them off easily. Thank god the table cloths were long. With my underwear on the ground, he began to squeeze my cunt and I gave out a slight moan. Then with his other hand, he rubbed my back in such a way that my bra became undone once again. I moved in closer and put a hand on his crotch, gently squeezing his dick, which started getting harder. Soon his finger was in, and I moaned even louder.

But I was aware that we were in a public place.

I pulled away and said, “Wait five minutes, then follow.” I pushed my underwear under the table cloth and got up. With a spring in my step I went to the unisex bathroom and didn’t lock it.

Five minutes seemed like forever when Geto finally came in. He locked the door behind him. I pulled off his blazer. He put his hands on my butt and pulled me in. We kissed and I pulled of his tie. He unzipped my dress and, as it fell to the floor, my bra dangled on my arms. As I unbuttoned his shirt, he took of his belt. I pulled it off and he unzipped his fly only to reveal a pair of boxers. Out of frustration, I pushed him to the wall, pulled down his boxers enough to expose his penis and then pushed it in. When its tip hit my cervix I let out a loud moan.

With his hands back on my butt he began pushing me in and in and in. With my arms snaked around his neck I sucked on his tongue as hard as I could, almost biting it a couple of times. He pulled away and kissed my neck, and I was caught off-guard. I almost yelled.

He then pushed me backwards, his penis falling out. I threw myself at him and kissed him again. He pulled down the toilet seat cover and sat down. I sat on top of him and couldn’t stop sighing. I pumped and bent backwards so he could kiss my breasts. Then he began to suck my nipples and I sucked on his neck.

He reached for my butt again and began to pull me in so hard his penis hammered onto my cervix, and I couldn’t help it. I could feel my insides contracting as hard as they could, and he began to moan as well. I was sure he was coming, and that I was, too. My patience served me well. This was a million times better than masturbating.

Then his pulling me in slowed down, and our bodies were pressed against each other the whole time. I lay my head on his shoulder, and he lay his on mine. We were both panting.

“Did you like it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I exhaled. “You?”

“You were so wet,” he sighed. Then he pulled away to look into my eyes, “You’re so sexy.”

“You were really hot,” I was still panting. “Discover enough?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” I gave him a peck on the lips, “if we go over to my place, you’ll see a lot more.”

“How about actually having dinner first?” he joked.

I chuckled, “Sure. That, too.”

I very gently got off him and picked up my bra. As I put my dress on, I turned my back to him and said, “Could you help me with this?”

“Sure,” he said, and his hand slipped down and squeezed each butt-cheek once first. Then he zipped it up.

I turned around to help him with his tie. When I was done, I pulled him in closer and asked, “You sure you don’t want another round?”

“I’d love it,” he kissed me. “But I think people are waiting to use the bathroom.”

“But we’re using it,” I put my arms around him again.

He placed his hand on my hips, “Later.”

“Okay,” I kissed him, then let go. “Wait five minutes.”

I unlocked the door and went out and walked back to our table. I tried to very discretely put my underwear back on. But when Geto came back, he slipped his hand under my dress again, and frowned when he felt cotton.

“Why’d you put it back on?” he asked. I shrugged. “Leave it off. I want to touch you,” he began to pull it down again.

“So you’ll touch it, but you won’t use it?” I whispered in his ear.

“Later,” he smiled, then kissed me. “I like just being next to you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

I felt blood rushing to my cheeks. “Well, I like being near you, too.”

I slid closer so I could lay my head on his shoulder. He put an arm around me and pulled me in for a side hug. This was nice; an unexpected turn of events, if you were to base it from how it began. But I was elated. Tired, but not really. I felt confident. I felt like a woman.

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hanasnx · 11 months

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Kinktober: House of Amateurs - S1E30

MINORS DNI 18+

KRAYT HOUSE M.LIST | NAVI | INBOX | @KRAYTHOUSE

“This is bullshit, you know that? You want this.” Anakin Skywalker’s hand catches you at your jaw, his agile fingers digging into your flesh to punish you for your backtalk. “You’re a tease, and what? You can’t put out? Let me in for a second.” His exasperated tone is punctuated with a harsh shove to you, putting an ache in your teeth when you collide with the wall. You brace against it, and wince as his hands grip your thin top, yanking it apart in one motion.

“Anakin!” you cry out, but he silences you smashing his lips into yours. Your skull bumps the surface behind you as he pins you there, and panic sets in at the familiar sound of his pants unbuckling. To escape, you dip out from him, but he grabs hold of you to tug you right back. “Anakin, please!” you plea, your throat dry from impending sobs.

“No!” he barks and you jump at the decibel. Harshly, he gropes your freed chest, fondling them in cruel nature. You flinch, instinctively pushing at his broad shoulders with your fists to give yourself from breathing room. Larger than you in every way, he doesn’t budge. “Don’t lie to me,” A wry, wicked smile stretches onto hips lips as his dark gaze meets yours. “You’ll see what I mean,”

“Fuck— fuck, angel. Might need more than a second.” he commends you while he’s balls deep inside you, his sack smacking against the bottom of your ass cheeks as he thrusts. A palm over your mouth to silence your cries, drooling all over it in your wails. “Knew you’d like this. You’re fucking drenched.”

To the best of your ability, you shake your head to signal you deny him. Unfortunately, refusal is not within Anakin’s scope.

“There you go trying to deceive me again.” Breathlessly, he chuckles, you feel the warmth of it against your face. You skew your hips, but his hold on your tailbone keeps you where he wants you. He lifts you to meet his ruts. “You can’t hide anything from me, angel. Not when we’re this close. So united.” he murmurs his eager lips against your exposed cheek, giving you a playful nip at the end of his sentence. “Wanna try something?” he asks, as if he’s taken your ability to speak. Hot tears stream down the corners of your eyes, weakly pushing against his chest futilely. He takes pride in that.

His impossibly long cock twitches inside of you in anticipation of whatever he’s about to do to you.

“Promise you won’t scream?” You don’t look at him, staring hard at a juncture in the wall to take your mind off of what’s happening to you. “Hey.” he spits, his hold on your face jerking you to face him. To appease him, you meet his eyes. At the sight, he seemingly melts. “Yeah, I suppose that takes some of the fun out of it, right?” Your nose pinches in disgust. Cautiously, he removes his hand, and you press your lips into a thin line. A quiet exchange is shared, filled only by the squelching sounds of your non-consensual unification. “Go on. Scream.”

“Fuck you! Get the fuck off of me!” you shout, surging upwards to work towards getting up, attempting to push him off at the same time. Firmly, he palms your head to pin it back down, shoving your cheek into the cushion. Your glare deepens, breathing hard.

“I’m not finished. The least you can do is sit fucking still and take it.” he tells you, giving your head a single push. “Can’t do that? You wanna try fighting me for it again? Worked well last time.” his biting words sink into you, eliciting your disheartened expression as you remember how easily he overpowered you to shove his cock into you. He watches it all happen, the realization that passes over your face, and he moistens his lips. “Nah, you like it when I rape you, huh?”

You do.

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urhoneycombwitch · 5 months

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dad!steve x mom!reader thots below

I think Steve would be an absolute nervous wreck w his first kid. helicopter dad to the maxxxx. don’t speak to me or my infant daughter ever again without dousing yourself in hand sanitizer before interacting w/us. snobbiest dad in the pick up line. no she can’t HAVE that kind of candy she’s ALLERGIC to red dye 3. babe yes she is remember her ears got kind of hot last time she had a Snickers??

he’s delusional and in love w/her and she’s got him wrapped around her finger from day one ☝️ falls for her charm every time. it’s an inherited Harrington trait, she bats her eyelashes and gets what she damn well pleases.

and thennnnn your second baby is a breeze. easy delivery easy baby stages an absolute delight, and suddenly there’s balance in life and Steve just chills out. aaalllll the way. even Robin is impressed with him. they’re at a park one day with the two girls, and Robin goes hey Steve. Uhhh. your eldest rascal is trying to balance on the metal balancing beam. over some bark chips. ur not gonna intervene, for real???

and Steve (with his youngest snuggled in a baby bjorn on his chest. and sunglasses up in that nest of hair. and he’s wearing tight Levi’s btw. just for visuals. needed you to know.) checks his watch and goes yeah if she starts doing kick flips off it let me know. she landed a back hand spring the other day it was dope 😎

sometimes it takes two (well, three, including you) to smooth out that lingering fear of being a bad dad. like ah yes this is me in my natural form. of course I will love them better than anyone else has ever loved me because I have so much of it to give!!!!

#idk something about girl dad Steve Harrington #like being able to heal your own inner child through loving your own kids #wahhhhhh #I’m soft #dad!steve harrington #dad!steve #Steve Harrington #steve harrington x reader

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rallentando1011 · 8 months

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Somnambulant Soulmates (rise Donnie x gn reader)

Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Word Count: 2833

“Where in the actual heck did you lead me?”

“Trying to figure that out right now. How many turns have you taken?”

“You mean to the left or right?” you inquired cautiously, steps splashing in the shallow water of the sewer tunnel you currently found yourself in. You thought that since you had taken this exact same path literally yesterday you might remember the way. Well, you thought wrong, which was why you called up the man you were on your way to meet for assistance.

Donnie huffed over the phone. “Both, preferably. Why would you go traversing through a complex labyrinth of a sewer system, not knowing where you’re going, and not keeping track of where you’ve gone?”

“Uhh, misguided faith in myself?”

“Eh. Fair enough. I’ll send auxiliary support your way.”

“‘Auxiliary support?’ What is that supposed to-”

Before you could even finish your thought, not to mention get a response, the call ended.

You gaped. Either the signal cut out, which was feasible in the sewers, or he ended the call. For Donnie’s sake, he’d better have hoped it was the former.

You froze in the eerie silence and dark, breathing tersely. Your hands hung uncomfortably off your sides, shoulders drawn tight.

What were you supposed to do now?

Well, retracing your steps seemed better than continuing further into uncharted territory. Following that logic, you pivoted and meandered cautiously back from where you came.

The tunnel came upon an especially dark section, so you turned on your phone’s flashlight. Your field of vision was small, but at least you could directly in front of you. Better than nothingness..

Suddenly, a strange noise entered your ears. Some sort of mechanical whirring. It sounded vaguely in front of you, though the reverberation from the tunnels made it hard to discern.

You tensed up again.

What if it was from those goons from last night? Or, even worse, what if it was-

As the source of the odd whirring sound came into view, you paused.

“Ohhhh my goodness…” Your startled reflexes swiftly softened as you registered the little purple drone levitating before you.

A very boop-able beak was on what you assumed to be its face, with petite propellers acting as limbs. Bottom line, it was adorable.

“Woah, how’s it hanging, dude?” the drone greeted. “D told me you got a bit turned around down here, but we’ll get you to the lair real quick.”

“Woah.” You admired the tech, tilting your head at it. “So, am I talking to Donnie or an algorithm right now?”

“Neither! The name’s S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. broski!” it- he introduced himself.

“Huh. Nice to meet you, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.,” you responded and gave your name in return. “Would you mind please showing me to Donnie?”

“No problem!” the drone floated higher excitedly before whipping around. “Follow me. We’ll be back to the lab in a jiff.”

“Thanks!”

You trailed along the polite drone in silence, weaving and wandering through dim channels until he spoke up.

“So, you and D are cool?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” You tipped your head down inquisitively.

“I don’t know what you see in him.”

You barked out a laugh at how abrupt his sass was. “Oh?”

“Yeah! He can be super overbearing sometimes- like, won’t-even-let-me-out-of-the-lair overbearing, you know? He’s gotten better about it, but he can still be way protective.”

“Surely it can’t be that bad,” you offered. The drone did not seem to agree.

“Oh, it can, bro! One time, he padlocked my propellers and I ended up in, like, a gang almost-”

As your conversation trailed off and you two moved, the area around you grew lighter and you found yourself in the empty atrium of the lair. S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. guided you up to the second floor, down a dim hallway, and to a stop in front of large, metallic doors as his rant about Donnie came to a close.

“Thanks, little guy. I appreciate the help.” You smiled, and the drone tilted his head and returned the gesture.

“Of course, bro! Just let me know if you get too bored with Donnie. Us cool people can hang out and do something less bogus.”

You chuckled. “I’ll let you know.”

With a small salute, you sent him whirring off.

You turned to face the sturdy-looking doors before you. Just as you moved to rap on them, the doors opened with a heavy sound of air. You took a confused glance to the right, left, before stepping into the lab.

The room consisted mostly of metallic silver hues with tables and shelves stacked up with a plethora of technological treasures. Purple mood lights illuminated the room softly, though it was still a lot more effective than your flashlight was.

Sounds of clinging and clanging proliferated from somewhere behind a shelf. You followed them, expecting to find your companion tinkering on something - perhaps the invention he was researching at the library?

Instead, you turned the corner to see him using the titanium arms that extended from his battle shell to swipe what was probably a literal ton of empty energy drinks off of his desk and into a trash can beside it.

You interrupted his tidying up with a cough to announce your presence.

Startled, he snapped his head back to look at you, his technology not ceasing to clear the irrelevant items from his desk.

“Oh. You made it. Congratulations,” he said, though his monotonous tone did not invoke any sentiment of felicitations.

“Yeah, I made it, little thanks to you.”

“I take it S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. behaved himself?”

“He was an angel.” You put a hand over your heart and walked up to him just as a thought struck you. “By the way, how did you know where to send S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.?”

“That is unimportant right now. What matters iiiis-” he paused to gesture to his desk, “-science! Engineering, to be more specific, but we can delve into that more later.”

“Hm.” You leaned over the desk, viewing a highly detailed blueprint and sheet of notes. The thought that he probably definitely tracked your call faded as you immersed yourself in his work. “You mentioned a prototype of this yesterday?”

“I admire your tenacity, but would you not prefer to discuss the workings of the machine before seeing the results?” he queried.

“Is it not helpful to vary in learning techniques? I’m game for some visual learning.”

“Sigh, if you insist.”

Donnie turned around, delicately grabbed an object from a shelf beside him, set it down on the desk.

The metal object was spherical, for the most part, with some geometric patterns on the bottom to prop it up. It was sizable, though wieldy enough to be portable. On the side of it was an ingrained insignia you’d seen on his other tech, and beside that was an odd yet intentional divot in the side.

“About this prototype for the generator-” Donnie glanced to the side, “it’s been built, but I don’t have the juice for it yet.”

“So you don’t have the energy source for your energy source?”

He deadpanned at your teasing. “It’s a prototype for a reason.”

“Is that dent where the mystic crystal or whatever is supposed to go?”

“Yes, it is intended to be for a crystal, though I’ll take any viable source I can get. Now, shall we discuss the behind the scenes?”

You nodded.

Before crashing into his own chair, he pulled up a stool for you. Oddly considerate, but you wouldn’t complain.

From talk of sinusoidal waves, frequencies, output and input responses from certain mystic crystals, the conversation went into a plenitude of tangentially related topics, the minutiae of which he had to explain to you, but you got the majority of it. However, such conversation came at a price, for one cannot blab and/or yap for an hour consecutively without obtaining a splitting headache and requiring sustenance.

Eventually, you cleared your throat to get his attention off of the blueprints for the energy source. The turtle met your gaze curiously.

“All this ‘being a genius’ stuff has left me positively parched,” you spoke up, popping the p’s. “You have anything to drink in here? Or is the lair’s kitchen better?”

It felt kind of weird to refer to his residence as a lair, but you were trying.

“This is a laboratory; it would be reprehensible to bring food or beverage in here.”

The two of you glanced down at the miniature trash can adjacent to his desk and the cans overflowing from it.

“Your trash begs to differ.”

He clicked his tongue. “Those cans are empty now, and I don’t have more. We probably have water in the fridge.”

“How about we go somewhere instead? Go for a walk, head to a cafe, get some fresh air. I would prefer not getting lost here again.”

Donnie hummed, tapped his chin.“Not a bad idea. You’re buying, though.”

“Sure!”

He blinked. “I was joking. Of course I’m going to buy my own beverage.”

“We’ll see,” you smiled, hopping up from your seat. “Do you want to grab a coat or something? The wind chill’s bad today.”

“Forcing me out of my lab for food, insisting I prepare for the weather, if I didn’t know better I might say you care about me.” Donnie raised a playful eyebrow.

“Don’t flatter yourself. And I haven’t forced you anywhere. For legal purposes.”

“You can wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.” Donnie hopped up and exited the lab, presumably to get some warmer clothes.

As he slipped out of the room, you traced a finger over the blueprints he had gushed over so adamantly. So much time and effort and knowledge had been poured into every aspect of this project, and that, not to mention the complexity of it, was enough to gain your respect. You pulled out your phone, snapped a quick picture of the paper, not the prototype for now, and slipped it back into your pocket.

You waited for an uncomfortable moment, literally twiddling your thumbs, trying to seem casual. There was a literal trove of things to check out or explore in the room, but you did not know how much time you had.

And you couldn’t risk getting caught.

So you waited. And waited.

Okay, either Donnie ditched you or he just took forever to get ready.

Thinking back to how late he was to April’s party heavily implied the latter.

After another moment of just standing next to his desk, the sound of footsteps padding closer drew your attention up.

Lo and behold, in the doorway stood Donnie with crossed arms.

His mask and goggles remained the same, steadfast on his head, but he did put on some clothes. A snug black turtleneck and flowy lavender cargo pants had joined the ensemble, though there was still a severe lack of shoes.

“Okay, Steve Jobs.” The comment slipped out of your mouth before you could process it. It came across lightheartedly enough, though, based on Donnie’s grin.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it, because that’s going straight up here.” He tapped his index to his temple and started walking out of the lab. You followed after.

“I guess with all that square footage something’s bound to go up there.”

He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

You elbowed

“I’m kidding. Your brain capacity is bound to be maxed out already with all that knowledge.”

“Thanks? That- wasn’t derogatory, right?”

“What do you think?”

“That you’re patronizing me?”

“Sort of. I was mostly calling you smart, in a roundabout way.”

“Huh. So, thanks?”

“Welcome.”

You two quickly made your way out of the lair and onto the surface’s streets.

You realized just as quickly that you had no idea where you were headed to.

“Uhh, D?”

“I know. Unless you have other suggestions, I know a place nearby.”

“Oh, yeah, please lead the way. I genuinely had no idea where to go.”

“Ha,” he grinned, taking the lead down a few streets and corridors and bringing you two to a quaint coffee shop. String lights, beige bricks, sleek tables and booths, the store was modern and comely.

Of course, with it being New York City, the line was huge, but this place was concealed well enough that it at least wasn’t down the road.

While waiting in line, you didn’t talk much, instead opting to either scroll on your phones or try to figure out which kind of coffee or tea you wanted.

As you neared the register, still having no idea what you wanted, you passed the small refrigerated shelf of items.

“Oh, I’ve seen these before!” Your attention caught on some bottles of Yakult, so you selected one of the original flavors. “Never tried it though. Want to try it together?”

“Why not?” he grinned uncertainly and flashed a couple of thumbs up.

“That’s the spirit!”

You two made it to the register and ended up buying the probiotic drinks along with a couple of baked goods. Before he could make a move to pay for at least his items, you swooped in and bought them all with an innocent grin.

His glare saw through your unassuming demeanor.

You got your confections and drinks before making your way to an available booth. You took up a seat across from him and tried the new drink.

“I like it.” You nodded. It was citrusy, smooth, overall pleasant to indulge in.

“Oh. Mmmm…” he shuddered, forcing it down with a queasy smile on his face.

“Huh. You hate it,” you observed bemusedly. You relished the panic that washed over him at your comment.

“What? Nooo. This- this is very… not bad,” he faltered under your smug stare.

“It’s fine!” you reassured as you slid his Yakult toward yourself. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it.”

“But-” he interjected, glancing down at the accursed drink, then back up to you. “But you bought it for me. I hardly consider it amiable to discard something that someone else purchased.”

“Well, luckily for us both, it’s not going to waste.”

Before he had the opportunity to ask you to elaborate, you took a long sip of the probiotic beverage. You smiled while doing so, coming face to face with a floored turtle when you set it back down on the table.

He stared numbly at you before stammering out, “I- you- do you have any idea how many germs we just shared?”

“Oh well,” you shrugged. “Despite the atrocious things that come out of it, I think you have a fairly clean mouth. Now, how about we get you something else to drink? Something that you don’t find atrocious.”

“Fine, but I’ll be paying for it this time.”

You smiled knowingly, hand already fastened on your wallet. “We’ll see.”

The grin stayed smugly planted on your face as you made it to the front counter and slapped your payment down before he could.

“You’re just gonna have to settle with buying next time,” was your response to his scowl.

“Next time?” Donnie seemed taken aback.

You shrugged playfully. “Unless you don’t want to do this again. I’m good either way.”

“Um, no, n-next time’s on me,” he said hesitantly.

“Alright then. Do you want to tell the barista what you want?” you urged, indicating toward a visibly disinterested worker behind the counter.

“Right!” Donnie finally made it back onto this plane of reality and sprung into action, making his selection from the refrigerated section beside the counter.

“Flavorless juice?” Your jaw dropped as he slid it to the worker.

“Uh, yeah? They’ve got the good kind here. 50% less flavor…”

“Okay then…” you opted to judge him silently and let the man enjoy his juice, albeit an atrocious variety of juice.

You started walking back to the booth before a notification on your phone made you pause. Taking it out, your eyes widened.

“Oh, uh, I spent a lot longer with you than I thought I did. Um, I’ve got to go now, but I’ll catch you later?”

“Y-Yeah! Later!”

You left him standing there with a smile and a couple of finger guns before bounding off toward the exit and out of his view.

Once you left his field of vision, he looked back down at his drink. The drink you bought for him. The drink you spent additional time and money on to get for him just because he couldn’t texturally handle the other one you’d bought him.

What you mentioned earlier about doing this again sounded quite nice.

Perhaps, instead of waiting for fate or probability or whatever was at play to cause you to run into each other again, it could be a more active endeavor, something conscious.

That didn’t sound half bad to him.

(chapter artwork HERE)

Taglist~ @rottmntsimp

@envyjmoney

#FORESHADOWING HOW I LOVE YOU #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #save rottmnt #save rise of the tmnt #unpause rottmnt #rise season 3 #save rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #unpause rise of the tmnt #save rise of the turtles #unpause rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt x reader #rottmnt donatello #rise donnie x reader #rise donatello x reader #rise donnie #rise donatello #part 4

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sergeantgoggles · 6 months

Note

(ok just one more. i really love them all) kiss prompt: 💗 slow kiss / gentle kiss / inevitable / soft dealer's choice <3

I chose the CSP-born quatrefoil, but in the actual Star Wars verse and not in an AU. Dealer's Choice: Hunter/Tech/Echo/Fives

Fives/Echo

Echo sighs, takes a sip of caffe, reads the Imperial reports again. Comm chatter is going insane over the stolen intel they took from Dantooine. Really, what business did they have all the way out there? Not that it matters now. They had found the resistance’s best kept secret.

Soft footfalls catch his ears, timid, nervous, and Echo frowns. He doesn’t blame them because he’s nervous, too. It’s been a long time, and in the interim Echo had moved on, had found himself a third in the relationship between Clone Force 99’s squad leader and pilot, and it’s been good, even if they’ve parted ways for now.

Finally, Fives comes into view, his own caffe in hand, quietly sits beside him, and sighs. His presence is nice, familiar, and it’s so easy to fall back into old routines, to lean his head on Fives’s shoulder and just listen to him breathe, but there’s a lot to discuss.

“We should talk,” he says, and feels Fives hum in agreement. “I’m seeing someone else, two someones, actually.”

Fives barks a laugh, startling them both, then clears his throat. “I’m…not surprised. There was someone, after you, before I had to drop off the grid. Can’t be mad at you for moving on when you thought I was dead when I did the same thing, you know?”

There’s a beat of silence, then, “Does that mean you can’t love me anymore?”

Echo picks his head up, looks Fives in the eyes, frowns. “I have to talk about it with them, but I’ll always love you, Fives. I never stopped.”

Their eyes meet, and Echo knows that they’re going to kiss, and it’s going to seal his fate. If he has to choose, he’ll choose Fives every time. As soon as their lips connect, Echo knows he’s damned. Fives tastes exactly how he remembers, feels as warm and invigorating as the sun on a tropical beach, and he makes a mental note to tell him all about the island with the giant crabs and the mission that Wrecker botched by waking the pod.

“I want to meet them,” Fives says softly, “if for no other reason than to thank them for taking care of you.”

Echo smiles into his lips and melts. An idea starts to form.

Hunter/Tech

“You’re awfully moody today,” Hunter comments with a frown as Tech works around him. He can’t quite figure out what Tech is working on, though, because the ship-wide diagnostic didn’t yield any results, and Tech hadn’t been adamant about the little maintenance things until a few days ago. Suddenly it was all he could focus on. It was…unnerving.

“Are you listening to me?” He ventures again.

Tech scoffs. “Unless you have intel about another mission, please refrain from speaking to me. I have a long list of repairs and upgrades that are not going to make themselves.”

Stormy eyes widen as Hunter frowns. “Hey, don’t make me pull rank with you. Tell me what’s wrong so I can help.”

“Well, if you insist, you can start by finding the spanner wrench that has once again grown legs and gone missing from my toolkit,” Tech says with a bite. “I will need it for—”

“I’m not talking about the ship, Tech,” Hunter sighs and takes Tech by the wrist, pulling him away from his work and forcing their bodies flush. “You’ve barely said a word to anyone in days.”

Hunter can pinpoint the change in Tech’s demeanor to right after their last conversation with Echo, after he told them that they found the operative they’d been looking for. That operative just happened to be Echo’s thought-to-be-dead partner, and there was the unspoken “we need to talk” that had been laced into their conversation.

Tech makes a frustrated noise that Hunter understands. Gently, he cups Tech’s cheek, draws him into a kiss, and slowly, intimately maps the lines of his lips, his jaw, his tongue, until he has Tech forgetting why he’s upset. It feels nice, though, knowing someone so well that their bodies can heal one another’s wounds, at least temporarily.

“We’re almost to Teth. Let’s hear him out. Whatever happens, nothing changes between us, understand?” Hunter breathes, lets Tech feel his words, taste them and hear them.

“Yes, that is fine,” he agrees, even if it is reluctant.

Hunter/Fives

Things do not go as expected. If Hunter had credits to bet, he would have bet against this ever happening, much less so fast, so quickly.

Thinking back on it, he wonders if any of them really put long-term thought into this, or if they were all just desperate to stay together and make it work. In the same vein, something pulls at his chest, and he doesn’t think he’d change anything. Last night had been…incredible. Tech had looked so good between two former ARC Troopers, mouthing and panting against Echo’s neck while Fives sweetly fucked him, whispering teasing little things to Fives as Hunter pressed into him and made him moan their names.

A pleasant thrill races up his spine as he’s drawn out of the memory by lips on his neck. He trills as Fives trails kisses along his naked shoulder, then tips Hunter’s head back to claim his lips. He’s a bold one, like Echo. It’s no wonder they were the best in their squad at the height of the war, but Fives’s kisses are different. Echo kisses with deliberate movements, always with the desire to elicit a reaction, but Fives seems to move because it feels good, willing to take his time. Hunter finds it easy to relax into Fives’s lips, and moans softly at how freeing it is to simply let go.

The sun crests over the horizon, and Hunter hums, almost chasing his lips as the spell starts to break. “What now?”

“Whatever you and Tech want,” Fives answers, “the sex was fun, and I’m happy to keep doing that, but I know there are feelings involved, and…”

Fives trails off, but Hunter knows. “I don’t know if we’ll have an answer right away.”

Another long, sweet kiss, and then Fives presses their foreheads together. “Take your time.”

Echo/Tech

Fives gives them space. Echo is grateful.

Night rolls in. The day has been kind, thankfully, and the awkwardness has been at minimal levels, but this isn’t Echo’s first time in dealing with Tech. There’s an abundance of new information for him to process, and he can tell that by the end of late meal, he’s overwhelmed.

Hunter moves to follow him out for some air, but Echo stops him with a gentle hand on his chest. “Let me.”

He finds Tech sitting not far from the entrance of the base, nose in his datapad, scanning for stars knows what, but that’s how Tech works, especially when there’s a lot to sift through.

“Mind if I join you?”

Tech lifts his head, and it’s obvious that he’s expecting Hunter, not him. Still, he doesn’t deny him, and nods as he makes room beside him, but doesn’t offer anything else. Silence hangs between them as the sun starts to set, but Echo is patient. He’ll wait all night if he has to because this is important to him. Tech is important to him.

Finally, Tech puts his datapad aside and frowns. “I do not know what you expect me to say. We came here to discuss how things should progress now that Fives has come back from the dead, so to speak, but we have not conducted any actual conversation about the issue.”

Echo sighs. He knows this is the hardest part, laying out exactly what he wants for Tech to examine and find all of the flaws in. He clenches his fist and looks up at him. “I don’t know how to have this conversation, because no matter what angle I look at it, I’m the one being selfish, but I want all of you in my life. I love Fives, Tech. I always have, and I always will. Even when…I still loved him.”

“But he is back now,” Tech says, and Echo can tell he’s trying to be positive, for his sake, because it’s good and happy and they should all be happy about this, “is there really much else to discuss?”

“Yes!”

Both are stunned at the outburst, but Echo recovers first by taking Tech’s hand in his and holding tightly. “…I love Fives, but I love Hunter, and I love you, too. I don’t want what we have to go away because Fives is back.”

“…But you left,” Tech counters, “and Hunter and I have been supportive of you wanting to remain in the fight, but it has put a strain on our relationship.”

Our, meaning between him and Hunter, our, being between them and Echo.

“…I thought that our arrangement was enough,” Echo admits quietly.

Tech falters, frowns, then kisses Echo slowly. It’s the way Tech’s breath stutters, the way there’s the smallest hint of desperation in the way their tongues slide together, then dies when realization settles. They part, and Tech takes his hand from Echo’s grasp and stands, hiding his face.

“It is not.”

Hunter/Echo

“We don’t know him enough to love him the way we love you.”

And that’s what Hunter had been alluding to that morning with Fives, what Tech had failed to communicate with Echo during their talk that left them freshly wounded and vulnerable. He stands with his arms crossed, eyes pleading for Echo to understand that this isn’t as easy as ‘we slept together so that solves everything.’

“But I know him!” Echo yells like that should be enough.

Hunter frowns, shaking his head. “How did you think this would go? Did you think that we would join you here? Were you going to give up the fight and come back with us to live away from the Empire?”

Those aren’t even a fraction of the questions that Hunter has for him, but he tries to be understanding because it’s Echo, because he loves him.

Echo doesn’t answer him because Hunter already knows the answer.

“You have a choice to make,” Hunter says softly, kindly.

“Stay, please,” Echo begs, just for a little while, just to get to know him. I promise you, he’s worth it.”

Hunter’s heart aches. “I know he is. You wouldn’t love him so fiercely if he wasn’t. I have no reason to believe he isn’t as amazing as you say he is.”

“Then stay—”

“This isn’t our fight, Echo,” Hunter says more firmly. “We have Omega to think about, and Wrecker and Crosshair. We’re tired of fighting. We just want to live our lives, find who we are outside of being a soldier.”

It’s a stalemate, neither of them willing to bend.

Until Echo stands, closes the gap between them, lays his head on Hunter’s shoulder the way he does with Fives, and laces their fingers together. “…We’ll visit regularly. I don’t want things to end between us, but if you’re willing to give him the chance to be a part of us, I’m willing to put in the work. We’ll keep you out of the fight as much as possible, and you can get to know him outside of a rebel base. Hunter, please…”

Fives/Tech

“Hey, wait up!”

Tech stops at the foot of the ramp, looks confused for a moment before he realizes that Fives is talking to him. He stops, catching his breath and panting as he seems to have run a long distance, then stands again with a grin that, admittedly, makes Tech’s heart skip a beat.

“Is there something wrong?” Tech inquires.

Fives waves his hand. “No, no! I heard from Echo just now that you agreed to the arrangement he proposed to Hunter.”

“I did,” Tech nods, unsure of where this is going. “It is the most logical solution to all of the problems that have risen since your return.”

A guilty flush settles on Fives’s cheek. “I’m sorry…for causing trouble for you all. I didn’t even know he was alive. When I ‘died’, he…”

Tech sighs. He knows all of this already. “No, I am sorry. You had no way of knowing, and it is not something I fault you for anyway. I…agreed…because my feelings for Echo are rather strong, and I know how much you mean to him.”

He pauses, then offers Fives a small smile. “And anyone that Echo loves is a welcome presence. It is true that Hunter and I do not know you personally, but we have heard much about you, and it is because of how Echo and the others have spoken about you that we want to know you and give this a chance.”

Fives’s flush turns to one of embarrassment, and he chuckles sheepishly. “He spoke that highly of me?"

"As often as he could," Tech comments, and his posture eases.

It’s his downfall.

Suddenly Fives is closer, fingers tipping his chin up just slightly, and lips covering his. It’s a focused kiss, careful not to be demanding or expectant, but enough that Tech knows that he means the emotions that are behind it, and he lets Fives kiss him thoroughly. It’s nice, letting someone new know your kiss in a healing way.

“Thank you,” Fives whispers as they part, “for taking care of him and giving me a chance.”

Tech hums, chases his lips for another, more chaste kiss and to feel the scratch of his goatee on his chin again. “I look forward to your first visit.”

Fives chuckles, keeps him close as he kisses him one more time. “Likewise.”

#cloneshipping #clone shipping #the bad batch #hunter/tech/echo/fives #heart prompts clone edition #clone/clone #clonecest #tbb tech #tbb hunter #tbb echo #tbb fives

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whiskey-tango-matcha · 9 months

Text

Three (m/m, cold)

And now, for something completely different.

Well, not completely - it's still a cold fic lol. This one is specifically for @ghostlychill who has asked for more Matt and Mark. This is basically the saga of how they ended up together, and it is certainly out of my wheelhouse because it actually has romance lmao. A pre-warning, this is plot heavy (for me) and a little sneeze light. There are a few Greyson cold sneezes, and Matt is sick for the latter half, but it's more of a romance sickfic than a true snz fic. But I hope you like it if you read it; let me know if you all want more Matt and Mark. They were honestly really fun to write, and I banged this monster of a fic out in just a few hours so the muse was musing.

Ok, done rambling. Enjoy :)

CW: Male, M/M (not sexually explicit, just kissing), colds, contagion, coughing, fevers, light mess. 4.3k words under the cut.

Three

Their first kiss was an accident.

Post-brunch. Pre-holidays. “Grab a beer?” Mark had asked as Matt stuffed his dirty chef coat into his backpack. It had become a bit of a ritual for the two of them to grab a drink after a long shift in the past few weeks; usually it was under cover of darkness, but this brunch had been particularly brutal and Matt was craving not just a beverage, but some commiseration. He shrugged, hoisted his backpack onto a shoulder.

“Sure. You’ve got first round.”

One round had quickly turned to two, then three, and before five pm hit they were drunkenly crashing their pint glasses into each other and talking much louder than the half-full pub required to be heard. Matt drained his fifth beer and looked to Mark, smiling sloppily. “One more?” he asked.

Mark pushed his hair out of his face and leaned his head into one hand, taking the other man in. “If it’ll keep you in my line of sight,” he said, emboldened by booze, “I’ll stay here all night long.”

When the bartender finally kicked them out around eight, the two men were so drunk they had to use one another as walking sticks to get down the block.

“We’re way too drunk to be on the street,” Mark laughed, putting a hand over one eye. “I’m seeing, like… quadruple.”

“That’s wild, ‘cause I can’t see at all,” Matt said, looping his arm through Mark’s. The two of them laughed and stumbled until they hit a bench near well-lit central park and flopped down.

“I can’t remember where I live,” Matt admitted, placing his head on Mark’s shoulder. Their arms had stayed looped. Mark gently placed his head atop Matt’s.

“Me either,” he said. “But… can I tell you a secret?”

Matt looked up. Nodded.

“I don’t want to go home,” Mark said, letting a slow smile spread across his face. Matt felt his cheeks flame; he let a beat pass before he smiled back.

“Me either,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Later, they wouldn’t remember who initiated it. All they would remember was when their lips pressed together, everything else melted away.

***

“Oh! Oh, shit, fuck, sorry guys I didn’t -”

“Chef, shit! Oh, fuckin’ hell -”

Greyson slammed the door to the bathroom shut, leaving Matt and Mark to stare at one another, eyes wide as saucers – the silence between them thick as the cigarette smoke that hung in the air outside that little room.

Finally, Mark broke the silence. “Um… do you think he saw anything?”

Matt couldn’t help it; he barked out a laugh. Mark slapped a hand across the other man’s mouth, making him laugh even harder. He really didn’t know what he’d been thinking following Mark in here in the first place.

Much like the stupid party they were hiding from in the bathroom, their second kiss was clearly a mistake.

The New Year’s Eve party had been Elijah’s idea, much to the surprise of literally everyone at the restaurant.

“What?” Elijah had asked when his announcement during pre-shift had been met with a stunned silence. “I thought you all loved parties!”

The servers and cooks eyed one another in a way they all hoped wasn’t completely obvious, until finally Greyson said what everyone was thinking. “Boss, yeah, everyone loves parties… except you.”

Elijah had scoffed at this. “You guys obviously don’t really know me; I love parties.”

Of course, Elijah didn’t love parties and it ended up moving from his roomy condo to Greyson’s tiny Brooklyn apartment at the last minute. Post-service on New Year’s Eve, Matt helped his boss load extra bottles of champagne, vodka, and tequila into the back of the restaurant’s van all while Greyson grumbled about Elijah.

“Fuckin’ Elijah,” Greyson said for about the fiftieth time that evening. “Why the fuck would he even mention a party if he wasn’t a thousand percent sure he wanted to ho – hh-”

Matt glanced up at his boss, who held an arm midair in anticipation. This was the real reason Greyson, who threw parties at his place at least three times a year, was pissed about having to host the work shindig: he was sick.

“Hh-! HhhITSZZH-ue!” Greyson folded over into his elbow, sniffled, and cleared his throat.

“Bless,” Matt offered, placing the rest of the alcohol into the back of the car. “Chef, I’m sure that everyone will understand if you don’t feel up to having twenty people in your apartment. There’re tons of parties right around here, why don’t you just… call it off?”

Greyson, stubborn as ever, just shook his head. “I said I’d do it. They’re already on their way.”

So Matt loaded into the van with Greyson, and Mark got in Elijah’s car with the GM while the rest of the staff hopped on the subway for the party that no one really wanted to be at. Greyson, who’d been able to keep his illness at bay for most of the shift thanks mostly to the Sudafed he kept slamming, started coming down hard the moment they began their drive to Brooklyn.

“Hh...hhITSZZH-ue! Huh-! ETSZH-ue! Fuck mbe,” Greyson muttered, using his sleeve to wipe under his nose with one hand while he drove through the busy Manhattan streets with the other.

“Um… do you want to pull over so I can drive?” Matt asked, a little more pointed than his boss was used to him being. Greyson shot his sous chef a look.

“Ndo,” he said. “I’ve got it.”

Matt was hardly a germaphobe – working in a kitchen bred that out of you pretty quickly – but he couldn’t help but cringe away with every sneeze and cough that came from his boss’s side of the car. He found himself thinking about Mark; they had plans to hang out in just a few days, plans that both of them had been forced to cancel multiple times already, and Matt could just feel Greyson’s germs making themselves at home inside his body. He really didn’t want to cancel on Mark again; he wasn’t exactly sure what they were, what he wanted them to be, or what Mark thought they were, but whatever it was, he didn’t want to fuck it up. Matt was entirely too good at fucking up a good thing.

“HRRSHH-ue!” Clearly, that one snuck up on him, because that time Greyson barely covered his mouth. Matt shrank into the door and considered pulling his shirt over his nose and mouth in a desperate attempt to keep his boss from infecting him. Greyson glanced over at Matt and coughed out a laugh.

“Sorry, kid,” he said, patting Matt’s leg, “but you’re probably already fucked.”

Eventually, they made it to Greyson’s walk-up and after what felt like an eon, they got everything inside. Elijah immediately recruited Mark to help pour champagne for everyone, and Greyson left his sous to go outside and smoke on the patio – Matt had no choice but to just start drinking.

By the time the cooks and servers made it to Greyson’s apartment, Matt was half in the bag. He floated sloppily from group to group, telling jokes and prompting everyone to take shots with him, all while keeping one eye on Mark at all times. Elijah had been keeping his liege busy; Mark was bartending, putting appetizers in the oven, picking up trash… everything except hanging out with Matt. So when he finally got to take a bathroom break, Matt threw back his tequila soda and, emboldened by liquor, followed behind him.

“Hey, it’s occ-” Mark started to say when the bathroom door opened right on his heels – but he was cut off when Matt swung him around, grabbed his face in both hands, stood on his tiptoes, and pressed his lips firmly on the other man’s.

Mark certainly wasn’t pulling away; in fact, the moment their lips touched, Mark grabbed Matt by the hips and lifted him onto Greyson’s tiny vanity to make the kiss easier on both of them. Matt pulled away for just a moment to look at Mark – his black-framed glasses were askew, his hair was wild from Matt’s hands coursing through it, and his face was flushed with lust. Matt was sure he’d never seen anyone so beautiful.

“What was that for?” Mark asked, his voice low. Matt’s face cracked into a smile.

“I haven’t gotten to spend any time with you tonight,” he said, pushing Mark’s hair away from his face. “And I’m probably gonna have to cancel our plans on Monday.”

Mark’s brows knit together, confused. “Why?” he asked. “Is this, like, a fare-thee-well, this is the last time this will happen kiss situation?”

Matt laughed, shook his head. “No,” he said, cocking his head towards the door, where the party rumbled outside. “I’m, like, 99% sure Greyson infected me with his disgusting illness on the long-ass drive over here. I wouldn’t force you to hang out with me when I’m inevitably sick.” He shrugged. “So I figured I’d sneak some time with you where I could.”

Matt didn’t wait for Mark’s response about his impending doom; he just leaned in again. This time, Mark parted his lips and slid his tongue in to meet Matt’s. Matt allowed a quiet moan to escape his lips, let his hand feel its way down to Mark’s shirt, and began unbuttoning when the door flew open once more.

“Oh!”

Greyson.

***

“Chef, I am not in the mood today.”

“Oh c’mon, if I can’t poke fun at your drunken antics then what’s even the point of living? You make fun of my drunken antics all the time.”

Matt put down his knife and gave his boss a pointed look. “Yeah, maybe for like a day after they go down, but New Year’s was three days ago. Are you planning on ever letting it go?”

Greyson shrugged as he pushed onions into a deli container and snapped the lid shut. “Probably not. I mean, it’s just too good – caught red handed in my bathroom. Like, it couldn’t have happened more perfectly if I wrote it myself.”

Matt rolled his eyes; while Greyson living for his embarrassment was annoying, it was kind of the last thing on his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mark – after the bathroom kiss situation went down, he’d slipped out of the party and hadn’t mentioned anything about it to Matt since. Matt assumed he wanted to put it out of his head. Maybe the kiss – both of the kisses – hadn’t felt to Mark like they did to Matt. Maybe Mark was put off by how drunk Matt had been both times. Maybe he just wasn’t into him.

All Matt knew was, he desperately wanted to talk to Mark – but despite working the same hours in the same tiny restaurant, Mark had managed to avoid him like the plague.

Speaking of which.

“HTSHH-uh! Hh! Hh’ITSHH-uh! ETZSH-ue!” Matt turned away from the food to sneeze into his shoulder, then his hand, then finally his elbow. Greyson stepped over and plucked Matt’s knife out of his hand while the younger man was compromised.

“You’ll take someone’s eye out that way,” he chastised, placing the knife on Matt’s cutting board. The sous rolled his eyes, sucked in through his nose, and trudged to the sink to wash his hands.

“I don’t want to hear it from you, Chef. You’re the fucking plague rat of this restaurant,” Matt murmured, pulling a hand down his face. This was the other issue: Matt and Mark were supposed to hang out tomorrow, but just as he predicted, Matt had been gifted the cold Greyson had on New Year’s. If Mark didn’t want to talk to him when he was healthy and just a few steps away, he certainly wouldn’t be traversing the city tomorrow to hang out with Matt when he was fever-addled and snot-ridden.

“Rude,” Greyson said, continuing his prep. “But not entirely untrue. Sorry you’re sick.”

“Whatever,” Matt grumbled, his bad mood amplified by his pounding head. “Can you just drop the bathroom situation?”

Greyson bit his cheek to keep from smiling. “I can certainly try.”

Matt knew that meant ‘no’, but he’d take what he could get. He picked his knife back up to start chopping broccoli, but almost cut himself when Mark slipped into the back kitchen.

“Chef?” he asked, prompting both Greyson and Matt’s heads to shoot up. Matt’s face flamed when Greyson swiveled his head to meet his sous’ eyes with a cheeky grin – he put his head back down, pretending to focus on his work.

“Yes, Mark, how can I assist you?” Greyson asked, wiping his hands on the towel next to his cutting board. Matt felt Mark shoot a quick glance his way; his cheeks burned with the knowledge.

“Elijah is looking for you. Says he has a question about tonight’s ten-top with the prixe fix?”

Greyson rolled his eyes, but abandoned his prep for the moment. “When doesn’t Elijah have a question about a prixe fix?” he asked to no one in particular. “I’ll go talk to him. Thanks.”

The chef exited the back kitchen, leaving a sniffling Matt and a stuck-in-place Mark in his wake. Matt was the first to break the silence – unwillingly.

“Hh-! NTSHH-uh!” The sous attempted to stifle a sneeze into his palm, but only succeeded in making a mess of himself. His face reddened impossibly deeper, and he was forced to put down his knife and head for the sink.

“Bless you,” Mark said as Matt pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and blew his nose. Matt swallowed painfully, washed his hands again, and nodded.

“Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat.

They lapsed into silence once again, neither one looking at the other. “Um,” Mark said, finally, “are you -”

“I have to get this work done,” Matt interrupted, though he couldn’t explain to even himself why he wouldn’t let Mark ask if he was okay. “Have a good shift, okay?”

Mark blinked, taken aback, but nodded. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and turned to leave the back kitchen without a word. Matt didn’t let himself watch the other man go.

***

It was like watching a train wreck.

“Matt,” Greyson called from his spot at the expo board. “Where are we at on the halibut for 63?”

Mark’s eyes darted behind the line where Matt was doubled over, coughing into the collar of his chef’s coat. The sous chef had started the evening looking very much under the weather and quite a bit worse for the wear, but now, at nine PM he looked like he was ready to keel over right there on the line. Mark bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything.

“Matt!” Greyson called again, and Matt stood, shakily, to place the likely-overcooked halibut onto its plate. He pushed it through the window and gave his boss a pointed look.

“The food has to cook, Chef, you gotta give mbe a minu – uh! ETSZCH-uhh!” Matt collapsed once again into his collar, righted himself quickly, and sucked in through his nose. “A mbinute,” he finished, his voice cracking.

“Halibut doesn’t take twenty minutes to cook, Chef,” Greyson snapped, snatching the plate from the line. “I expect my number-two to be able to keep ticket times under fifty minutes so the fucking restaurant doesn’t shut the fuck down.” Greyson handed three plates to Mark, who took them wordlessly and slunk out of the kitchen.

Mark dropped the food at its respective table, the guilt of not saying anything to Matt slowly eating away at him. He counted the tables left in the restaurant who still needed to eat – definitely more than he was hoping for. He really, really didn’t want to go back to the kitchen.

“Hey, Lij?” Mark said, approaching his boss at the host stand. Elijah was moving reservations from table to table on the iPad, configuring the remainder of the night.

“Hmm?” Elijah murmured, only half paying attention. Mark pursed his lips, weighing whether he should say anything.

Finally, he said, “Do you think you could ask Greyson to kind of… cool it with Matt? I mean, he seems like he’s really sick and Chef is like… totally berating him.”

Elijah raised an eyebrow and looked away from the iPad to meet Mark’s eyes. “You want me to ask Greyson to stop yelling at Matt… now? In the middle of service, when there are tables who have thirty-plus-minute ticket times?” The GM huffed out a laugh. “Man, Greyson told me about the whole bathroom situation, but I figured you guys were just drunk. I didn’t realize you were down so badly for him.”

Mark’s face flushed crimson; Elijah smirked at him, and turned back to the iPad. “Matt’s a big boy, Mark,” he said, not looking the floor manager in the eye. “He can handle Greyson yelling at him.”

“Yeah,” Mark muttered. “Okay.”

Mark trudged back to the kitchen to grab more food, the sound of Greyson’s frustrated voice hitting him before he could even step foot through the swinging doors.

“Order in! Two filets, two tofu, one halibut! Matt, I swear to God I had better see table twenty-six up in the next three seconds, Chef, it’s already at twenty-two minutes.”

“Yes, Chef,” Matt mumbled, barely loud enough for anyone to hear.

“I can’t hear you, Chef,” Greyson yelled back, tweezering herbs onto a dish.

“Yes, Che – ITZSHH-ue! HRETSZH-ue!” Matt ducked down below the line to sneeze, the sound painful and desperate. Mark could hear the crackling cough he was trying to hide all the way from where he was standing; his heart sunk. He wished like hell that he’d had the balls to say something – anything – to the other man this week. He wished he wasn’t such a fucking baby when it came to his feelings, or relationships, or standing up for himself or anyone else. He wished he was anyone but himself.

“Bless – Chef, do you need to switch spots with me?” Greyson asked, his voice finally softening at the sound of Matt’s coughing.

“Ndo, Chef,” Matt managed, standing. “I’mb fine. Twenty-six, up,” he said, slamming the plates onto the pass.

“Great,” Greyson mumbled. He garnished the plates and shoved them into Mark’s hands. “Twenty-six, go,” he said, not looking at the floor manager.

Mark nodded; he took the plates out into the dining room and dropped them; as he did, he made a promise to himself and, silently, to Matt: maybe there was nothing he could do or say during the shift to make Matt feel any better, but he would figure out a way, post-shift, to do something to help him. He would grow some balls, if it killed him.

While Elijah was still busy looking at reservations, Mark slipped into the bathroom and pulled out his phone. He put in a grocery order, to be picked up at ten the next morning. He typed out a text to Matt, scheduled it to send at the same time he would be picking up the groceries so he wouldn’t be able to wimp out and unschedule it. Then he put his phone back in his pocket, opened the door, and went to finish the shift.

***

His phone was ringing.

Matt groaned as he came to; he was covered in sweat, he could barely breathe, and he was stiff as a fucking board from passing out on his couch. Who the fuck was calling him? It was his one day off, could Greyson not leave him alone for one fucking day?

He grabbed the phone off the coffee table, ready to throw it across the room, when he realized the name on the screen wasn’t his boss’s.

Call from: Mark, Work.

Matt’s stomach jumped into his throat. The phone continued to ring while he squinted at the clock in the corner: ten twenty-three AM. Had he and Mark spoken last night? He could barely remember a fucking thing about the previous night, other than being utterly and completely miserable. The two of them definitely hadn’t spoken; he remembered giving Mark the cold should before service started, remembered the pitying look Mark had given him as Greyson screamed the restaurant down, remembered flying out the door the moment Greyson told him to go. They hadn’t spoken, their plans were obviously off, so why the hell was Mark calling him?

The call went to voicemail. Matt coughed into his elbow, a chesty sound that he really didn’t like, especially since he didn’t have health insurance. After a minute or so, another notification popped up: one new voicemail.

Curiosity got the better of him. Matt opened his phone and hit ‘play’.

“Hey, Matt, it’s um… it’s me. I know this is super weird, like I don’t know why I did it at this point weird, but, uh… I’m outside your building. I texted you, but now I’m realizing you’re probably asleep. Uh… I mean, if you get this I’m gonna, like, hang out out here for a bit. I brought soup! I can’t cook, so it’s from a deli, but I figured you might need something to eat, and you probably don’t want to cook since you’re sick. Your place is nice, by the way. Um. Okay. If you get this, cool, if not, I’ll uh… I’ll leave in a little bit. Okay. Bye.”

Matt felt his heart near-explode in his chest. Mark was sitting outside his building, with soup? What was this, a Hallmark movie?

He did it without thinking; he pulled up his text conversation with Mark and typed, hey, im awake. sorry I missed ur call. ill buzz you up :)

Mark was up the stairs in record time. He knocked, and Matt stood from the couch, forgetting until he was vertical that he was still in his work clothes from last night. Gross, he thought, but it was too late to change now – he took a few shaky steps towards the door and opened up.

Matt barely recognized Mark at first; he was only used to his floor-manager getup, button-downs and ties and slacks, his hair gelled back. Today, Mark wore jeans and a jean jacket over a Brighton University hoodie – did he go to college in England? - with black high-top converse. His curly hair was in his face, and he was carrying two full grocery bags. Mark smiled.

“Hey,” he said. “Can I come in?”

“Yea -” Matt attempted, not realizing his voice was completely shot until he tried to use it for the first time that day. His hand flew to his throat and he attempted to clear it, to no avail. “Shit, sorry, apparently I can’t talk,” he whispered.

Mark pursed his lips, obviously concerned. “That’s okay,” he said, stepping through the front door. He placed the bags on Matt’s tiny kitchen table and began pulling out supplies. “I come bearing gifts.”

There was the soup, like he said, but Mark also pulled out dayquil, and sudafed, and cough drops. He pulled out a box of tissues, bags of tea, and cough syrup – quite literally the whole nine yards. “I didn’t know what you had, so I figured I’d grab one of everything,” Mark said, embarrassed.

Matt didn’t know what to say. “Mark, I – hh! hhIGTSZH-uhh! Hh’TSHH-ue!” Matt crumpled into his elbow to sneeze, hard, and lapsed into a fit of coughing. Mark pushed the cold supplies towards him, smiling a bit.

“Bless you,” he said. “I’m sorry you’re so sick.”

Matt took a moment to blow his nose and uncapped the cough syrup. He chugged a bit, righted himself, and shrugged, embarrassed. “Not your fault,” he croaked. “Thank you for bringing all this.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Mark said, not looking into Matt’s eyes. “I’m really sorry for ignoring you the past few days, Matt. I… I mean, I don’t want to scare you off or anything but I haven’t really had, like, a real relationship in a long time. Like, a really long time.” He looked up, caught Matt’s red, watery eyes in his, and gave up the whole truth. “Like… ever.”

Matt nodded slowly, processing. “So… you don’t hate me?” he asked, the fever tossing to the wayside any filter he might have once had. Mark’s face colored; he laughed.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like… I really don’t hate you. I – I mean, I really, really like you, Matt.”

It was Matt’s turn to flush bright red. “Even like this?” he asked, coughing into his fist. Mark smiled.

“Even like that.”

The two of them stood there, smiling twin goofy smiles, for a moment before Matt ducked once again into his elbow.

“Hh – ITSZHH-ue! Guhh.” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, not caring how disgusting he looked. “I, umb, I really like you too, Mbark,” he said, coughing again. “Like… probably mbore than is normal or rational.”

This time, it was Matt who was caught off-guard. Before he knew what was happening, Mark had his hands on either side of Matt’s hot face and was tipping Matt’s head up to meet his. This one was different; while the first two kisses felt hungry, dangerous, this one was soft; an invitation. A promise of a future yet to come.

Matt pulled away to catch his breath. “You’ll get sick,” he muttered, eyes closed and hands around Mark’s thin frame. Mark tipped Matt’s head up, pushed his sweaty, dishwater blond hair out of his eyes, and pressed their foreheads together.

“I know,” he said, and pressed his lips against Matt’s once again.

Their third kiss – well. That was the one they would tell everyone at the wedding about.

#whiskeyswriting #snz #sickfic #snzfic #coldfic #snez #snzblr #male cold #male snz #m/m #male ocs #contagion #mess #i'd love to hear any feedback good or bad on this one bc i haven't written romance anything in a very long time lol #and idk if this sucks or not lmaooo

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