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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 3 years

Text

Have you eaten anything today?

Quick summary: Recovering from the Cernavodă job, the team really settle into the roles of wanted vigilantes, and all try to make their peace with the fact that they’ve got another job coming up in under a month. The reader is trying to form closer bonds with the rest of them because of her distinct lack of any other friends (yes, this is a female reader – for my next series, I’ll do a gender-neutral reader; I underestimated the length of this series, not gonna lie).

Word count: 26.1K

Warnings: Lots of swearing (my Word document told me on multiple occasions that I would offend a lot of people with my choice in language); detailed mentions of a past eating disorder (sort of current as well); brief, brief mentions of self-harm; in-detail descriptions of violence and death;

A/N: For fuck’s sake, guys, this is getting out of hand. I’ve written more than 80,000 words for a fictional character who will never exist (and even if he was real, he’d be about twenty, thirty years older than me), and there's going to be so much more. I'm not even half-way into the plot that I’ve prepared. Those who are reading to see these guys fuck, be patient – I’m getting around to it, so, for now, you’ve got to settle for occasional masturbation scenes that are barely masturbation scenes. I have actually started an Ao3 account (https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohnoitsnina/pseuds/ohnoitsnina) and I also have a little Wattpad account to complete the big trio (https://www.wattpad.com/user/nonoitsnina; I don’t have any works up there yet, though), so go and give me a follow, please. :) Also, during this, there is dialogue in Romanian at the start and Italian by the middle, so crack open Google Translate, I guess. Anyway, please enjoy my story! (There’s a Taylor Swift song lyric reference in here, so see if you can find it.)

Chapters: Part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine, part ten.

***

By the time we enter the safe house once more, golden and twinkling pride, glittering like a sharpened knife, is all that I can comprehend, not the others or the furniture or the walls near me, having surged above my head and swallowed my form like the broad ocean does to a tiny and insignificant crab – I’m practically swept away into that dangerous nothingness, claimed forever to that domain. For once, I’m actually happy. I’m always restrained around using that word: Happy. But I am. I feel happy. It swells and swells like some welcome parasite, starting at the centre of my body, right in my gut, and pushing out against the bounds and walls of my form, stretching the limits, and seeing just how much I can take before I combust into a state of perfect bliss. I’m happy. I can say that unironically as I undress in the bedroom – Almada’s in the shower, Benji’s busy collecting our things off of the coffee table and stashing them into our bags with Mashkov’s help, and Ethan’s also changing in the opposite corner of the room. I’m happy, I think to myself confidently as I slide myself into a pair of loose jeans and a thick, navy sweater.

I’m too occupied with desperately clinging onto this feeling, trying to repeat the fact that I’m happy, I’m happy, I’m happy in my head because I’m afraid that I’ll never experience this elation again, that I’ll fall back into the pit of despair that I’ve been living in for the most part of my life so far, that I barely even process the very real image of Ethan with his bare and naked torso out in the open while he’s fiddling with some green shirt in his hands. The muscles in his back, rippling and tightening as he fits his shirt over his head, are what snap me away from my increasingly mindless mantra. I flex my hands uncomfortably and avert my eyes, hastily gathering up my dirty clothes and dumping them in a messy pile upon the recently tidied beds, then leaving to the living space to check on Benji’s status. I shrug carefully past Almada (who’s damp and radiating warmth from his shower) and find Benji kneeling by the now-empty coffee table with his head in his hands – his teeth are grinding together viciously as he takes several deep breaths in and out. Mashkov is off to the side, zipping up the duffel bags for us, and has chosen to ignore Benji’s little breakdown. I catch her eye and make a face at her, trying to communicate something like “comfort him, for God’s sake” through looks and looks only. She raises her hands helplessly and leaves the room.

“The packing’s coming along great, then, I see,” I state plainly, squinting expectantly at the hunched man in order to tell if that, indeed, was the correct thing to say. Chances are that it wasn’t, but maybe it was. Maybe.

Benji unfurls from his position and takes my unsure expression in, then getting to his feet and moving his gaze to concentrate on the floor. “Yup, it’s great,” he says, but his nose sounds blocked, and his voice is slightly nasal. Are his eyes red? I’m too far away to tell, but I think that they are.

I lean forward, open my palms to face him and raise my eyebrows in a way that I hope comes across as encouraging rather than pressing.

He sighs defeatedly and rolls his eyes, letting it all come out in a lengthy ramble: “Well, it’s nothing really, but things are only gonna get worse from here if you really think about it. For one thing, we’re gonna be down a team member in Venice – Mashkov can’t come along ‘cause she’d be betraying her government, and we can’t exactly recruit any other people over there unless they’re civilians and, even if we do, the IMF will assume we’re keeping them, you know, hostage or something, and we’ll just up the vigorousness of the hunt for our heads. I just—” he pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, “—I just don’t think that this is gonna go well. It won’t be long until the KGB find out that we interfered with one of their undercover missions and they start up a search for us as well. And we just messed with a terrorist organisation.” He rubs at his temple with one hand, then running it exasperatedly through his cropped hair. “If we don’t stay properly, properly hidden, then we’re dead.”

I grimace before saying in admittance, “You do have a point—”

“Points,” Benji corrects, hissing out the plural version like a snake would.

“Fine, points,” I sigh, rolling my eyes. “But you’ve gotta understand that we just pulled that job off. We’re fine, we’re alive. We’re gonna be fine.”

“Yeah,” Ethan says from behind me, entering the room with the bags of weaponry and ammunition in each of his hands. “We’re gonna look out for each other. I won’t let anything happen to you, don’t worry.”

A bold promise to make, I scoff internally, but it does wonders to calm Benji’s nerves – I can see the panic visibly melt off of his face into an expression of dependence and reliance. How nice it must be to trust someone so completely, so wholly. A rebellious spark of jealousy, envy, ignites somewhere hidden inside of me, some place impossible to reach. God, I wish I had that – I wish that I had someone who could take the wheel for a while and let me sleep in the passenger’s seat, comfortable and holding the surety that they’ll get me to where I’m wanting to go. And there’s also another thing that I wish I had instead of Benji, but it’s a little too selfish for me to admit clearly in my thoughts, so I’m going to say it quickly and quietly to myself once, and then I’ll let it go forever. (I’m jealous that Benji’s so close to Ethan and that I’m not. Even though I have mixed feelings, I still want to be emotionally intimate with Ethan, the Secretary’s golden boy, to know him inside out and have him know me as well – it must be some weird, self-destructive complex that’s making me feel this way; Ethan hasn’t exactly proved to be beneficial to my mental health so far.)

Benji leaves to get changed just as Almada’s finished doing so, the latter tapping Ethan on the shoulder lightly and telling him that it’s nearly five o’ clock and that we should all get going soon; the train leaves at quarter past six, and we’re driving to a station in a smaller city close by – just in case those IMF agents are tracking us as we speak, we don’t want to use the same train station twice.

Mashkov is observing us like a spider from inside its underground den, eyes beady and bright and piercing as she stands in the small doorway of her room with her arms folded neatly over her chest and her chin tilted upwards in superiority – I’m not sure what I expected from her, but definitely a little more life, perhaps a diversion from her usual senseless, emotionless nature. After all, we’ve spent a good week of intense emotions together and, you know, strong bonds can be forged between people in those kind of high-stress environments. But with Mashkov being Mashkov, she’s completely stone-faced as usual (I like how I use “as usual” like she’s some old friend that I’ve known for years, but no record of me is going to exist in her books at all after today). She watches as we scuttle about the apartment, gathering up our limited belongings and editing our appearances in the bathroom mirror – Almada and I stand next to each other and face the medicine cabinet, him putting on some cap that he apparently stole yesterday from the store next to the gas station at which we stopped for fuel yesterday after the Cernavodă job, and me fiddling with my hair and it’s parting until I figure out the angle where the majority of my face will be covered as needed. After adjusting the neckline of my sweater, I approach Mashkov with a bag slung heavily over my body, and I thank her and tell her goodbye out of common courtesy. At first, her grey eyes widen in surprise, almost as if she hadn’t expected me to be decent enough to offer her a farewell. “I’ll clean up the place after you’re gone,” she tells me sharply, choosing to totally ignore all (if any) of the sentimentality that we share between us. “I can’t keep you a secret from my government for much longer. And we can’t keep in contact.” Her eyes flitter down to the floor and she purses her lips before saying tautly, “Good luck.” I admire her for being able to erase any feelings of attachment from her mind – it seems to be serving her well.

We leave Mashkov and Cernavodă back in that measly, little flat that I didn’t really like anyways (some of the paint was peeling off the walls, and the ceiling had this strange, twisting texture to it that had made my eyes throb with confusion anytime I dared to look). Mashkov doesn’t waste time with lingering in the doorway, doesn’t bother with sending us down to the rental (the new one; after she found out that we were hiding from our government, Mashkov started to pay for everything that we needed, so every car, every item of clothing, even every toiletry has come out of her paycheck), so none of us bother with looking back. Well, none of us except sweet Almada who wears some pitiful, hopeful expression when craning, straining his neck upwards and to the side in order to catch one last glimpse of Mashkov’s slight, intimidating form. I grab the strap of his bag and drag him down the stairs because I know that he’ll call back to her if I don’t intervene.

Benji starts up the car after we all pile inside, face slack and his limbs limp like flaccid celery (excuse the crude synonym). Before he can pull out onto the road, I interrupt and say, “Wait, Benji.” He and Ethan both turn around to look at me as I continue in a sighing manner, “You can’t drive – I’ll do it.” I can see in the dark bags under his eyes that he’s just not up for this today. Besides, I’ll get to take a rest on the train. I’ll be fine – it’s not that far.

Benji is surprisingly quick to give in – he only protests for around five seconds before resigning and finally telling me, “Okay. I’m sorry.” I tell him that he shouldn’t be. I unbuckle my seatbelt and get ready to get out of the car. The engine rumbles beneath me like it’s alive. Benji and I open the doors, ready to switch, and I’m already stepping out onto the pavement when Ethan cuts in, voice dragging almost painfully against his throat:

“No, I’ll drive. I actually slept last night, so,” he offers in a way that’s somewhere right between condescending and generous (if anybody could be both simultaneously, it would be him). And because I’m selfish and exhausted, I don’t even try to convince him otherwise. Still, Benji and I switch places – I think he wants to take a nap or something, and he needs someone living and breathing to lean on as he does so. I climb into the front and Ethan does the same into the driver’s seat, groaning in the aching exhaustion we all share.

The car ride is astoundingly uneventful. Three minutes in, even though Benji is the one who wanted to rest his eyes for a little while, Almada takes a nap on his shoulder – and when I look into the back to check on them both like I’m a concerned parent making sure that their children aren’t dead but, instead, just sleeping, I find Benji resting his head on top of Almada’s. Ethan sees it through the rear-view mirror as well, and he chuckles quietly and smiles at me once I’m back in my seat and comfortable. And I feel like I’m in a good mood, so, instead of rolling my eyes at him or shaking my head and looking away or even glaring at him like all of my instincts are telling me to do, I smile back (fleetingly) and tell him, “I dunno how they can possibly sleep at a time like this. I dunno how they can sleep at all. You know, I shared a bed with Almada and then with Benji for a good amount of time before I realised that, wow, they both snore like they’re being throttled, for fuck’s sake.” Ethan laughs, and it comes thickly and straight from his chest – my toes curl in pride. “I’m not even kidding. But Benji especially. Even if I could sleep at night, I just wouldn’t be able to because of that godawful noise.”

“I know,” Ethan says, eyes smiling. “Benji and I lived together for two months, and we both know that the real reason I asked him to move out is not because I had just, you know, met Julia, but because of his snoring.” He pauses, then asking meaningfully, “You don’t sleep often, do you?”

What does he want to do with that? “No, I don’t,” I tell him, and the words come out harsh and cynical. “Neither do you.”

“I sleep.”

I scoff and stifle a laugh. “No, you don’t.”

“Well, I sleep more than you,” Ethan reasons, darting his green eyes over to me. “And I eat more than you.” This time, I actually do laugh. He smiles disbelievingly and carries on in a suiting voice, “I saw you go without eating anything yesterday. I don’t think you even drank anything.”

There’s a brief silence where he’s waiting for a reply, of which I have no idea how to formulate. Does he think that I have an eating disorder? Is that what this is? Because I don’t have one. My face practically goes into some sort of startled paralysis, and he glances to the road, to my face, to the road, to my face, again and again, until he finally picks up that there’s something wrong. The laughing gleam in his eyes fades back into worry and, as a few seconds pass, into sympathy. But I don’t let him get farther into the latter, cutting him off before he can say something else that’ll get on my nerves; “I don’t really—have an appetite when I’m on missions,” I tell him earnestly because it is the truth. “There’s always too much going on, and I still can’t keep up.”

And I don’t know why I thought that Ethan would just leave it alone at that (despite the many times that he’s pressed and pushed until the breaking point – it’s his job to do that, I know, but it’s still infuriating), but I’m still slightly shocked at how bold he is as he continues. “Well, we’re technically not a mission anymore,” he says, “so you can go find that appetite and, you know, eat.” This time, I choose not to reply because I don’t see the worth in it anymore, and I leave Ethan looking worriedly at me through the corner of his eye. How dare he suggest such a thing. Well, maybe he didn’t do it explicitly, but he was certainly thinking it. This isn’t exactly what I thought my day would come to, referencing the negative eating habits that I only clawed my way out of fairly recently (not that recently, don’t worry) and all, but here I am, my lip curled in slight disgust as I stare at Ethan incredulously. I don’t have an eating disorder. Fuck that and fuck him. Ethan doesn’t deserve my friendship (or maybe it’s the other way around – I’m still conflicted upon that matter). We stay there in silence, dreadfully aware of the space between us. Then, “Have you eaten today?” I tell him that, yes, I have—but I haven’t. The most I had was a glass of water in the morning in order to hydrate myself for the mission that would inevitably parch me. Ethan doesn’t seem to be convinced either, but he leaves it. None of my problems are worth his concern. He’s saved all of humanity from countless threats (and, no, I’m not exaggerating), and here he is, asking me whether or not I’ve eaten today. It’s so fucking stupid. He sighs, “I’m just worried about you, is all. You don’t sleep and you don’t eat – that’s not exactly healthy.”

“I don’t need you to worry about me,” I tell him. “Worry about yourself.” And I expect him to maybe defend himself, but only exhales in defeat, and he doesn’t press me for anything after my answer, so I turn my head away and watch the road and the trees and the sky speed past me in an incomprehensible blur.

When we arrive at the train station, it turns out that we have about a good hour and a half to kill and, because we’re relatively quick when boarding, Ethan and I decide to wait in the car as to not forcibly wake the others – none of us really got a good night’s sleep. Despite what Ethan said earlier, he didn’t either. He’s half-asleep with his chair reclined when Benji wakes up and asks me what time it is. “Five-ish,” I tell him inconclusively, unbothered to check my phone or something for a definite answer. He grunts stiffly in response, then realising that Almada’s still sleeping lopsidedly on his shoulder.

“He’s only a kid,” Benji chuckles as he takes a look outside of his window at the parking lot. “Remember when we were that age?”

“I actually really liked the Academy,” I reply, my mind drifting back to the days when I was living out my twenties, all but charmed by the romanticised prospect of being a secret agent – how childish. “I had a lot of friends back then.”

He barks out a laugh and retorts, “Well, I didn’t.” Ethan snaps out of his daze and, as soon as he realises the topic of the conversation, grins broadly and turns around to look at Benji. “I was pretty scrawny when I was younger, you know, and a few other trainees liked to pick on me every once in a while. But at the end of my first year, Ethan saw them having a go at me and scared every last one of ‘em off – he was in his final year at the time, and they all knew not to mess with a senior trainee like him.” I smile at the thought of this scene playing out – I can remember what young Ethan looked like, but what about Benji?—I’m having a hard time figuring it out. “Those guys sure were scared, weren’t they, Ethan?”

“Damn right, they were,” Ethan chuckles.

I grin. “God, what’d you tell ‘em?”

“It’s gonna sound really cheesy if I say it out loud,” he replies, his hand coming up to hide his flushing face. But Benji’s bringing out the encouragements, and I’m whipping out the pleas and the things I’d wilfully exchange to hear it, so he scratches the back of his neck and says, “Okay, just—” he looks pointedly at me, “—don’t laugh at me.” No promises. “I said something like, ‘I will superglue a pebble to the bottom of every shoe you have and will ever own.’”

I choke on my laugh and proceed into a coughing fit as Benji chuckles fondly from the back. “I’m sorry, what?” I ask him once I’ve recovered. “How the fuck did that work on them? It sounds like you’re threatening a seven-year-old.”

“It worked at the time, and that’s all that matters,” Ethan responds, deeply furrowing his brows and raising his hands in defence. “And twenty-eight-year-old me wasn’t exactly the best at conversation.” I find that hard to believe – even though Ethan left the Academy before I even arrived (I’m about seven years younger than him), it’s common knowledge among all that he graduated the top of his class by a mile, and it can therefore be derived that he was one hell of a public speaker; you don’t get that far without showing the qualities of leadership and authority, and you’ve got to be able to give orders confidently and assuredly in order to do that. He’s full of shit, Ethan is.

Benji seems to think so too, cackling and saying, “That is such a lie. I remember clearly that Kittridge asked you to give a speech when you graduated, and people gave you a standing ovation, for Christ’s sake.” I glance back at the stirring Almada, eyebrows carving up in pity as I see that his eyes are already opening, and his mouth is already gaping wide, wide open in a cavernous yawn. When the young agent inhales sharply and stretches open his eyes to wake himself up for good, I offer him a smile (because he deserves one, let’s be honest); he smiles back, even despite his fuzzy mind, and lifts himself off of Benji’s shoulder with a grunt.

“Okay, well,” Ethan saying softly, shaking his head with a reminiscent smile – why can’t we all just be our younger selves for one day; I was so much more carefree back then (I know that it’s hard to believe, but I really was more charismatic when I was younger), “my insults were off.” Oh, no shit. I’m about to open my mouth to say something else, perhaps comment again on his weak insult and maybe poke fun at him for it, because I don’t exactly want this insight into their lives to end – the person with whom I have the deepest conversations is the lady who sells newspapers just outside of the corner store back home, and it’s nice to feel at least a little bit personal with both of them. But Ethan opens the car door before I can do anything, ripping himself out of the nice moment and saying, “We should get going, now. I don’t wanna be late.” I nearly protest, but then I see that almost half an hour has passed – we still need to get something to eat before the train departs because, well, the ride is nearly twenty-nine hours long (glorious, I know); even I’ll try to eat something, if not for me and my own hunger, then for Ethan and to show him that I’m fine.

At our platform, large and stretching on and on for as far as the eye can see, Benji leaves to go buy a few sandwiches at a small, little bistro by the toilets, and I excuse myself from the others to go to the said bathroom. The walls are close and asylum-white about me, boxing together in a pressing enclosure that extends for metres on end, all down to some curious, metal doorway at the end of the hall that makes me tilt my head in interest – if I were to run down there at full speed, would I be able to reach that door before the years of my life drained out of me and I was left old and grey and dying? It isn’t a nice thought to linger about, and that hallway is messing with my brain, so I dart into the bathroom and away from its little optical illusion, gulping down any nausea that stemmed from its effects – I hold my breath in order to keep it from becoming shallow and rapid, trying to hold my head when standing in the long, long line of desperate individuals along the close wall of the corridor. Bombarded by my needy urge to just take a fucking piss, I almost forget about who I am. I enjoy these kind of moments, the little, distinctively normal ones that you’re so occupied with that you get too caught up in the mundaneness of it all. When the line doesn’t budge, I run on over to the men’s bathroom (of which, remarkably, has no line at all), ignoring all of the confused shouts from those who see me, and bolt myself into the cubicle, sighing in satisfaction when I finally get the release that I’ve been craving for what?—ten minutes, now? When I check my phone, it turns out only ten minutes passed during the time I was waiting in the line. Maybe I could stay here for a while more, I think to myself. Just sitting on this cold, crooked toilet seat with sodden strips of tissue plastered upon the linoleum floor, the light above my stall flickering ominously as I stare up at it with glaring eyes. Hmm. Perhaps it’s not the best place to loiter.

I keep my eyes fixed on the scuffed floor and stride out of the cubicle once I’m finished, the loud flush of the toilet (as well as the puzzled eyes of the other people in here) following my hurried footsteps as I make for the sink and wash my hands, then rushing out of there like my life depends on it.

All of the others are waiting for me when I escape the hallway, Almada tapping Benji on the back and pointing my way once he spots me through the crowd, eyes lighting up like a dog when it sees its owner after a long period of time. Ethan shakes his head disapprovingly and flails his hands, letting them flop exaggeratedly to his sides as he calls to me, “Come on, the train got here early.”

“Sorry,” I say meekly, taking up a bag from by their feet and draping it over my chest. “The line was really long.” He doesn’t look impressed, only jerking his head towards the train behind him, its engine and whistles and ticketmen all blending together in some ear-splitting, unpleasant cacophony of disordered order. The others pack together, closely around me, so that none of us get lost in the steadily growing swarm of people that gather around this one car – Almada grabs my bag, and Benji grips his shoulder, and Ethan politely clears the way for us all by shouldering his way through the crowd and offering a few weak apologies to those who swear and cuss and damn him for cutting through. I look over my shoulder ask Almada where the tickets are, but he doesn’t hear me, face screwing up in confusion and pressing a bit closer in order to catch what I said. I ask him again, this time yelling right into his ear and sparing no volume whatsoever, having to compete with the unforgivable chatter of everyone else – he nods in acknowledgement and asks Benji over his shoulder for the tickets. Ethan is right by the entrance by now, climbing up onto the train’s steep, dark-carpeted steps, offering the ticketman a smile and a “good afternoon” in Romanian, all the inflections and thicknesses as perfect as ever. I prop my foot up on the step behind him, bridged over the pitch-black gap right between the train and the platform, twisting my torso around and watching Benji hand the tickets to Almada, then to me, then taking them and giving them dutifully to Ethan.

Based solely on the movement of his lips, I see the ticketman ask Ethan, “Familia ta?”

And Ethan replies, “Da – soția mea și frații ei.”

When I know that he’s not looking, I smile. Wouldn’t it be nice if that were true, if we were just a normal family on a normal trip with normal intentions and hopes and dreams? I can have that one day, maybe, but it’s nice to be the fool, even just for a few heartbeats. The world seems to quieten when I catch Ethan looking down modestly at the floor with a small smile on his face as well – God, he’s a great actor; not everyone can just slip into an entirely different personality, an entirely different character, as so fluidly at that. Then again, he’s not just everyone. He’s a goddamn legend. When he finishes up with the ticketman and, since there’s some prick trying to shove past him, reaches behind him and stretches out his hand to me—and I take it, and it’s warm and large and envelops my own like a hot summer’s day. I smile at the ticketman as I file past him, the others following shortly inside and copying my actions. Ethan tightens his hold on my hand as he guides me into the aisle, not once faltering his touch, not even when we have to slink by people in the narrow, narrow lane. When we reach the row of seats further down and I’m packing my bag into the overhead compartment, he touches my arm gently – I jump ever so slightly, so he apologises – and hands me a sandwich box with the instructions of: “Eat it and try and get some sleep.” He ducks his head down to catch my line of sight when I try to avoid his serious gaze. “Please.” Then, he moves to sit across the aisle by Benji. I take the window seat. I need to distance myself.

As soon as I slump in my seat, my entire body goes slack, muscles relaxing and turning to jelly as I put the sandwich into the little net in front of me, then sighing sharply through my nose and letting myself try to relax – there’s nothing to worry about for the next whole month or so; the next attack is in February, and we’ve already proved to ourselves that we can certainly handle the stress. Then again, we’re cut off from a lot of resources, maybe even more so than before. Like Mashkov said, she can’t keep us a secret from her government for long – they’ll report us to other countries before we know it, labelling us as vicious criminals who are interfering with known terrorists, and we’ll be even more restricted in our choices and movement and freedom that we already are, unable to walk down a street without the fear of a camera capturing our identities. But, you know, the distorting scenery (of the station melting away into the grey city makes everything better. Ah, it’s just fucking great – I’ve never been so relaxed. My eyes start to ache and throb, and the right side (the ride side specifically) of my brain begins to hurt, that cloudy sort of hurt that isn’t sharp enough to be too bothered about. I stretch my eyes open, squint them shut, stretch my eyes open, squint them shut. Oh, I just wanted to rest – why is the headache deciding to arrive only now? I do my best to work the twinge away from my eyes by focusing on the small, little, fine details of the passing trees and buildings – for the apartment complexes, I try to make out the depth and quality of the window frames, what evening meal a family is eating in the amber-lit dining room, and which subject that student is cramming for on their desk in the window; for the trees, I watch the birds tuck into their spiny nests, the twisting branches and twigs that reach up to grab at the dimming sky, the defined lines and wrinkles that run along the length of towering and squat trees alike. But the headache persists, pounding and pounding relentlessly against the restraints of my mind. The green things eat away at the city until all I can remember is flat, damp plains edged with melted snow.

Then, it clicks for me, the reason why the muscles in my neck are still strained and why the urge to gnaw at my fingernails is starting to win me over and why my jaw is miraculously clenched shut: Almada has been chattering away about everything and anything that comes to his mind for, God, I don’t know—a solid fifteen minutes by now. I peel my eyes away from the window, an agitated and slightly disbelieving scowl pulling at my features, and I turn to look at Almada who’s mumbling on and on about how he really misses this shabby, little bar by his apartment back at home that he attends religiously every week with his friends (he’s pretty sure that the bartender fancies him, and that’s why he gets free drinks sometimes) and he tells me about how he’s going to take some girl there once he gets home from this whole job. I raise my legs up onto the seat and cross them beneath me, forcing my temple right up against the vibrating pane of glass. God, I know that he’s bored and everything (if this is his way of coping, the next day is going to leave me begging for the sweet release of death), but he wasn’t nearly this chatty during the car rides in which I sat beside him.

“You got anyone to go back to? You got a family?” I hear him ask me once he realises that I’m back in the present, now – only then do I realise that he must have been completely mindless in his talking, a nervous habit or something (though, I’m not quite sure what he’s nervous about).

But replying is the only way to shut him the fuck up, so I say to him, “No.” And I think that it’s funny and cruel that a single word can come out so bitter and distasteful and make another human being’s face fall so completely. I inhale deeply, stetch my eyes open as wide as they can go once again, and swivel in my chair so that my entire body is faced towards him. “Sorry, I have a headache,” I give him lamely as my excuse, the gritted edge to my voice still not yet lost. Almada frowns, but he leans nearer to me in interest – I haven’t talked about my family at all, so he must be jumping at the chance to learn about the personal life of his more senior agent – not agent, actually, but whatever the fuck I am, what we all are, right now. I don’t know what’s going through his brain, of course, but I can make a good estimate from my previous experiences of desperately wanting to gain the approval of my supervisors back at the agency. So, I set it out plain and simple for him: “My parents are dead, and I don’t have any siblings.” Why complicate it, hmm? I’m not particularly sad that they’re dead – they weren’t the nicest of people, let alone the best of parents. But they kept me alive during my childhood and, even despite their constant arguing and yelling and fighting and threats to leave it all behind and start somewhere anew, they were still married when they died – they didn’t want me to be a child of divorce (actually, it was more to save their reputations with their parents and their friends, but I like to think that they cared for me more than I knew), and so they pretended that our lives were perfect and their relationship was of the same nature. God, I hated them. I really did. They were both narcissists who’d point out all my flaws and all the things that I did wrong. And I didn’t even notice that it wasn’t normal until I was fifteen.

When I manage to drag myself out of my incredibly self-centred thoughts, I notice that Almada’s got pity, of all things, glimmering in the depths of his nut-brown eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says unsurely, picking at his nail beds.

I bring my fingertips up to pull at my eyebrows and the skin around my eyes, feeling the hammering and thumping of the headache only grow and grow as this conversation goes on and on. But he’s near to letting up, and I sort of feel guilty about snapping at him, so I ask, “What about your folks? Do they know about your kind of work?”

“Oh, I’m a foster kid,” he replies with a shallow smile. “And they don’t know about my job, you know, obviously. I actually wanted to be an astronaut at first. But my foster parents said to be realistic.” I try to imagine Almada as a man in a spacesuit among the big stretch of black up there and the speckled stars that interrupt its body, and I almost start to believe that he actually could’ve done it, he actually could’ve become an astronaut (he’s certainly got the required inquisitiveness, alright), but then my head starts to strain again. Almada grins as he tells me, “My birth mother always told me that I could do it, though. Then again, she was a literal crackhead, so.” Oh, that’s not great. That’s not ideal. He must pick up on my change of expression because he laughs in good nature and says, “Yeah, I didn’t love that. Didn’t even like it a little bit, could you believe?”

I hum in response and flop back into the correct position on my seat. God, it feels like someone’s just split open my head with a goddamn axe and is prying me open and reaching into my body cavity, grasping at my consciousness like someone grasps at mist or filtering and dry, dry sand. Just try and sleep. Maybe drink something, actually. Yes, I should drink some water. My head lolls back sickly as I ask Almada, “D’you have any water? I need water, for—” I swallow a copious amount of saliva and vile bacteria as it all floods my mouth like I’m about to hurl my guts or something, “—Christ’s sake.” My arms come to cradle my abdomen as if I have a baby growing in there, nausea building up pressure in there like a volcano on the brink of eruption. No. Nope, I am not throwing up today, thank you very much. I just wanted a rest, goddammit; why can’t I have just that? Just one rest before we arrive in Venice – that’s all I want. Fuck, can’t someone just take away my damn headache?

“I don’t think we have any,” Almada replies, oblivious to my writhing and squirming. I swear to God, if I throw up, I’m throwing up on him. “I dunno if you mind me asking, but why did you get into this work in the first place? I just want to know about, like, the greater picture because, I’m gonna be honest with you, I’m having a hard time finding motivation right now and I need a wake-up call—”

“Oh, my God,” I exclaim, cutting him off. I shush him vigorously, then hissing at him, “Can you just—?” I bring my fist up beside my head as I glare at him, and I cramp it up into a claw, shaking it to accentuate my annoyance. Shut the fuck up – that’s what I really want to say, but it would be a touch too much for the kid. I just asked him for some water. Just some goddamn water. “You know what? I’ll be right back – I’m going to the bathroom.” I get to my feet a little too spiritedly due to my flexing muscles, so I thud harshly against the back of the seat in front of me, grunting agitatedly in pain. I wave away his attempts to help me back into my seat, and I shove past him and into the aisle instead – Ethan and Benji both look up at me concernedly when I turn to face them with my professional glower and my ducked head and raised shoulders and clenched fists and swaying legs, so I roll my eyes and make forwards for the toilets. My hands clamp down firmly on the corners of strangers’ seats as I clamber along my path, floor dipping treacherously beneath my feet and sparing no mercy for the tortured sweat upon my forehead. Why the hell am I sick? I only throw up twice a year (that is, when I don’t make myself do it – I don’t do it anymore, but, wow, I used to do it more often than I like to tell myself and that shrink that I was seeing a while back), and it never happens this—this early on.

By the time I’m halfway down the aisle, I abandon all sense of self-respect and rush to the toilet. I think I’m going to throw up. And this suspicion is confirmed when I begin to retch and gag – I push past some lady with hair as dark and rich as the night sky, and I make for the toilet cubicle, grateful to God that everyone was more fortunate than I as to not get a cursed headache and want nothing more than to hurl their guts out into a mediocrely cleaned toilet bowl – there’s no queue at all, you see, so I’m allowed to fling myself in the damn thing and bolt the door. I put my head into the ceramic bowl, hands gripping at the rim of it, and start to pant weakly, my own hot, foul-smelling breaths fanning back onto my face. “Fuck,” I cuss. This is an all-time low for me, you see: Throwing up in a public restroom with my knees soaked in either water or something else that I’m not quite ready to define just yet. Actually, maybe not an all-time low – it’s just a low. I’ve been in much worse situations now that I think about it. I can’t complain if I’ve been put here instead of the much less favourable jail cell or, to hell with it, a fucking grave. “Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck,” I continue, slamming my fist onto the seat of the toilet.

“Hey,” I hear Ethan’s distinctive voice say through the door after calling my name, “are you in there?”

“No, dipshit, it’s the other person that you saw storm off, looking like a piece of shit,” I bitterly remark, my voice echoing about the bowl as I refuse to let my head up in case the vomit decides to regurgitate itself up here. “Just go away, will you?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, just leave me the fuck alone,” I groan. When I hear him sigh dissatisfiedly, I roll my eyes and tell him, “I’ll be out in a minute. Go back to your seat.” That’s what he wants to hear, isn’t it? He wants to hear a rational reason for why he isn’t needed here, so I gave it to him. Now, is he going to leave or what? What will it take, goddammit? My throat starts to taste like bile, so I open my mouth and try to make myself gag into the sterile water that hangs about at the bottom of the bowl.

There’s a sliding noise that scrapes against the shut door (like Ethan’s just stroked the thing like he’s saying goodbye to an old friend) and then receding footsteps. I mean, there’s no verbal farewell, but it’ll do. Never mind the scowl that finds my face again – I was expecting at least some sort of kind gesture. This is Ethan Hunt, after all, known for his compassion and empathy even out in the darkest, most dangerous of places that would break any lesser of a person and turn them into nothing short of a monster. But I don’t linger on that for long. No, instead, I stick two fingers into my mouth and prod at the back of my throat just like I used to do after a particularly large meal that I felt particular guilty about consuming (this was years ago), and I retch grossly, body convulsing in that horrid way that I used to know so well. Just throw it up and it’ll all feel better, I tell myself. But what is there to throw up? I haven’t eaten anything at all today – what is there to throw up? Nevertheless, I keep prodding and gagging and prodding and gagging – it’s always taken me a while to throw up on purpose; I’ve never understood films and books where people can stick their fingers down their throats only once and have the most magnificent puke they’ve had in their entire lives – until it spills out of me in one go, splashing deep and smooth into the toilet bowl. I make sure that my head is really well buried in there and that my hair is out of my face – there won’t be any mess, only a smell.

I stay there and just breathe for another minute or two. I hate that feeling that never fails to get to me after throwing up, like nothing and no-one as gross and pathetic and—and discardable and pitiful as me has ever walked the planet until now, until my very existence came into happening. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and I lean away from the toilet bowl and let my back fall against the locked cabinets beneath the sink, those silver handles digging into my shoulder blades. Breathe and breathe and breathe some more – I sound like I’m half-drowned. My limbs feel weak and useless when I try to get up the first time, not all that different the second time around (though I’m successful in my attempts).

I flush the toilet, then turning around to gargle my mouth nice and thoroughly, and I wash my face from that sallow, ashen look. I’m just about to reach for that terrible, one-ply toilet paper to dab at my skin when there’s a knock at the door. I cry, “Fuck off, Ethan.”

“Sorry,” a feminine voice says amusedly. “I was just wondering if you’re okay. I heard you throwing up, and it didn’t sound fun.” There’s a warm, pleasant accent that dances in her words, and it makes the tough, metal-tasting coil in my stomach (the remnants of whatever sickness I caught earlier) unfurl like a flower does its soft petals. “And I don’t want to bother you, but are you finished yet? I really need to go.”

I sigh. “Yeah, sorry, I’m just washing my hands and all that. And it does smell like vomit in here, so I’m sorry in advance.” I undo the lock on the door, jamming it violently to the side because of its stubbornness and unwillingness to budge, and am met with a woman with soft, dark eyes and soft, dark hair and soft, dark skin – she smiles at me and pulls her loose-knitted, orange cardigan tighter over her body. Had my gut decided not to pester me with alarm, I would’ve smiled back – there’s just something about how nice she seems that doesn’t do shit to convince me; she lacks sincerity in her eyes. So, I give her that polite smile that I was weary about as to not suggest to her that I’m anything other than just a normal civilian with a civilian life. Get away from her, my gut is screaming at me. And I’m trained to follow a gut feeling, so I slide past her and avoid her eyes as I do so—but she grabs my wrist roughly in her hand. And I instinctively motion my compromised hand over to the outside so that hers is wrenched over and forced to let me go; now, I hold her wrist instead. The woman’s other hand darts forward, quick as lightning, to slice down on the crook of my arm, and my grip falters – she tries to yank her hand away, but it doesn’t work, so she reaches for my left shoulder to push me back. Before she has the chance to, I use my other hand to smack it out of the way, then tugging unkindly on her hand to turn her around and hold her arm up against her back in the perfect position to break it. My face perfectly straight (almost emotionless), I pin her wrist right up against her shoulder blades, using my other hand to rest palm-flat against the base of her elbow, ready to strike sharply upwards. I ask incredulously, “I’m sorry, what the fuck? I just threw up – can you choose a better time, please?”

The woman replies with a brutal jab of her free elbow into my ribs, then using my brief doubling over in pain to free herself from my hold. “I need you to come with me,” she says as she puts her fists up in an on-guard by the sides of her face, raising her shoulders like a boxer – she looks light on her feet; I should just run now, shouldn’t I?

“I don’t really want to do that,” I grit. If I make it into the car, she’ll give up or at least lessen the intensity of her pursuit – I glance at the rows and rows of bored-looking people out in the car to my right. I can’t run because she’ll run if I do, and then what? My eyes snag on the woman’s bulky watch as she fiddles with the little crown of the thing. I try to swivel upon my heels and stride right into the car, but, just as I turn to face that aisle, some turgid wire is wrapped around my neck and jerking me backwards into that secluded area just around the corner. My breath expands and expands in my throat until the pressure is enough to instigate a few panicked tears to sheen across my glazing eyes – fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, this isn’t meant to happen. I wriggle both of my hands under the garrotting wire and try to push it away from strangling my neck, but that woman has pulled it too tight and, with her leg curled around my thigh, it’s impossible for me to escape. I reach a hand behind my shoulder and feel about for her wrist – my fingers fumbles across the cold steel of her watch and over a wire that extends out of the crown and around my fucking neck. Scrunching my face up in determination, I bring my other hand to meet with this one in a lock around her wrist, and I lurch forward abruptly, throwing her weight over my shoulder successfully. I watch as she thuds with a grunt to the floor, torso sprawled right in the middle of the doorway – the passengers at the front glance from her to me with wide eyes, but I just step over her winded body and past them, marching over to Almada and shaking him from this daze that he seems to be in.

He notices right away, from the urgency in my grasping hands and or maybe from my hard eyes, that something’s wrong, backbone perking upright as it turns to a soldier’s metal one, and he says, “What happened?”

“I got attacked by some woman,” I tell him and, when I dart my eyes over my shoulder back to that doorway and find her all but gone, I shove myself into my seat – I don’t want to be identifiable, now, and I need to hide my face quickly. “Where’s your cap? Put on your cap,” I whisper to Almada, then leaning forward and over his lap to check the whereabouts of that woman; he says it’s just in the seat pocket in front of him, so I get up from his lap and let him put it on. Then, I tap and push at his shoulder rapidly, hissing to him, “Tell Ethan. Tell Ethan that there’s a woman in her early thirties, about five foot five, dark, straight hair, dark skin, slim build, and Southeast Asian, I think – see if he knows anything about her, if he’s seen her.” When Almada hesitates, glancing at me with perplexed eyes like I’ve gone crazy, I punch him roughly in the arm that’s closest to me and growl, “Now, goddammit.”

Almada complies instantly after that, bending across the gap of the aisle and racking Ethan’s arm as I peer over the rim of my seat, scanning my acute vision over the contents of the train car – she could be one of the passengers, for all I know, with her head covered with a hat or a hood and with her nose stuck in a book, in a newspaper, in a laptop that she’s been using to watch us all this while. God, this isn’t good. This isn’t great. I find my fingers clawing into the fabric of the seat, and I have to snag them jaggedly, one by one, away from it. I press my back into my own seat and try to calm my accelerating heartrate by breathing leisurely in through the nose and then out from the mouth. Bright-eyed and attentive, Almada turns back to me and says, “She’s from the IMF – that’s what Ethan says. She was there at Cernavodă.” I rest my forearms on my knees and lean myself forwards, only to meet Ethan sitting in exactly the same position – his face is drawn thin and sombre. I frown. Almada isn’t finished with his deliverance: “She’s probably not alone.”

We need to get off of here. But, fuck, the next stop isn’t until fifteen hours when the train will arrive at Budapest-Keleti in Hungary.

“We’ll get off in Budapest and travel by car to Venice. Actually, no, we’ll drive to—to Kranj in Slovenia, and we’ll wait out a while over there,” Ethan says lowly, glancing fleetingly over his shoulder at a lumbering man who passes him on his way to the back of the train – I can barely hear anything he says, and I squint my eyes and dip my ear and inch closer (while still maintaining the proper posture in my seat) to try and receive what he says in better and finer detail. “But,” he begins, then gulping thickly; “But I don’t—how are we gonna stay out of sight? We’ve got fifteen hours and,” he shakes his head and pauses (he isn’t used to asking questions; others usually come to him for advice, for answers), “how—are we gonna stay out of sight?”

I run a hand harshly through my hair and pull at the roots in order to wake myself up – I don’t feel nearly as panicked as I should right now – and then tell him as clearly yet quietly as I’m able to, “We can’t get off, so we’ll just have to stay here and hope that they’re smart enough not to attack us in front of all these people.”

Almada nearly cries out, “What if they’re not, though? What if they shoot us and run, or poison us, or stab us?”

“They won’t do that,” Ethan coaxes, more comfortable in his skin now that he’s back in his element as the teacher, not the student. “There are cameras and people everywhere, and, if just one of us is found dead, the train will stop for an investigation – they’d risk getting caught and losing sight of the rest of us.” I nod in agreement, and the dread dissolves off of Almada’s face. “We just have to, like—” he darts his eyes over to me, “—like you said, hope that they’re smart enough not to attack us in front of all these people.”

And that’s just what we do – I collapse into my seat and shut my eyes, working out the strange vertigo little by little and imagining that I’m submerged deep underground into warm, bubbling mud. I don’t sleep and I don’t think. I just lay there in the mud, slowing my breathing and keeping my muscles still. I know that it’s dangerous – hell, those IMF agents most likely have eyes on us right this moment if they’re half as good and capable as our team is. I wonder if they’re watching me breathing and shifting and swallowing as of now. Are they sat in some cubicle, some storage room, gathered around their techie and observing me on a computer screen like I’m an animal in a zoo? No. No, better not think about that. Instead, I’ll immerse myself back into that mud, deeper and deeper and deeper.

When I open my eyes again, Almada is asleep. The sky outside is dreadfully dark, no stars and no moon in sight, extending black on forever and ever. The silhouettes of the trees and hills and pylons cut into the matted clouds, looming up to heaven, all disfigured and vague and blurred. What time is it? I tilt my head to look at Ethan – I’ve found that I can always tell the time just by looking at him; he’s wide awake if it’s late in the night or early in the morning, and he’s tired-looking and stubborn if it’s the afternoon. And he’s perched in his seat with his eyes as vivid as the engulfing black outside is overwhelming, sure enough. I shift my attention over to Benji – he’s gradually, gradually nodding off onto Ethan’s shoulder. I shouldn’t have closed my eyes, I think to myself as I sigh and give my limbs a good stretch; Ethan’s probably been awake this whole time, keeping watch when no-one else would. I didn’t even give one thought to volunteering myself as a lookout. I watch Ethan stare aimlessly at the seat in front of him. I don’t like watching him, particularly, but he’s just easy on the eyes – I can physically feel that throbbing ache dissipate away from the front of my brain whenever I follow the lines, sweet and harsh, of his face. I hope that he still thinks I’m asleep – this is pretty nice. Maybe I can just continue looking at him for a little while longer. For the sake of my physical relief, of course.

Then, Ethan meets my stare out of the corner of his eyes – I look away as quickly as I can, and I hide my face in my right hand, now following the ledge of the window beside me. My neck feels hot and thick and awkward, like my neck is specifically and inherently wrong and shouldn’t even exist in the first place, so I roll my head back and try to slant it into a more—a more normal angle. I feel like my clothes are starting to stick to me. Do I smell? My hair seems to me that it’s being weighed down with dark, stiff grease, and my skin is layered in something warm and insulating, the feeling clogging every single one of my pores and suffocating me torturously. God, how much longer do I have to stay on this fucking train? And so, I check for myself, pulling out my phone (to myself, I thank Mashkov for it – she’s the one who nicked it for me a while back) and noting that we’re only about fifteen minutes from our stop. My first instinct was to ask Ethan and have him do the work for me, but, look, I checked for myself. I need to start taking care of myself again – this whole mission has tampered with my head, my habits, my life; I need to get everything under control as soon as possible. That way, it’ll be easier to pretend that everything in my professional sector is fine.

I debate whether or not to close my eyes again, but I decide against it – when I take a quick look around the train out of anxiety that, yes, someone is watching me and someone is plotting to kill me at this very second (because, well, people are trying to kill me; I was fucking strangled, for Christ’s sake), a few people look back; first, there’s a bald man in a contrasting (eye-prickingly so) plaid shirt and who wears thick-rimmed, black glasses, and there’s a young teenager who gives me a dirty look, and also an old woman with a psychedelically patterned skirt that falls down to her ankles, and, finally, a young woman with striking blue eyes. None of them look remotely close to the person who tried to throttle me, but, hell, they could all still be working with her. Maybe they’re communicating with each other right now, through their phones, through their laptops, through little earpieces and stolen whispers. And if I think about it a little harder, aren’t they all in the perfect formation to close in on us if needed? All of them are dotted around, but they sit in a general circular fashion with the four of us at the very centre. They could cut off our exits and have us dead in under a second flat.

Fucking hell, just calm down. That’s not going to happen. We’ll be fine. Even though I keep repeating that to myself under my breath over and over again until I sound like an insane person, I’m still not convinced – my leg is bouncing restlessly, so fast that it dares to challenge the rate at which a hummingbird beats its wings, and I have to swallow every five seconds in order to prevent my mouth and lips from growing drier than the Sahara Desert. None of that is going to happen. The train will stop in—ten minutes, now, and we’ll get off just fine. Those IMF agents won’t be able to find us. We’ll get a cab, and we’ll find someplace safe in Kranj, a nice apartment with an indifferent landlord who doesn’t care that we hand them the month’s rent in cash up front. The weather will be vicious, though, with harsh winds lashing at trees and buildings alike, with rain spattering all over with no exceptions, with the sun leaving the world defenceless and waiting to die at the storm’s hand. But I don’t know – that’s what the forecast says. The raindrops will be firing like bullets at the taxi’s windshield, hailing like some salvo on the doorstep of that apartment that we’ll rant out, battling with the strength of the building’s foundation and threatening to uproot it from its home on the ground. It’ll go exactly like that. I grab my knees in my hands, and I press them together to stop them from bouncing about nervously.

The train draws to a screeching halt. I fumble forwards and quickly finish my sandwich.

***

This morning, I woke up and went to the market with Benji. The light in the town square was almost stifling, expanding the edges of it until they were filled to the brim with liquid joy and enjoyment – it’s the only way I can describe it. It was airy and ethereal and otherworldly. The colourful shaders of the stalls were flooded and streaming with sunlight, spilling onto anybody who happened to stray out from under the friendly shade and into the dreadful inbetween. I happened to do so as Benji was bargaining with a fishmonger over the price of two seabass – it was like my body had been blessed; I lingered for a good ten seconds more in that beautiful light before Benji motioned me over to the bread stall. And when we were strolling on back to our apartment, we laughed a little bit about our situation, made fun of where we are in life and what we could have but don’t, and stopped at some corner store to purchase a pair of sunglasses for Ethan. It was Benji who insisted upon it, and I only complied – I followed him into the store and watched him carefully select the pair of aviators that, he said, felt the least cheap to him. “Ethan had a pair of these a year back,” Benji said to me as the cashier put his money into the register. “He broke them on a mission and hasn’t really had the time to get a replacement.” I narrowed my eyes at the flush that had been creeping up his neck. After that, we reached our tall, peach, scuffed building (the one with the lovely, white crown moulding, and the wooden, brown shutters, and the two intricately wired balconies out front), and I let us in after fiddling with the keys for far too long. We took the staircase up – neither of us like the feeling of that elevator; I say that it’s far too old to be reliable, and Benji says that it’s got to be at least a little bit haunted.

With such a nice start to the day, what Ethan’s just said to me is beyond depressing. The words are still swimming around in my brain, begging to be processed and allowed into my filed-away thoughts, exhausted at having to face the mental extremities of my mind. And Ethan has his eyes squinted and is biting his lip in apprehension – he knows that I’m playing around with the prospect of being difficult on purpose, acting out because this is just absolute bullshit, and I could certainly make the next few days very hard for him, indeed; maybe I won’t necessarily want to, but it’d be an after-effect, nevertheless. “God, say something, will you?” He scoffs, running a hand through his hair and exhaling forcedly. “It’s not the worst news in the world.”

Oh, my God, yes, it is. I bring my feet up on the armchair, letting one of my legs sprawl across the entire length of it – I bite and nip at my fingernails as I try to find the words to say. I can’t do something too irrational (even though this deserves an irrational reaction; it would be perfectly rational to enact an irrational reaction) because it might set him off on me. But, you know, I think that’s over. Things have been pretty neutral between us over the past few days – there’s not been much of note, but we did have a nice conversation about dumb shit that we’ve done on missions (I found myself smiling at his smile, and vice versa; my face ached afterwards when I retreated for the night to mine and Almada’s bedroom). So, maybe he can handle just a little bit of fire. It wouldn’t be enough to burn him – it’d just remind him how sharp of a tongue I possess.

“You’re so full of shit that it’s not even funny anymore, Hunt,” I say wryly with a grin. I watch as he pretends to be fed-up, throwing his arms up in defeat, but I’m not fooled even for a second; he’s smiling, for God’s sake. I can see it from under his hand that tries to hide it. But I know that he is annoyed – I used his last name again. I’ve been avoiding addressing him by name in general, but the statement seemed to need it as an essential – I needed to really push my point. “No, I’m serious—” (I’m really not). “I’m gonna put some dirt into your mouth if you’re not careful.”

Ethan starts to pace about in the metre directly in front of me, beginning to say, “Well, I was on Interpol’s most wanted for a good few days back in 2006.” I raise my eyebrows, and my grin widens – I remember that very clearly, but I thought that it was just a rumour, a story created by the IMF to push Ethan onto an even higher pedestal than he was already residing on (which they’d actually done before, mind you). “And I came out of it just fine. Then again, I had been framed—so I had to do what I did in order to clear my name. We’re just acting independently and by our own free will. We’re vigilantes. Interpol’s completely justified with putting us on their list.” He isn’t exactly doing well to soothe my nerves. His hand covers his mouth and rubs there anxiously as he tries to formulate his inner thoughts in a cohesive way – that’s one thing that I like about him: He always thinks before he acts. And if not thoroughly, at least a little bit (unlike myself). “But we’re justified as well,” he says. “The IMF shouldn’t have taken us off that case in the first place. And we’re trying to escape a—” (he chuckles), “a quite lengthy prison sentence, here, and we’re doing that by fixing the mess that we made in the first place. That shouldn’t be classed as bad, should it?” I shake my head. “Right. Right.”

“Stop doubting yourself on this,” I tell him. “We all made the right decision – I’m sure of it. We’d rather be here than rotting away in jail.” Now, it’s his turn to nod half-heartedly.

He sits himself down in the armchair on the other side of the aged fireplace, resting one of his ankles on top of his knee and holding it in place with his hand as he cups his face, still covering that mouth of his, in the one that he rests on the support. He sighs brokenly as he says, “We can’t use any intelligence contacts anymore. Not from anywhere. And my plan was to recruit a government agent from each of the targeted countries, and to use them as a consultant, essentially.” He sighs again – that sure is a lot of sighs. “But—we can’t do that—anymore.”

“It’s fine,” I assure him – internally, I’m a little shocked that it’s me who’s comforting him; normally, it’s the other way around because he’s the more empathetic out of the both of us (I’m not ignorant enough as to refuse and deny that). He must feel so out of control right now if he’s resorting to receiving advice from me of all people. Even Almada would be more capable at this. Still, I persevere because I can’t have Ethan descending into a nervous breakdown just days before we’re due to stop another attack (and we have no idea what it concerns – without someone on the inside to aid us, we have to prepare for everything; it could be yet another bombing, an assassination, a hostage situation): “We can just work around it,” I say simply. “We’ll make a plan using the information on Jager’s drive and, um, go from there. It’s at a church, right?” Ethan nods. “So, we have the exact location of it. We know the general day that it’s happening.” He seems to relax at my affirmations. But then, I say, “We just don’t have the time or anything.” And he screws his eyes shut again, shutting himself off from reality and retreating into the mental panic room that he’s created for himself. Oh, shit, what do I do? I grind my teeth together and let my foot spasm rapidly before pulling it together, making sure my voice is calm and level when I next speak to him. “Ethan,” I say, his name heavy and foreign on my tongue – his head perks up at the sound of me calling him that. “Ethan, we’re heading to Venice tomorrow. We have the location, we have the possible dates, we have the equipment. We’re ready for this.” I’m not too sure about that part, but Ethan seems to be convinced by it – I think that he’s still just in a daze that’s been inspired by my unexpected gentleness.

I stay with him a little while more, switching the subject and rambling on and on about this festival that’s going on in Venice at the moment and how I actually attended it a few years ago on an assassination detail. Ethan doesn’t reply very much to my story, only cutting in occasionally with a laugh or a smile or a prompt to continue or elaborate – it’s fine by me, of course, because the whole point of what I’m doing is to distract him. When I tell him about how I made my getaway on some stolen speedboat, Ethan lights up and respectfully launches into a story of his own about when he was a teenager and went on a trip with a few friends before graduation – they rented jet skis and raced each other along the shore as the sun blazed burning orange and golden upon the shifting sea. I leave after that because all signs of alarm seem to have faded back into a light, reminiscent smile. I make to lie down in bed because my head is starting to hurt, but I don’t sleep. I just try to zone out from the real world because I’m getting sent back to hell tomorrow, and I’m not looking forward to it. Almada keeps me company, though, leaving me to my own thoughts as he researches into that Venetian church (cathedral, actually, I realise under further contemplation), his meticulous typing and the sound of his quiet breathing being the only things that I manage to apprehend as I continue to fall into my trance.

I like moments like these, moments where I look fast asleep because of how low I’ve managed to get my breathing and heart rate, moments where I can hear unadulterated shit that isn’t sugar-coated with its usual dash of decency and manners, moments where my ears are amplified due to the deprivation of my sense of sight, moments where I can hear Almada sniffling pitifully and whining lowly in the back of his throat as he tries to hold back his tears, moments where I can hear Ethan repeatedly smashing his fist against some poor wall in anger and irritation, moments where I can hear Benji muttering uneasily to himself about how the trip to Venice might not go as smoothly as we think and about how we need to put measures in place so that nothing bad happens before we reach the shore. Oh, yes, and I’m definitely a bad person for enjoying every single second of it – I like learning more about people, finding out additional information and compiling it all into one big mess that I can use to try and—I don’t know—improve my relationships. If I can even call them that, ha! But I spend a little bit more time like that, lying motionless in bed with the rise and fall of my chest as the one and only indicator that I’m, indeed, still alive – I just want to keep listening.

And then, I get the fuck out of bed and help a teary-eyed Almada (when he sees me sitting up, he immediately snaps his head around to look back at the corner of the room, most likely adjusting his facial expressions and emotional attitude so that he can feel professional; God, this type of life is not healthy at all, is it?) to run over what we need to do tomorrow in Venice – scope out the place of attack, place cameras there and a surveillance set-up at our apartment, purchase the clothing that we’ve already agreed on. And we also take a good look at those IMF agents that Luther managed to identify for us, revising their faces and their pasts like we’re cramming for the exam of our lives. Irene Kamińska. Marie Winston. Vera Acharya. Timothy Thompson. Those are the four agents that have been assigned to the case that was taken away from us. And Luther says that we’re now a top priority for the agency – they think that we’re hostile, that we want to disintegrate them. We don’t, of course – I could never do that to the IMF, not if someone held a gun to my head. Acharya is the one that put a wire around my neck – she’s only twenty-seven years-old, barely older than Almada. I memorise the rest of them by their most defining and unchangeable features – for Winston, I remember how her skin is so pale that she looks like death; for Thompson, I remember that he’s got a slightly crooked nose (he probably broke it when he was a kid); and for Kamińska, I remember how her shoulders are strong and broad and elegant. God, I bet they’re all crawling around Venice, just waiting for us to fall into their trap. What’s the price on our capture (or, you know, our deaths)? It’s basically just a glorified bounty hunt for them. I used to take part in those kind of things when I was a lot younger, right when I came out of the Academy. I learned not to waste my time with that kind of thing. It wasn’t the career path that I wanted. But then, I was given assassination detail after assassination detail, so—I guess I kind of fucked things up for myself, huh?

When I look over my shoulder, Almada is gripping at the edge of the bedframe and frowning an impossibly deep frown. I give him a single, short pat on the back, and then leave him to his own worries.

The next day, when we get to Venice, I get to properly appreciate my surroundings, unlike the other various countries and missions where I’ve been too concerned with work to notice anything at all, even when things were right in front of me. Hell, I’m still obviously concerned over that sector, but I don’t even have a job to worry about anymore. I start to really notice things because I’ve been feeling a little nihilistic about everything – we’re on a goddamn floating rock in space and I’m somehow expected to stop people from blowing up other people, and for what? Let’s not get into it – I’ve already spent too long contemplating it all. So, I decide to just appreciate Venice. Remember: Nothing really matters. And the more I look, the more I find things to enjoy. I find that I love how the horizon stretches blue on forever. I love the way the stream of pearly water trails behind us on the speedboat. I love the dangerous knot that forms in my stomach due to the high speed that we’re travelling at, and how the wind lashes at my hand and pulls at the skin on my cheeks. I love how, when we dock, the street that our apartment is located on has lanterns of blues and greens and pinks strung up between buildings and over the wide alley, shapes cutting the cold, blue sky up into an artistic canvas. I love it.

There are restaurants dotted all around, pleasant scents of seafood and other classic Italian cuisines wafting through the air and mingling beneath my nose in a way that I can only describe as absolutely heavenly. Maybe I could eat at one of these places after everything is over, I think to myself. Maybe I can come back here on holiday, alone or with someone else (I don’t mind), and have a taste of that spaghetti, the one with the shellfish, being served to the father of a family of five. This is the first time that I’ve felt properly hungry in weeks. But we pass that certain restaurant in a matter of ten steps exactly, the others with their eyes set on the yellow building near the end of the street – I hurry my pace in order to catch up, only then realising that I must’ve been staring a little too intently, practically drooling, at the little restaurant back there. I wonder if they offer take-away.

The apartment is bigger than all of the others that we’ve rented, towering ceilings and expansive kitchen and stretching floor making it seem large and yet terribly empty all at once. It would’ve been expensive as hell, too, if it weren’t for the condition of just about everything – the walls look like they haven’t had a paint-job in a solid thirty years, the floors are uneven and dip oddly towards the centre of the rooms, there a little cracks in the ceilings, and sound is horrendously clear through the thin ceiling and walls (right now, I can hear our neighbour stamping around upstairs, their television playing steadily on in the background – I can make out a few barks of a dog). But still, the place is large. So, when Almada and Ethan leave just as fast as we arrived to go complete the necessary errands, I take the liberty of pacing around the empty space and breathing in all of that room, envisioning that I’m actually on a trip with my friends to explore Europe for the very first time. Of course, there are several things wrong with that fantasy, the most important of which being that these people are not my friends – they are my colleagues. Sure, I’d like them to be my friends. I think. I’m not sure. Friends sort of require being emotionally vulnerable and forming genuine, long-lasting connections – isn’t that a bit too, I don’t know, set in stone? What if I were to tell Benji every single thing about me, only to have him decide that he’s not ready for all of that, and he leaves? That doesn’t sound very appealing. The last time I had a proper friend was when I was back in the Academy, and even those kind of friendships lacked depth and meaning – mostly, we just joked around and kept each other company in the gym.

Once I’ve decided that I’ve had enough of walking aimlessly about the apartment, I make for Benji’s room (he’s bunking with Ethan again) and find him slumped across the bed with his computer in his lap, typing away impossibly fast at his keyboard. I find it funny how quickly his fingers move – most people at the IMF have the skill to type fast, of course, but Benji’s hands seem to fly and zip across the keyboard like he’s a wizard who’s mastered his craft after all these years (he does it all without looking down at the keys, fingers moving all by way of muscle memory). He’s so immersed into what he’s doing that he doesn’t even see me enter the room. “So—” I begin loudly, smiling to myself when he jolts up like some startled cat, “—have you got visual yet? They’re wearing cameras, right?”

“Yes, yes,” Benji flitters, swivelling his computer screen on the mattress to the side of him so that I can see. “They’re setting up the cameras at the cathedral right now.” I watch as Ethan’s camera tilts up to look at the grand, twisting intricacies and statues that reside upon the detailed roof of the Basilica. I let my eyes linger on the worn biblical paintings that cover the underside of the decorative domes and arches – are Ethan’s eyes widening in awe at the magnificent architecture as well? There are people all around in the square, so Almada and Ethan lift their heads up every so often to check on one another – I let a part of me relax when I see that both of them are keeping their faces hidden, Almada with his cap (I swear that he’s wearing one of Miller’s jumpers, the red one that she wore to bed once when it was too cold) and Ethan with his hood up. Benji and I watch closely when Ethan leaps up onto a ledge that some people are choosing to sit on, carefully brushing his hand (and a camera) into a crook in the towering, brown building right by the entrance. And there’s another camera placed in one of the arches. Then, there’s one placed on the other three sides, all put in places where you can see the full extent of the square. And there’s some placed inside – those specific ones are attached to hyper-sensitive microphones. We watch as, one by one, the cameras connect to Benji’s computer – I can see all of the tourists swarming about like pestering flies.

I breathe out concentratedly because even watching that has made me tense. Benji notices, brown eyes wrinkling at the edges when he chuckles, “I know. We’re gonna need to get good and drunk together after this.”

I should fucking think so.

Ethan and Almada return to the apartment with a shopping bag full of outdoor clothes. The sky outside is a beautiful mural of soft pinks and oranges and golds and yellows, and the clouds are voluminous and sunlit, looking like something out of a painted depiction of what heaven is. What I really want to do is open up the shutters and lean my head out of the tall window, gazing and gazing at the sunset until it disappears to welcome the night. But I shut the windows instead, all of them, and make sure nothing and no-one would be able to see in here no matter how hard they tried. Benji and I don’t take our eyes off of the monitor – we just keep watching and watching and watching some more as the cathedral turns a husky blue and transitions into midnight. We begin to spiral into an abstract sense of nothingness. It’s a nice feeling to know that, for once, I’m not in here alone; I can’t count all the times that I’ve been sitting on the floor after a nice warm shower, rubbery and naked and cold on the damp floor, completely separate from reality after I let myself debate over a certain subject (which have, so far, ranged from relatively mild things like whether I should get a haircut or not, to particularly existential things like whether I’m a good person and if any of it is going to matter at all in the end). But it’s bad that Benji has to suffer through this. It’s not a fun feeling to have once you get out of here – it’s like you’ve just thrown up.

But there is something that snaps us right back out of it. Benji and I see it at the exact same time, turning to look at each other with wide eyes, unsmiling faces, and ridiculously fast heartrates. My face cracks after a split second, and so does Benji’s, and we both laugh out of shock as he clutches at his laptop to bring it into his lap – I dive onto the mattress and crawl behind his shoulder, jutting my neck and chin outwards to get a closer look. I laugh again – they’re right in front of my eyes. Those fucking terrorists, I mean – they’re right in front of my eyes. There are three of them in there; one in a janitor’s uniform, another dressed as security, and the last wearing a well-pressed, brown suit. Benji’s mouth gawks open disbelievingly – I chuckle again at his expression, and so does he; neither of us expected to find them as quickly as this. God, it’s lucky that we arrived when we did. I tell Benji to turn up the volume so that we can hear what they’re saying (they’re all standing right under an altar dedicated to the Virgin Mary, hidden under an arch where I recall that, luckily, Ethan stuck a camera and a mic), and he does, gnawing anxiously at his lip and swallowing strongly as he does so.

I immediately get up from my kneeling position behind Benji, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and walking out of the room with purpose in my every footfall. I need a pen and some paper. I need to write down what they say. Unlike some agents, I don’t have a completely photographic memory. “Does anyone have paper?” I call through the apartment, bare feet struck icy cold against the hardwood floor. “And a pen? I need a pen.” I peer into the other bedroom (where Ethan and Almada are staring at the ceiling and having a mindless conversation about whether water is the best beverage there is (Ethan is completely for it; so am I, to be honest), and repeat myself: “Can I have a pen and paper?” Ethan, still lying down, tips his head backwards on the mattress and, as soon as he sees me, springs up to sit instead – he asks me if everything’s alright. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” I tell him. “We found the bomb guys at the Basilica, and I just want to write down the details of their conversation.”

I must’ve over-simplified – both of them give me snarky, little, scrunched-up faces. I’m about to apologise, thinking that they’re genuinely upset with me, but they only get up from the bed, grinning and rolling their eyes and shaking their heads fondly; Almada finds me some paper, and Ethan hands me a pen. The latter has his green eyes twinkling like the stars in the night sky. He even reaches his hand out to wrap around the crook of my arm, most likely just in good fun—but, as soon as I turn around and his hold is at its firmest, he remembers himself (and so do I) and lets go promptly, mumbling a little apology before flashing me that smile. I watch as he walks away and continues that smile over his shoulder, then watching (just as intently) as he disappears into the room that Benji’s in. I unconsciously brush my fingers over the hot stretch of skin where he touched me. That’s interesting. That’s odd. I—I don’t think I liked that. I stand there, running my knuckles over my arm, until Almada comes up behind me and hands me a wad of paper (from where, I don’t know). I follow him into the room, hands clutching at the paper.

Ethan has a hand on his thigh and the other placed on the ledge of the headboard as he crouches down, smiling to himself while he listens to the dialogue of those terrorists. I climb back onto the bed and resume my former position behind Benji, this time making space for Almada as well – he slides into my left, eyes trained on the screen, so I’m forced a little to the centre. I tell Almada to shove off when he gets a bit too close for comfort, wanting enough room so that I have optimal view of the computer. Benji increases the volume until it’s up all the way.

“Otto del mattino? Sei sicuro?” The man in the janitor’s uniform asks the terrorist in the brown suit. The audio scraggles through the speaker, echoing his discreet whispers into clear eternity due to the large, large space of the cathedral.

I watch as she brushes her light hair out of her eyes and behind her ear, cursing under her breath at his carelessness, “Potresti essere più forte?” The janitor (well, “janitor”) seems to shrink at her tone, looking at the floor and almost cowering away when she glares deathly at him. She continues once she’s satisfied that he’s been put in his place, sighing, “I turisti si riverseranno in quel momento e hai sentito cosa ha detto Vincenzo. Devono essere le otto.”

I furrow my eyebrows, clicking the pen open and scrawling that name down on paper. Ethan leans in closer to me and offers to translate, but I only glare at him before noting down that the attack is happening at eight o’ clock in the morning – I’m fluent in Italian, for fuck’s sake. Can’t he take a hint?

The woman groans exasperatedly when the janitor-man doesn’t give any reaction. “Sandrino, smettila di preoccuparti. Fai come ti viene detto e non ti fai male.” That’s not the most comforting thing to say in that situation, but, then again, I’m sure that I’ve said worse.

“Dove lo vuoi, allora?” The man dressed as security says, referring to the black bag at his feet. “E a che ora arriva la squadra d’assalto? Non voglio intralciarli.”

My heart nearly stops for good.

My face drops.

The woman in the suit replies sharply, “E non mi interessa dov'è la bomba – assicurati solo che esploda esattamente alle otto.” How can she tell him that with such an expressionless face? The fact that she’s able to inspires a heavy sadness that sits at the base of my heart. How is she this brainwashed? And when I look to both my sides, at Ethan and Almada, I can tell that my reaction is justified – the first has his face twisted into a painfully questioning look, and the other is frowning like it’s his job. Benji turns his head away for a second, pushing his glasses up his nose, and then he resumes his watch.

A mass shooting? How brutal.

But that’s what we’re working with. I can’t afford to have a conscious right now. And besides, this isn’t the first slaughter that I’ll have seen—but, God, I really don’t want to see it happen again. I vividly remember the feeling of helplessness that held my limbs down, down, and the flash of coursing red that darted across my vision when the crowd of people collapsed to the ground, dead. But that won’t happen again – I have enough experience to know what to do this time. And I have the others to catch me if I fall through, this time.

Fuck, I wish I were dead. If I were dead, I wouldn’t have to think about all of this shit. I could just sleep. I want to go to sleep.

The woman exits the sight of the camera, and the others secure and connect the bomb behind the main altar of the Basilica, directly underneath the impressive, gold-like organ that dominates the wall back there.

“Right,” Benji says, clicking off of the surveillance tab.

We all take a good few seconds to process everything.

I clear my throat and ready myself to talk (clearly, nobody else is going to). “We have to speed everything up,” I say – my voice is gritty, so I clear my throat before I resume. “We need to get everything ready by five, I say. The cathedral opens at seven, so we need to be out of the apartment at least an hour before that – preferably half past five.”

“Nobody goes to sleep tonight,” Ethan adds, straightening himself up and dragging his hands over his face in frustration. There are dark circles underneath his eyes, and his face is a sallow, grey colour – in short, he looks like shit. My stomach feels queasy at the thought of us being too exhausted when eight o’ clock comes – what if we fuck up? What if a hundred people end up dying just because we didn’t get a good night’s sleep? I don’t want to be racing in between wilted, struck bodies of children when in pursuit of the perpetrators. I don’t want to see the bloody holes in their heads, stomachs, chests. I don’t want to see their glazed-over eyes. The thought of it makes me want to cry. God, we’re only four people. There are going to be so many shooters, and we’re only four people. If only Miller hadn’t died. None of this would have happened in the first place. And now, I’ll have to see her in every dead individual in that cathedral, images of God watching on from behind me, forever trapped in the stained-glass windows. I push away the nausea and an approaching migraine, trying my best to listen to what Ethan has to say. “We need to be dressed and packed by five—” he looks pointedly at me, ‘’—like you said. Remember, we’ll be walking through a field. Please, don’t complain – I won’t be able to handle any complaints.” At first, it seems targeted at Almada (he’s the child of the group), but I know that he really means me. I make a vow to myself to keep it all inside from now on – he sounds like he’s about to break, and I feel sorry for him.

The night is passing far too quickly. I run Almada through the plan after he admits to me that he can’t think straight and wouldn’t be able to remember it for the life of him. “So, I have to take care of an entire group?”

“Yes,” I reply plainly.

“But that’ll be, like, fifty people.”

“Uh-huh.” I drag my eyes away from his face as I unpack the bag of clothes (and a few rucksacks, it seems under further inspection) that’s been set on the floor by the couch, telling him absent-mindedly, “Look, how many times do I have to tell you?” I instantly regret my harsh implications, and soften my voice as I continue, “The tourists will greatly outnumber the terrorists, right? So, if we split the tourists up into sections and take responsibility for one each, they’ll be easier to protect and order around. You need to disarm all of the guards – better yet, eliminate them – and evacuate your designated group. Then, and only then, you can head back inside and give a hand to anyone who needs it.” I dart my eyes up at him, asking, “Got it?”

He nods.

“Good.” And I shove the empty, rustling backpacks into his arms and tell him to go put them in our room.

At one o’ clock, there’s time to kill, surprisingly. Benji’s sorting out all of our tech in his room, on his bed, and he shooed me away when I offered to help him (“I can do this just fine on my own,” he’d said to me in a sagging voice, stretching his mouth into a tight smile as he waved me out of the room).

So, I sit and watch Ethan reading with his head low. He cradles the side of his face gently in his right hand, supported upon the wide, green limb of the armchair, as his left flicks through the thick, granulated pages of some book that he found and bought at the market back in Kranj. I try to catch a glimpse of the scrawling, black words (in English, I’m surprised to find – how did he manage to find a book from a Slovene market in English?) that he runs his light fingers upon, and I piece together a girl with fiery hair and an old man with an aversion to talking, both riding along in his buggy through nineteenth-century Canada. I love that book, I think to myself as I recline back in the armchair of my own, legs stretching out to cross at the ankles. I used to read it all the time when I was younger. And judging by the soft, whimsical look that dawns upon Ethan’s pretty face (the one that’s been dragged down for too long by stress and paranoia), he used to read it all the time as well. I find myself smiling when he chuckles at something said in the book, and I swallow it all back when he runs his hand through his newly cut hair. I touched that hair only a few days ago – did I tell you about it? It was back when we were in Kranj, about a week ago – he asked me to give him a haircut, and he sat himself in the bathtub after locking the door and making sure that I had a pair of good scissors; and for one part, I was kneeling right behind him, thighs wrapped around his hips, and running my hands through that soft, brown hair of his. I liked his longer hair, actually, but he said that it was getting in his eyes – I told him to keep his eyes down for the majority of it, mostly because I didn’t want him to see me struggling to breathe. But now, he seems completely unaffected while I can’t stop staring and staring and staring at him. And I guess that describes our relationship all together – it’s one-sided and delusional and barely a thing at all. What am I even doing? I don’t even want to stare at him. It’s just that I don’t have much else to do – that’s all. I get to my feet and leave him alone in the low lamplight of the living space, surrendering myself to the shadowy corridor as I walk to mine and Almada’s bedroom.

The kid is fast asleep in the bed, and the lights are off. I can’t blame him, of course – it is four in the morning. And I know that we all agreed to stay awake for the whole night, but Almada needs this; he hasn’t been himself for the past few days, becoming jumpy and easily startled and also barely sleeping like the rest of us – normally, he can sleep just like that, but, now, he needs someone by his side in order to fall asleep. I sit beside his slumbering form and quietly assemble our weapons, making sure that they’re all clean and have enough magazines each so that we won’t run out of bullets. I find it sort of therapeutic when I do these sorts of things, and it amuses me because I’ve got a lethal weapon in my hands, and I’m smiling down at it like it’s the greatest joy of my life. But the way that the wipe slides down the components that have become so familiar to me over the years, so much so that I’ve spent more time with them than my own family, calms me – it’s natural, like how the wind brushes through grass, like how the spring trickles into the rushing river, like it was written in stone, an age before I was born, that I’d end up here.

Once I’ve cleaned all of them, I stuff them into the according bags – there are four of them, all the same design, all in different colours – and move on to check that the equipment (for the disarmament of bombs) Benji packed into them is sufficient. And I don’t bother with stuffing silencers in there – they’d just take up too much space, and we’ll be in the heat of the moment anyway; this isn’t a stealth mission. We’re stopping a mass shooting – that’s the main priority. When I’m done, I just sit there for a little while longer. I don’t really know what to do with myself. It somehow still doesn’t feel real – any of it. I haven’t even really done anything with my life. I just remember reaching goal after goal after goal, and then feeling so empty when I had nothing else to do. Will it always be like this? Is this as good as it gets?

Five o’ clock advances like a prowling tiger, claws out-stretched and teeth bared. I give Almada a shake to wake him up, then leaving to go get changed in the bathroom. As the light hums and thrums about me, I lower myself onto the toilet seat and uncrumple the trousers and the fleece and the thermal shirt and the long socks that were purchased only hours before this. But first, I shrug myself into my thick, bulletproof vest – the IMF sizing comes in bulks, in chunks, so this particular vest is a little bit tight on me, digging into the skin in my armpits and pressing into my lower stomach. I put on layer after layer, tying my hair away from my eyes, and then take a short look in the mirror – I still look too much like myself. Actually, it doesn’t matter – no-one will be following us through that field, so why bother? Still, I try out a grin – I look quite a lot different when I smile. I spend a minute or so training myself how to do it with the corners of my mouth sharp and precise – normally, when I smile, it’s all rounded and soft. It’s a small detail to change, but it makes me feel more productive. I exit the bathroom, zipping my purple fleece all the way up and tilting my head up to the ceiling as to not get my skin caught up in the little, pink zip.

In the common area, everyone is dressed. I chuckle to myself – now that it’s been put into perspective, this is actually a really good cover; none of us suit this kind of civilian activity, not even a little bit, because Ethan looks uncomfortable in his own skin, Benji keeps fiddling with the zip of his jacket like he’s never seen one before, and Almada looks far too unhappy and dead in the face to pass as a normal person. But no-one’s going to see us anyways. If we leave before the sun’s up, the streets will be empty, and the roads around here will be quieter than inside a church – Italy’s like that; no-one properly wakes up before ten o’ clock.

“We’ll make an early start, then?” I ask everyone, and they nod back in response, too tired to even open their mouths. I get that fear tugging at my stomach once again – we better wake up properly before we get to the Basilica. Hell, I don’t feel as nervous as I should. There’s no adrenaline in my blood. There’s nothing. God, what if this doesn’t work? And the stakes are arguably higher than in Romania – innocent people could die. I like to think that I’m all cool and indifferent to those kinds of things, to people dying off, because people die every day anyway. But I’m not. I’m trusting you with this next piece of information, so just don’t go telling anybody else, okay? Well, a year before the Jäger mission, I was nearly suspended from the field due to almost failing my annual psychological assessment. For the larger part, it was because they found the scars on my thighs – until then, I was able to blame it on a previous mission, but the scratches intensified and deepened as my mental health worsened, so the assessor called me out on it. And my mental health was for shit because all of the trauma of killing and forgetting and killing and forgetting was finally catching up to me, haunting me at night and stalking me through the day. I’m not as tough as I pretend to be, really. The only reason that I managed to stay in because I was one of the best assassins that the IMF had, so I was put on a detail in France under the condition that I never let what happened happen again. And I worked myself out of hurting myself, I managed to up my body weight – the next assessment I had, I passed. And I also hardened myself further to all outside experiences, just to ensure that I wouldn’t relapse or have another episode where the voices and faces of my targets would run through my dreams – if you can’t tell, I additionally developed even worse insomnia.

Oh, I wish I were dead.

We secure our earpieces before leaving the apartment and stepping out into the cold and stone-washed, blue light that settles over the deserted street outside. My backpack sits nice and comforting against my spine, the handle of the handgun inside it pressing jaggedly into my back. But the air is lovely and fresh and sharp in my lungs as I take several deep breaths in, trying to shake myself up – I need to be more scared; I need to make myself think that things aren’t going to end well. I know that it will, of course (maybe), but I need to think that it won’t so that my motivation is greater, and my actions will therefore be quicker, more efficient, more precise. I want this to go well. Ah, good, it seems to be settling in, now – the panic. This has to go well. If not, I don’t know, I guess that I’ll die or something. Maybe the world ends. Maybe everything and everyone good about this world disappears and leaves the rest of us wandering the sad, depressed landscape of a physical, living hell. That sounds bad enough.

It only takes a few minutes for the muscles in my legs to scream and ache with fatigue – I blame it on my lack of sleep. Then again, I manage to act on a daily basis without sleep, so why am I failing myself only now? Again, it seems due to the lack of excitement in my body. I quicken my pace, I stretch my arms above my head and my legs out in front of me, clench and unclench my jaw, but nothing seems to help. I’m going to die if this doesn’t go well, I’m going to die if this doesn’t go well, I’m going to die if this doesn’t go well – I repeat that in my head as well, but, again, nothing happens. Perhaps it’s just the texture of the pavement against my shoes; I find that the arches of my feet begin to strain after a while of walking on tarmac, on long, large, flat surfaces that never let up and have no sympathy for the wicked. I take a quick look around at the others to see if I’m, indeed, the only one who’s showing any signs of fault and weakness. But I’m not exactly comforted by what I see in Ethan – he strays behind Benji (this is instantly a problem; Ethan Hunt is never less than at the forefront of every group, of every battle, of every line, in every sense), rubbing gingerly at the nape of his neck as his back hunches over painfully. That’s not good. Almada must be thinking the same thing – he saddles in close to Ethan, sets a hand on his back, and asks if he’s alright. Ethan nods and hastens his pace, but he keeps massaging his neck and shoulders with a kneading, cramped hand. That’s not good. And the thing is, Almada probably did it out of honest concern for Ethan’s health – what I’m concerned about what his ability will be like at eight o’ clock) – and he was brushed away like some nuisance of a fly. I feel for him, so I walk next to him for the rest of the journey, listening to him during his rant about how intensely he loves the architecture here, steadying him when he nearly falls right into the road that carves away into the countryside, and bracing myself behind him as he climbs over the fence-entrance and into the golden field beyond.

The golden field beyond. It’s full of rapeseed – I distinctly remember my mother telling me that it’s rapeseed that makes a field look like that. I have no fucking clue why it’s called rapeseed – it isn’t exactly the term with the best connotations, but it’s a plant, so. And I recall screwing my face up into a little grimace as I hung my head out of the window and followed the flowing, yellow brush of the rapeseed field, wondering how such a pretty sight could be related with such a gruesome and cruel and dehumanising act.

The grass and the flowers stroke lovingly against my calves, dancing across the fabric of my trousers with such astounding elegance and grace, and an angelic fog surrounds us in a pale and thin veil. I fall into step behind Almada, not wanting to let him trail behind like he inevitably would if I let him, taking the tail of the group – and, you know, if I were to be picked off by one of those ratty, little IMF agents, I don’t think that anyone would notice for a good twenty minutes; that’s how silent it is and how silent we are. The only sounds that muffle through the comfortable, tired air is the trudging of our steps and the twittering of awakening birds – the sky is lightening into a clear, strong blue. And once the fog clears up into a casual mist, there’s not even a cloud up there, only soft, lazy wisps of golden light that curl about our heads like some sort of ironic halos. I should allow myself to relax, I think to myself – it’s just us here for miles, no danger in sight. But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something waiting amongst that clump of tallgrass, eyes glinting red like a blaze.

About half an hour of trekking later, we have to haul ourselves over some other fence – the twigs and slim, rubbery branches of the encasing bushes prick through the thin material of my fleece, digging into the skin underneath; I lean into the pain until it becomes something stabbing and sharp, just to wake myself up a bit more – and emerge out of the brush onto the pavement of some road that leads right into town. And after a few winding, narrow paths, and shallow steps leading up, up, up, the Basilica is finally in sight, intricately detailed spire spindling high up into the hazy sky, laced with glittering mist that shines burning amber in the early sunlight. There’s little to nobody in the main square – there’s only an old man with thinning hair, a little bucket of birdfeed in his hand as the other scatters it out to a flock of cooing pigeons; and a couple of people setting up stalls and their produce upon cheap, plastic racks; and a small huddle of tourists, complete with their bulky cameras and patchy sunscreen and colourful, put-together clothes, drifting around the restaurants and souvenir shops while they wait for the cathedral to open. If only we could scream “bomb!” and help them to scurry back into their hotel rooms – of course, we can’t because we’d risk getting arrested under the suspicion of terrorism, and then be helpless in stopping the explosion and the mass shooting. So, instead of doing that, we sit on a cold, stone ledge in a row, and I squint up at the sun.

There’s time to waste. We have to wait until people start queuing in order to break in – that way, guards will be less of a threat because they’ll all be at the entrance of the building. Benji has a lockpicker in his bag, so we’ll be fine – there’s a rusted door down the side of an alley that we can enter through, Almada says. And while I’m worrying about all of this, Ethan’s getting up from his seat and crouching down beside a small, black cat with a soft face and soft ears and a soft tail – he runs his large hand over its little spine, smiling softly to myself as it lets out a quiet mew. I watch with a melted soul, feeling warm at the way the light shrouds Ethan and that cat in a way that feels so true, so perfect, like the scene was meant to be painted and framed in the greatest gallery in all of time. I think about coming down to stroke the cat as well, but I decide against it – I don’t want to scare either of them or potentially ruin the whole thing. So, I just observe as Ethan gently picks the cat up and brings it to sit in his lap – he adjusts himself upon the wall, uncaring of everything else, amidst the light and flushing breeze, smiling down at the cat. Almada grins, dimples carving pleasantly into his cheeks, and moves to cuff its ears with two fingers, chuckling brightly to himself when it bites back playfully at his fingertips with needle-like teeth.

I reach my hand up one of my sleeves and start to pinch lightly at the skin on my lower forearm, hoping that the stimulation will finally snap me out of this cursed daze and allow me to work to my full potential. I’m a good agent (or whatever the fuck I am), but I suppose that the IMF always offered me that extra push off of the edge, that luring reward of recognition and promotion at the end of the tunnel, that something that helped me to excel. You’d think that the stakes at hand would make me more eager, but all that it’s making me feel is tired and nihilistic. Don’t I deserve a single week without stress pulling at my heartstrings? Don’t I deserve to go to bed without insomnia fogging up my mind? I’m exhausted, for fuck’s sake, and I’m about a millimetre’s worth away from asking someone to smother me in my sleep.

Before I can elaborate further on the theory, Benji’s repeating my name softly, then telling me, “We’re doing a small comms check – we’re heading to the entrance point in exactly two minutes.” I switch my focus back over to the main doors of the cathedral, and, sure enough, there’s a queue forming along the winding, black-ribboned path, tourists getting their bags checked and their bodies scanned. I must’ve lost track of time again; I need to stop doing that. I subtly tap onto my earpiece, turning it on with a delicate beeping noise that caresses the rim of my ear.

Ethan mutters a little “check?” into all of our earpieces, and we reply in a hushed chorus of affirmations. If I close my eyes, I can imagine that Ethan and I are good friends spending a lazy Sunday afternoon together in my apartment, and he’s talking to me in that low voice about something that I don’t really care for but listen to intently because it’s him who’s speaking the words. Civilian life has become more and more appealing to me lately – it never used to; I guess I thought that I was sort of above them, knowing things that they didn’t and having skills that they didn’t. But all of those tourists are smiling. All of those tourists are with other people, whether it be family or friends or significant others. Then again, all of those tourists may or may not get slaughtered within the next hour or so – whether that does or doesn’t happen depends on us, depends on me. Someone has to do this job, don’t they? If it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been some other sorrowful creature who’d be in the exact same place as I am: No home, hating the system, and being powerless to do anything about it. But if I close my eyes, Ethan and I are good friends spending a lazy Sunday afternoon together in my apartment. We’re normal people. I’m smiling and with another person. I can sleep well at night. I eat on a regular basis. I have friends at work, and we go out for drinks on Friday nights at this bar down the block. I have parents who are alive and who love me. If I close my eyes, everything is nice.

Then, we get up and follow Almada’s lead to that rusted, green door that cowers into the crook of one of the Basilica’s arches. We lower ourselves down into the shallow dip upon the doorstep, crowding around the lock in order to allow Benji some privacy as he picks the heavy, hulking lock that slings itself and a large chain through the handles of the door. I look over my shoulders and check for any wandering guards – luckily, this door is down a thin alley, therefore seen as a second-hand priority; security will be more focused around the two major squares behind and in front of the building, especially this early in the day. After a few moments of muffled clinking and fidgeting, Benji tugs at the thick chain, sliding it off of the handles like some bothersome snake – the rest of us grab a length of it to ensure that it makes as little noise as possible, wrapping it loosely around Benji’s arm so that we can lay it in a pile on the cathedral’s floor inside. I creak open the door, wincing as it scrapes unpleasantly at the stone beneath it, and rush everyone inside, then following and closing the door behind me.

And the plan kicks in like we discussed, occurring swiftly and smoothly like a meticulously choreographed dance being performed at the grandest theatre in all of the world. We shed the outer layer of our clothing (for me, that’s my purple fleece – it’s the most identifiable part of my appearance) and lay them next to the chain on the ground; we set down our bags with a soft thud and unpack what we need, securing holsters and loading guns and stuffing the extra load or two into the dark utility belts around our waists. Benji, of course, has been declared the bomb handler with the rest of us as safety nets (Luther’s on the line already, standing by to provide information like last time; this bomb could be different from the last, and the wrong technique could have a fatal result). And the rest of us have the cathedral split up into thirds – the civilians in our corresponding sections will be the ones that we’re responsible for, no matter how large or small the group. Okay. Okay, the adrenaline is starting to flood in at last. This mission is no different to the other ones I’ve been on, I calm myself. I’ve done this a thousand times before.

The team is prepared and currently swallowing back any doubts or fears that they might be having, much like myself, so I decide to give them a few words of encouragement: “Remember not to get shot,” I tell them with a smile. And surprisingly, I get a grin out of all of them. “Time?”

“Ten to,” Almada replies, and the anxiety comes to cloud his face once again, pulling it down, down into a frown. He bounces on the balls of his feet, breathing shallowly and hurriedly – the pressure of a mass shooting must be getting to him; he doesn’t have to deal with it alone, at least. So, I catch his gaze and offer him a smile – that’s the best I can do right now; I couldn’t reach to touch him even if I wanted to, what with my hands gripping ever so tightly around my gun – and he holds my eyes anxiously as he tries to calm himself down. He asks, “Everything will be alright, won’t it?”

No-one moves, so I nod at him and say, “Just don’t leave your group until they’re at a safe distance.” I don’t want to make any promises to him because I, myself, am still unsure of what the outcome of all of this will be. What if I promise him that, yes, everything will be alright, and he dies, of all things, and I have one more funeral to attend to when I come home (if I come home)? The IMF will still be in the process of signing paperwork and transporting Miller’s body overseas and trying to find a way to break the news to her parents gently and convincingly – I’m sure there’ll be time to attend her funeral when I’m back. Or maybe it’ll go on without me, and I’ll be left with no closure and a brain full of bad, bad memories. I couldn’t bear to have Almada dead too, especially after swearing on his safety. So, I just stick with my answer and leave it at that, leading the others past the sturdy, stone pillars and the ominous, crusting grave-like platforms that order along the space of the basement. I don’t waste time contemplating on what this basement is actually used for, making up the cramped, spiralling staircase until we reach the neat, arching doorway that has a short and red velvet rope (held between two gold stumps) closing it off from the public – I nudge one of its posts away to the side with my foot, creating an easier entrance for the others, then slipping into the cathedral and lifting my head to look at the towering ceiling all the way up there; there are paintings of heavenly bodies and heavenly angels, and I know that I could just lose myself in them if I had been any other situation. I’ll have to go to a museum soon. If I don’t come out of this alive, I’ll just have to hope that my house in the clouds has paintings like these (bold of me to assume that I’m going up there instead of down under, I know).

Tourists are only just coming in. We’re a minute closer to eight o’ clock, now, so Benji rushes off to the location of the bomb – this time, we know where it is, at least – with his feet quick and his shoes squeaking quietly against the floor (and there’s a little child not three feet away from him that’s doing the same thing, squealing gleefully like a pig does as her parents chase after her exasperatedly). Ethan immediately goes to his sector of the building, not even bothering with a word of warning or good luck or farewell like I was expecting him to, placing his gun into the holster of his utility belt as he approaches his now-small crowd. But Almada doesn’t do that – he stays close to me, clenching his jaw and balling his fists; I have to urge him to leave me and go to his spot so that I can go to my own without having to worry about him. And once he’s gone, I set to work.

I feel sharp and efficient and bright and powerful when I move, and that usually isn’t the case, so I take hold of this feeling and store it in a little bottle for later, sliding my gun into its holster like Ethan did, and spreading my hands invitingly to the people in my third of the Basilica. What have we got here?—there are a few couples here, about three people I’d class as elderly, and the rest are a spattering of large families of four, of five. This is alright – this is a lot less people than the last—mass shooting that I witnessed years ago. The tourists all take notice of my radiating anxiety, turning to face me as I tell them in an accented voice, “Hello, my name is Odette Caliva and I’m special forces – I need you to—”

A spiteful punch straight to the gut.

I have no time at all to recover, diaphragm fluttering brutally as my attacker jerks out their leg with a kick into the exact same place, so firm that it sends me falling to the floor with my hands flailing about to cushion the blow. Shit, I can’t fucking breathe – I’m gasping like a fish out of water, rasping, torturous, dragging breaths that kill me slowly, slowly, but my lungs won’t work, stunned into a paralytic shock.

What the fuck?

I look up and see five armed men, soldier-like, in thick, black gear.

Oh, fuck, no. No, no, no, I’m not letting this happen. Come on, get up. Get up and fight, goddammit. The struggle makes my lungs scream and beg for oxygen, tears coming to glisten over my eyes when I realise that they don’t seem to be improving their state. Come on, come on. Please.

But sensation finds its way back into my body, and I lurch upwards with a deep inhale, taking advantage of the weak but present momentum, and latch my arms around the legs of the man closest to me, making his knees buckle from beneath him – he tumbles to the ground with an alarmed cry, and his knee jabs up painfully into my chin as he does so; it was inelegant and unpleasant, but it worked. And by now, my entire section of the room is backing away to the wall, edging towards the exit that is currently in the process of being closed. Oh, God, it’s being closed? I furrow my eyebrows and grunt angrily, reaching for the man’s gun, becoming ruthless in my actions as I put a bullet in his head, then taking care of another two shooters. There are children watching with wide eyes and open mouths, but I don’t fucking care. I can’t let anybody die here, so fuck them and fuck everything.

My arms become achy, sore and loose from holding such a heavy gun, so I drop it with a jarring clang to the floor and, instead, opt for the handgun from my holster.

Shrieks ring out through the air in a clashing, disharmonious melody from all corners of the cathedral – I block it out, only paying attention to cocking the gun and aiming it at the sternum of the next terrorist that I’ll kill; when the direction of my aim sweeps momentarily over my crowd, I receive furious and terrified screams. Too bad.

The fold of my arm bends inwards as one of the shooters lets go of his gun and throws a punch there instead – my grip falters, and he claims my wrist in a tight wrench of his black-gloved hand. I twist my knee up into his stomach and, when he doesn’t give me the reaction that I want, again into his groin – as he doubles over, I curl his grip over the arch of his back, placing the palm of my other hand flat below his elbow and jolting upwards. Cru-u-unch! I let my hands drop from the form that I’ve practiced a thousand times before, breathing heavily and allowing a moment’s rest. God, I love that move. It’s so easy, but it seems to work every single time.

I stretch my arms and yawn involuntarily, casting out any of the remaining elements of tiredness that may linger in my system after a difficult early morning. I pick up my gun, fully ready to kill the last two men with no mercy at all. I make sure that, this time, I have both of my hands clasped on my gun, arms tight and locked. I debate looking over my shoulder, both to check my surroundings and see how the others are getting on, but I decide against it.

It’s the wrong decision, I realise almost instantly afterwards, because there are shots being fired freely and randomly through the crisp air. Instinctively, I drop to one knee to avoid the bullets, but when they start violently penetrating and ricocheting off of the tiles around me, I’m smart enough to gather that I’m the one that’s being targeted. Before I can get to my feet and scurry off to aid my petrified civilians, there are thudding sounds behind me. When I look over, two of my people are already dead and sprawled on the floor as collateral damage.

I act on a whim and shoot the remaining hitmen, only to find that the shots are firing at me still – they weren’t shooting in the first place.

“Everybody,” I scream, “I need you to get out, understand me? Get out.” And because I’m the one holding the gun, they obey and flood towards the great, closed doors of the place. As I begin to try to figure out where the shooter is placed – they could be on one of the higher levels, judging by the angle of the bullets’ direction – I put a finger into my ear and say directly, “Almada, I need you to free up the exit now. We need to get these people out of here.” I see him nod affirmatively and move to take out the guards positioned about there, then heaving open the door with help from a few of the frantic civilians from both mine and his crowds.

I hear Ethan groan sharply out in pain, the sound then followed by a high whine (there must’ve been a bullet flying past his ear, just a little bit too close for comfort). I look back over my shoulder, and I find that the door is still not open – it’s too heavy. More and more people are helping to pull at the doorknobs, gritting their teeth and fighting for their lives.

Exhaling cleanly, I dart my eyes over to the organ. “Benji—”

But then, I see her. Not the clad-in-black terrorists, but Vera Acharya trailing down the stairwell leading from the upper level, hair plaited out of her face and with a gun in hand. Of course, they’re here – we should’ve planned for this. Only now do I realise that the flurry of bullets being blasted at me have has stopped.

“Benji, what’s your status?” My voice is strained and pressing, twisting itself into some high-pitched thing that sounds so desperate and pathetic when the recipient lets me remain there on the line, waiting and waiting for an answer.

He answers, “Almost done. It’s a simple bomb, so I’m almost done.” And I would trust his answer fully had Luther’s instructions in the background been less sharp, less formal, less clipped. I narrow my eyes when I spot his head poke out from behind the wooden altar up at the front of the cathedral.

“Good,” I respond, frowning when Acharya follows the angle of my gaze and finds my Benji sitting there too. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. “Benji, get down and stay where you are.” And she begins to walk over there, cocking her gun and making sure to torment me just that little bit more with a cold curl of her lip into something between a grimace and a smirk. “She’s on your two o’ clock.”

“Who’s on his two o’ clock?” Ethan asks briskly; as I start off in a quick pace, I look over and see him ushering his crowd closer to the opening door (the progress is excruciating and small, but I can see a slit of white daylight appear in the gap between the great doors).

“Yeah,” Benji repeats pointedly, “who is on my two o’ clock?”

“The IMF,” I reply, increasing my footfalls into a run, heart stuttering dangerously as I see Acharya explodes into a sudden bolt, making for Benji who’s only trying to prevent a bomb from blowing all of us up. He can’t die – I’m sure that he’s one of the best of us; he isn’t meant to die like this. He’s supposed to die with his friends and family around him, old age biting at his soul after a long life lived well and to its fullest – right now, Benji’s only barely filled up his cup. He’s not going to die like this. So, I dart as quickly as I can with the aim of intercepting (by any means necessary) Acharya’s inevitable launch of merciless assault – only God knows what she’ll do for that reward. Oh, God – God, please, help me now. Don’t let Benji die. God, just let me die instead. If you’re up there and contemplating killing Benji off, don’t do it – let me die instead; I don’t care. I’ll even help you out, see? I can run faster; I can prepare myself to visit you (if you are, indeed, real, and up there); I can load my gun and get ready for what will either be my catharsis or the end of my life.

Acharya and I collide in a harsh flurry of blows – I disarm her, and she does the same, leaving us in a formal gun-to-gun position, eyes slitted. But I take action and sweep her legs from underneath her with a swift leg, darting backwards when she fires out in surprise as she stumbles to the ground. What I’m not prepared for is for her to lash out a foot at my knee, making it click into a position that I know from the get-go is all wrong and awkward and janky. And despite the fact that I have the higher ground currently, nothing is going to make me shoot at her – I’m not going to kill one of the IMF’s agents; we already have too much tension with them. But, of course, there’s no stopping Acharya – she has little to lose – so she reaches forward, grabbing my wrist, and uses my body weight to lift her up to her feet, simultaneously sending me crashing to the floor.

She points her gun at my face.

Oh, here we go. I don’t flinch at all. I don’t even look away – I want to at least be able to look death in the eyes if I’m going to go out this way. I should feel something, I know, but all that I can think about is how sorry I am that I won’t be able to protect Benji from getting shot if I, myself, am shot and—well, dead. But it’s a damn shame that Acharya will be the last person that I see before it all goes dark.

Her finger plays at the trigger.

I get ready to say goodbye.

And she removes her eyes from my face to look at something in front of her. My first guess is that she’s trying to preserve her rotting conscious by refusing one more face to haunt her mind at night. But her eyes are filled with panic, and, before I know it, she’s whipping her aim to whatever’s approaching her, extending her free hand down towards me. What does she mean for that reached-out hand to do? Is she trying to fool me into killing myself? It takes me a heartbeat to realise that she means for me to help her.

Because I choose survival, I grab onto her hand, then re-firming my hold on my gun and preparing myself to squeeze the trigger for the life of me – I can’t die now; Benji’s still vulnerable and out in the open. And there are four hitmen approaching us, cocking their automatics, and pointing them at the two of us. Oh, I see. Acharya is putting the objective of her mission above the pedestal of capturing the highest bounty of the moment. As she should, of course – that’s what any respectable, good-hearted person would do in this situation. Still, the bare minimum will never exclude the fact that she threatened to go after Benji when she knew (most likely) fully well that he was disarming a bomb that would hurt us all and very well kill us – if I come back to the IMF and am asked to work with her or any of these other agents on a mission, I’ll refuse it and refuse it more. I don’t suppose I’ll ever forgive any of them for all of this. But because I’m here, faced with four people who are about to shoot the living hell out of me, I meet eyes with Acharya and give her a small nod to confirm our temporary alliance.

I know that, right afterwards, we’ll be at each other’s throats again, but I’m not letting Benji or Almada or Ethan get killed – they can prevent the next five attacks or so without me, and I know that, but there’s no telling whether they’ll get out of here with their lives; when I dart my eyes over to that door, Almada is grappling with a terrorist, and Ethan is in the process of convincing an IMF agent (Marie Winston) to stop firing at him.

So, Acharya and I take care of the guards as swift as anything, keeping our wits and bullets about us. As she moves, I notice that she still has that rigid, ordered stiffness from how the IMF trains its agents – I remember being taught the exact blows that she’s currently using; when I was at the Academy, the IMF hadn’t yet introduced one-on-one combat sessions yet, so we were trained as a bulk. Luckily, as time went on, I was able to find my own footing in what I liked and what I didn’t – I have an advantage over her in that way, I suppose; it’s clear in the way that I take down my first perpetrator faster than she does, in the way I’m more confident in my technique than she is. As I jab my elbow into my hitman’s nose, sighing out in satisfaction at the gruesome cracking sound as it breaks, she holds one of hers in a headlock and lets me kick him square on his temple. We take our guns and shoot them all once in the skull to make sure that none of them will bother us anymore.

And then, just like that, we’re not an “us” any longer.

We stand there, chests heaving with effort, for a few more seconds. Then, she flings a fist out at my jaw, and I duck expertly and jab the hilt of my gun in between her ribs. Before I can redirect my aim forwards into her stomach, there are two hands dragging me away from Acharya. I spin around and kick whoever it is away with my foot, only to see that it’s another IMF agent, this time Timothy Thompson with his slightly crooked nose and military haircut. I groan internally, reeling at the responsibility of having to fend of two trained super-agents, and I elbow Acharya fiercely again in her stomach, just to wind her like she winded me, then turning to swing my fist at Thompson’s face – the latter hisses out in pain, but recovers quickly and, to my surprise, puts his gun into his holster and stretches out a bargaining hand in front of him; “I’m sorry,” he says, raising his voice above the chaos, “about her. The plan is to bring you in alive, of course.”

“We’re trying to stop a fucking terrorist attack, and you’re thinking about the bounty?” I cry out in disbelief – maybe these are just selfish people.

Acharya grabs my shoulder with both of her hands and driving her knee into my gut. I spin myself out of her grip and dodge a heavy swipe from Thompson – he then catches my wrist and pulls me into him, wrapping a tight arm around my upper body as he orders his partner, “Go for the one behind the altar.” Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me. My eyes widen and I yell out in frustration, throwing my head back into his face and stomping down as hard as I can on his foot, taking advantage of when he loosens his grip, sending a kick inbetween his legs and punching him sharply in the jugular like he deserves – he chokes out, falling to his knees in agony as I run off and wrap my hand firmly around Acharya’s dark plait, yanking her backwards and ignoring her pained cries as I do so.

“He’s defusing a bomb, you idiot,” I shout at her.

Ethan calls my name frightenedly through comms. That’s unlike him, I think to myself. “Assistance required,” he says, voice becoming more and more urgent, louder and louder as he continues, “now!”

I look over to the doors, over to where he is, and I see both him and Almada struggling to fight off the collecting guards who are on the brink of completing the job that they came here to do, trying desperately to compensate for what should be a four-person job as planned – Benji is preoccupied, and, although he’s now finished disarming the bomb (“Done!” He cries in pre-mature victory, and Luther lets out a guffawing laugh before saying farewell and logging off), he’s unable to exit his space due to a shooter sent to take him out, some bullets chipping the (gladly) thick, wooden altar, the others clinging and pinging off of the metal organ behind him; and when I begin to race over to where I’m needed most, fucking Acharya dives for one of my ankles, and I’m tugged to the floor, chin hitting the ground so unforgivingly that bitter tears spring to my eyes. My gun slides away from me, gliding slickly across the floor.

My knee is already throbbing with hurt, so, when I swivel around onto my back and see her pulling that same leg, I have to grit my teeth together in order not to scream when I kick out at her face and torso for her to let me go, hands shuffling myself away from her, body wriggling and writhing to make it difficult for her to get to me. With a particularly well-placed kick, electric-hot daggers of pain strike up my leg like lightning as I free myself from her and scramble to my feet, limping over to my gun as I coddle my weeping, swaying right leg. I reach for my gun and take out the guy that’s hassling Benji with two bullets, then gulping down my discomfort as I reload it with a fresh magazine.

And when I turn around to make for the doors, the tourists are all trying to exit at once through a slim gap in the doors. Almada is trying to tell them to slow down and open the door further, but they’re all driven frantic with fear.

My stomach drops, my heart thrums in my throat, and I try to hobble faster over there.

But this is a big cathedral.

So, I have a front seat to the play where everybody dies at the end.

I’m metres away when the hitmen start shooting at freewill at the pile of civilians. Not even Ethan is able to save all of them. And a few of them manage to escape outside – there must be external help to try and get that door open since it widens just that little bit more at the sound of the deafening salvo of shots.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck – I cock my gun and aim at one of the shooters, but then a blazing, intense pain rips through my abdomen and makes me stumble back slightly. I turn my head in the direction of its origin, over to my right, and see a terrorist standing there with his gun pointed at me. I shoot him before he can do anything. But then I realise that he’s already fired at me, and his bullet has torn right through part of my stomach – when I place my hand where it hurts and then pull it away, my palm is glistening with thick, crimson blood. That’s not good. Still, I raise my gun and help Ethan and Almada to take out the hitmen before every single one of those innocent people can drop dead to the floor.

And even though it only takes a collective few seconds to put a few bullets in their bodies, the onslaught doesn’t stop; there are a few terrorists positioned up on the higher level. The civilians are safe – the survivors, at least, have escaped through the thin gap. And that means that, fuck, the police will be here any minute, now, and that the bullets are for us and those IMF agents. And I’ve got a fucking bullet in my side – what the fuck am I supposed to do? I can’t get shot again, and I can’t let any of the others get shot either, so I ready my stance and point my gun at the first terrorist I see up there.

I manage to get him with one shot.

This seems to frighten the others – they move away from the open balcony space, most likely making for the stairs to come down onto our level and find proper cover there; I’ve made it clear that they’re in perfect sight to get themselves shot easily, and Almada further exaggerates this point when he fires a particularly well-aimed bullet and takes down another of the hitmen. I run over to him, making sure to check behind me in case the Acharya or Thompson has chosen to tail me (they’ve both vanished from sight, though), and then pull the young agent behind a bend in the arch, smiling and congratulating him on his shot; “You did great,” I whisper gently into his ear. I’m not sure why I whisper it, but it seems to make him soften and relax, all because of my soft and relaxing tone – I take note that this is the way to calm him down should I ever need to. But before he can open his mouth to give me a reply, a bullet nicks the side of the arch, and both Almada and I jump furiously backwards into the wall. Bullshit. You’d think that, after years and years of experience, I’d be fine with the piercing nature of a gunshot, but it would appear that I’m not; my body is struck with terror, and I have to rely on my training to let it melt away into the background so that I can work properly.

I glance my eyes around the place – I can see Ethan peeking out from behind the opposite arch, trying to get a good shot of the advancing fragment of what was a large hit squad. I frown because, well, he looks overwhelmed; he’s running out of bullets, he’s got this panicked look in his eyes, and he doesn’t even have Benji’s backup to aid him in his struggle. In fact, where is Benji? I can’t see him. As Almada darts his gun in and around the corner, I check in with Benji, asking him, “Where are you? I can’t see you.” A pause. “Benji?”

“Yeah, sorry,” his voice crawls into my ear, and I sigh heavily with relief. “I was just, um—God, I was just running, and I’m really fucking tired, and I’m being shot at, and it’s just not fun at all.” I ask him where he is again because he didn’t answer. “I’m on the other side of the room. I’m trying to get closer to you, but this twat won’t stop shooting at me!” I spot the person that he’s talking about.

I press my hand into my abdomen, trying my best to stop the warm, heavy stream of blood flowing from there. Is the room spinning? It wasn’t spinning a moment ago. I leave Almada to the hard work, panting quickly like an animal as I try not to whimper – I don’t want him knowing that I’m hurt. I don’t want anyone knowing that I’m hurt. Knowing the nature of my companions (which is of the kinder sort, I can’t deny), they’ll drop everything, including their own personal safety, to help me. They’re so goddamn annoying. God, I feel like I’m going to faint. I lean my forearm against the wall, feeling my legs begin to betray me in a plot to bring me to the ground. Just keep breathing. Oh, God. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. My arm shifts on the wall, and my entire body nearly rocks away – Almada grabs me before I buckle.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He asks me, shielding me from the violence over there by turning his back to it and using his free hand to peel my hand away from my soaked undershirt. His breath stutters when he sees the wound.

I hit his chest before he can say anything, hand slapping him there repeatedly until he closes that gaping mouth of his. “Get rid of those fuckers first. Then, we can talk, alright?” He doesn’t reply – I think it’s because he’s still too shaken by the sight of blood (it’s sort of funny, really). I roll my eyes and point my gun around the corner, shooting at the general location of the blurred, doubled visions of the terrorists. I think that I manage to get one or two of them – their indistinct, hazy, black shapes drop to the floor, so, you know, I must’ve done something right, at least.

But the group seems to be veering towards Ethan’s position. I blink hard, thinking that my eyes are perhaps deceiving me, only to find that they are – they are proceeding towards his location. It must be because he’s alone. I lock eyes with him, and he waves his gun in the air, eyes stretched wide open in alarm, to signal to me that he’s got no bullets left, no refills. I know what I have to do. “Cover me,” I instruct Almada, making sure that I have enough bullets for each of the men in their team.

“What?” He cries. “But you’re—you’re bleeding.”

“I bleed every month,” I reply with a grin. “It’s not a big deal.” He doesn’t seem to get the joke, so I drop it and roll my eyes – eh, I can laugh about it with myself later on. “Just cover me, will you? Stay here and make sure that I don’t die or anything.”

He gives in with a shallow nod, and I set off towards Ethan, keeping my limbs close to my body and my head ducked down so that my chin is tucked into my collarbone. Bullets fly past me and lodge themselves in the wall to my left, and I try my very hardest to ignore them as best as I can – right now, my only available tactics are to cover my ears and just hope that I don’t go deaf from the powerful clamour of those shots, and to keep running despite them; I have to pretend that death doesn’t exist. I stretch out my gun with both hands and manage to kill a guard, then flying directly into Ethan as he reaches forward to catch me and pull me into the tight nook with him. Straightaway, I take the advance and continue to fire at the rally of shooters who are now stranded in the middle. Benji took my dash to his gain, rushing over to reside with Almada, now able to work with the rest of us to complete the task. I hurriedly hand Ethan a magazine from my belt, and the neat, rhythmic clicking sound of him loading it into his gun eases me into a better state (not exactly comfortable, but it’s just nice to know that I have a friend). Still, I tell him to let me take the front – “Just rest a little,” I tell him. “You look like hell.”

This is going to work, I realise. We’re going to win this.

And when they all fall dead to the ground, I can almost forget all about the lifeless pile of civilians by the front door and, of course, law enforcement trying to force its way past the corpses.

I avert my gaze – if I don’t, I’ll fucking cry.

It’s awful silent after all that’s just gone down, isn’t it? It shouldn’t be this quiet. There should be more screaming, perhaps, or more shots or wails or barked orders or something of the sort. It’s just too—too still. I sink down to the floor, body feeling flaccid and limp and good for nothing. I set my gun down beside me and splay my legs out wide, wide, frowning slightly at nothing in particular. That’s before I remember that I have a hole in my side. I curl a hand around that side, my left, and swallow strongly.

Ethan sits down beside me, and he nudges me with his shoulder and says, “Some morning, huh?” His contact leaves the skin under there, under my shirt, warm and tingling. I loll my head backwards and tilt it away from him, not wanting him to see the roll of my eyes that I use to protect myself against the growing flush of heat on my neck.

I nod in response to his question, combining it with a small grunt for good measure—but, fuck, the pain blitzing through my abdomen breaks through into my voice. And because Ethan is Ethan, he notices immediately. He furrows his eyebrows, grimaces, and kindly moves my hand to the side. And he sees it. He sees all the blood. And I haven’t looked at it in great detail yet, really analysed it, but Ethan shifts into a kneeling position and bows his head down, and then tenderly keens my stomach forwards to him with a hand coiled around the small of my back, scoffing in either disgust or incredulity as he analyses the bullet hole.

“Oh, my God,” he enunciates. “You should’ve told me.” His voice is low and, I can tell, filled with annoyance. Well, what the hell was I supposed to do? Ethan’s fingers toy with the hem of my shirt, and he glimpses briefly up at me to ask for my permission. I nod, and he folds my shirt up a little, its material slick and sticky with blood. God, I think I'm going to faint.

I roll my eyes, explaining myself when, really, I shouldn’t have to, “If I’d told you, you wouldn’t’ve let me cover you, and you would’ve died.” Ethan seems to want to reply, opening up his mouth to say something, but then he chokes on his tongue and closes it again; he knows fully well that I’m correct. If I’d told him, he would’ve tried to protect me, and his exhaustion would’ve piled up and piled up some more until it all just—collapsed upon him.

And then, he sighs and tells me, “We have to go soon.” Right. The police are barging their way in – we only have a minute or so. “You should’ve told me.”

I take a look at the pile of bodies blocking the door.

And then I start to cry.

#ethan hunt #benji dunn #ilsa faust #luther stickell #mission impossible #mission impossible: rogue nation #impossible mission force #tom cruise #ethan hunt x reader #tom cruise x reader #mission impossible x reader #idk what else to put ffs #rebecca ferguson #ving rhames #simon pegg #woo ig #the world will be dead by tomorrow and i want you to come over

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hwangsies · 3 years

Text

just the two of us

pairing: idol!lee minho × idol!f reader

warnings: smut as in, masturbation (f), softdom!minho (?), choking, thigh riding, somewhat denied orgasm i guess lol, swearing and bad descriptions of dancing

wc: idk maybe 2k?

enjoy <3

"hi guys, im on my way to the jyp building right now" you speak into the vlogging camera.

"...where i'm meeting stray kids lee know sunbaenim to study a choreography for us to perform at the upcoming awardshow" you smile into the camera, holding a thumbs up as you try to conceal your nervousness.

You know that the vlog isnt going to be released until after the show so you dont have to worry about spoiling anything.

"I'll see you guys later" you wave into the camera before handing it back to your manager who lets you know that you'll be there in about 10 minutes.

The only thing you're worried about is meeting a certain very handsome main dancer you may or may not have been biasing since his debut, which was about six months before your group had theirs.

So naturally, when your group grew big with you as their maindancer, and the organizers of the awardshow suggested that you and minho get together for a collaboration stage, you freaked.

Once you pull up to the jyp building, you can make out dispatch paparazzi and roll your eyes.

Your manager just reminds you to ignore them before getting out and opening the door for you.

Quickly you grab your bag and pull your jackets hood over your head.

They start calling your name but you and your team are quick to be inside of the building.

The nice woman behind the front desk gives your manager acsess cards as you look around to see the young camera woman on your team is already pointing the vlog camera on you so you wave into the camera.

Outside you see a crowd of fans also waving and pointing their phones at you through the large glass windows so you also wave back at them; laughing when one of them sends you a flying kiss, so you send one back.

"lets go y/n" your manager speaks to you, and you nod, waving goodbye to the fans before disappearing from their eyes as you step into an elevator.

Inside the elevator you check yourself out in the large mirror, pulling back your hood and smoothing out your hair.

"how do i look?" You ask your manager at which she grins "you look good, relax"

You sigh and nod, clearing your throat as to avoid a voice crack later.

When the elevator doors open, you see the famous dance practice rooms, that are named after big musicians on each side of the hall.

The door to the Madonna room is open and your manager leads the way.

Once you walk in you see another camera pointed at you, minho is standing in the middle of the room.

He as well has a camera pointed at him, he smiles when you lock eyes and bows.

You bow back when he walks towards you; extending his hand, you shake it.

"I'm Minho, nice to meet you" he smiles, he looks even better in person you think.

He's wearing light makeup but you can see that his skin is smooth underneath and his eyes seem even bigger and spraklier in person.

"Y/n, hi, nice to meet you" you bow again, partly to hide your blushing face.

After a minute of somewhat awkward smalltalk you hand your jacket and bag to your manager and the choreographer positions the two of you.

You had already memorized your part of the dance from the video he sent you and minho (you're assuming), now you just had to practice it together.

He makes you stretch to warm up before starting the music to see how much the two of you know of the dance.

Everything goes smoothly and the choreographer praises the both of you.

"lets go ahead and try the lift, im assuming you didnt practice that yet?" He asks.

"no" minho shakes his head, you do as well.

"okay minho, you hold her here" he takes minhos hand and places it on your waist.

"and on the inner thigh so you can spin her better" he explains, your mind starts running though.

What if he feels your inner thigh fat, or even worse, what if you sweat excessively and he slips and drops you.

Your thoughts get disrupted when minho carefully wraps his arm around you to grap onto your thigh.

"is that okay?" He asks from behind you, the little hairs on your neck rising.

"yea" you nod.

"okay, on my count" the choreographer speaks up "one, two..three and up!"

You tense your body when you feel him lifting you, your arms raise on their own accord, legs stiffening to create an aesthetic sillouette.

"very nice" the choreographer claps after minho lets you back down.

"lets take a break" one of the jyp staff members announces.

"you were great" you feel minhos hand graze your arm, your head whips around.

"oh, thank you" you smile sheepishly "so were you" earning a grin from him.

"thanks" he nods, grabbing a bottle of water before giving you one as well.

"thanks" you say, opening it and taking a few sips.

He watches you for a second before doing the same.

"hey, you guys" a young jyp staff woman comes up to you "we're gonna do a little sit down q&a moment, to give the fans some more interaction alright?" she explains, leading you guys to sitdown on the large sofa in the back of the room.

She moves back behind the cameras "so we're gonna be really casual okay? Im gonna throw in some questions and you just answer them"

You and minho nod, looking at each other before looking back at her.

"okay, so have you ever met before?"

"uh- well" you look at minho, he nods, encouraging you to talk "we've seen eachother at music shows, when we were with our members but we never talked" you say.

Minho nods.

"What did you think when you heard of this collaboration?"

Minho starts "i was excited because i think y/n has great stage presence and is a very talented dancer, so i think i could learn a thing or two from her"

"oh, thank you" you huff, surpressing a giggle as you bow slightly.

"What about you, y/n?"

"Uhm- well i was a little scared to be honest because he's really talented himself" you look over at him, so see he's smiling onto the ground "but also because i've been a fan of his since skz debuted so..."

"really?"

After coming back to the dorm and your members pressing you for every detail of what it was like to meet him and dance with him, you hop straight in the shower.

The warm water prickles at your face before you turn around, letting it run down your back.

You cant stop thinking about the feeling of his hands on your body, they were so strong and warm.

Or the one part of the chorepgraphy where you grind back into him and feel his muscular thighs flexed against the back of your own.

Not to mention his pretty smile and plump rosy lips, you would bet everything that he's a phenomenal kisser.

Your hand is trailing down your body as you imagine it was his, gently running over your mound before dipping into your folds.

A whimper slips past your lips out of frustration, its been way to long since someone had his way with you.

The idol life doesnt always leave time for that, but you can imagine what it would be like if you let minho have his way with you.

Your fingers start rubbing cirlces into your clit as you imagine him being the one to do it to you; kissing down your neck with his plump lips before toying at your nipples with his tongue.

You feel the way your belly tightens when you tink about how he would talk dirty; you dont know what would turn you on more, him calling you a good girl or a filthy little slut.

Would he let you cum right now or drag it out so your could cum around his cock? Damn you bet he has a gorgeous cock, everything on that man has got to be perfect.

And the way his dancer hips would snap into you would definetly be the thing to push you over the edge.

Your head rolls back and you bite your lip as to not let out a sound when your orgasm finally hits.

Your legs quiver a little when you ride out your high.

It wasnt the most earthshattering orgasm you've ever experienced but it did its job in satisfying you a little.

Clean and dry again, you let yourself fall onto your bed, sighing before you climb underneath your sheets.

Grabbing your phone from your nighstand, you see a message from an unknown number pop up.

unknown number : hey y/n -received at 9:56 pm

unknown number : its minho :) -received at 9:57 pm

Your heart skips a beat when the second one pops up, slowly you slide the message and land in the chat.

Whats a cool way to say hi back? hey?....no

sup? oh hell no

hiii....definetly not.

you: hi :) -sent at 9:58 pm

Good one, y/n.

you: how did you get my number? -sent at 9:58 pm

minho : my manager pulled a few strings lol, how are u? -received at 10:00 pm

you : im fine, a little tired ,hbu? -sent at 10:00 pm

Shit, yea go ahed y/n be the driest texter in the world no biggie, its not like this is lee minho.

minho: aww practice was to hard? lol im feeling fine -received at 10:01 pm

minho: jkjk lol the real reason im texting you is to ask if you want to meet up again -received at 10:02

Excuse me?

minho: yk, to practice but without all the cameras and people -received at 10:02

Okay, y/n calm down, dont answer yet. Dont make him think you're desperate to meet him again even though you are.

you: yea, sure. when are you free? -sent at 10:05

Very chill, nice job.

minho: im actually off the day after tomorrow, hbu? -received at 10:06 pm

you: i can make that work in the evening -sent at 10:06 pm

And there goes not looking desperate.

minho: nice, meet me here around 6 then? -received at 10:08 pm

minho has shared a location

minho: its an old dance studio, i know the owner :) -recieved at 10:08 pm

you: alright, see you then :) -sent at 10:09 pm

minho: good night y/n :) -sent at 10:09 pm

Do you send a good night back?...no, that would be too much...right?

You sigh and drop your phone next to you on your bed, your fists rubbing at your eyes.

There is no way you'll be able to sleep the next two nights.

It has been getting warmer recently, so you are surprised when the weather turns its back on you and suddenly blows icy wind against your face.

And you thought you had chosen wisely when only putting on a hoodie over your shirt.

You check your phone to see that you arrived at minhos sent location, yet there is no dance studio in sight.

Shivering, you turn around to search for signs on doors when you hear the door behind you opening.

"hey, in here" minho grins when you stumble around.

You look up at the building and look down at him.

"hi" you smile, somewhaþ confusedly.

"come in" he holds the door open for you.

"this building looks like its gonna get torn down soon" you say, still shivering a little as you look at minho, who's only sporting grey sweatpants and a black tshirt.

"it is" minho nods, looking around "sadly, i love coming here" he adds before looking back at you.

"still cold?" he asks, approaching you before rubbing over your arms with his hands.

"ye-huh" you interrupt yourself, gulping harshly when his cologne creeps up your nose.

He grins "better?" You nod, forcing a smile "yea, thanks"

An hour later, you are deeply immersed in the dance when you stumble at the same spot again, for the nth time.

"fuck" you aggrevatedly run your hand through your hair, angry at yourself for not getting this turn down the way it should look.

"I'm sorry, im usually not this bad i j-"

"you're not bad y/n" minho giggles, shaking his head "its alright, sometimes a move just doesnt work at first"

You huff out some air "im just nervous" you shake your head "i've never done a stage like this and i dont want to disappoint people"

"its normal to be nervous" minho stops the music before coming up behind you "just dont let it overpower the fun part"

He moves some hair from your shoulder "plus its just the two of us right now, and you cant disappoint me" he smiles softly, heat rushing to your cheeks.

"try positioning your hips..." he places his hands on your hips before gently rotating them to the left "... more like this before turning" he explains ,eyes locking in the mirror.

For a second, the only thing you can hear is your own heartbeat as his hands move up a little and linger on the exposed skin of your waist.

"okay" you breathe "lets try it from the top"

"yea?"

"yea" you nod.

The music starts again and your body takes over for you, you kick and jump and turn.

Minho lifts you like its nothing and before you know it, you do the turn exactly like you're supposed to.

The music stops and your breathing fills the silence before the euphoria of getting every single step down perfectly reaches your brain.

You squeal excitedly and clap before falling into minhos arms.

He stiffens at your touch and you immediately let go "i- i'm sorry- i dont know why-"

Suddenly, he lounges forwards and presses his plush lips against yours.

It takes you a second to register whats happening, but when his hands encase your waist, you sling your arms around his neck to pull him even closer.

An approving moan tears from minhos throat before he backs you up untill you feel the cold mirror pressed against your back.

You part your lips and let his tongue roll against yours , his hands roaming over your body.

Everything his happening so fast you cant track where they're going, first they're at your ass then one of them squeezes at your boob; and now it trails up your neck and wraps itself around it as he kisses down the other side.

You feel like your nerve endings are on fire everywhere his hands and lips wander, your eyes fluttering shut as you moan out his name.

He nips at your collarbone before coming back to your lips "i've wanted to do this since the second i saw you" his hand around your neck tightens protectively and you feel yourself clench.

"me too" you whisper before he crashes his lips to yours again, your hand tightening in his thick brown hair as the other clings to his shoulder.

A firm thigh lodges itself between your legs and you feel brave so you roll your hips into it. The ache thats building up in your clit, getting released a little.

Shamelessly you whimper against his lips.

He sucks your bottom lip inbetween his before breaking the kiss again, looking down at your ministrations.

"dirty girl" he grins, releasing your neck and placing both hands on your hips and helping you grind against his thigh.

Your head falls back against the mirror when the fabric of your cotton thong gets rubbed against your clit in just the right way. An almost pornographic moan leaves your lips, "fuck" you whine, locking eyes with minho again.

"god i wanna do so many bad things to you" he grunts, at which you swear you gushed a little more into your panties.

You see his cock straining through the flattering grey sweat material, your hand wandering towards it but he catches it.

"cum on my thigh and you'll get it" he promises, grinning when another high pitched moan spills from your pretty lips.

A sudden loud ringing makes you flinch, and minhos head whips around before removing himself from you.

"wha-?" you mumble confusedly.

He takes his phone and answers the incoming call.

"Hi, hyung" he speaks, turning around "i went for a run, yea-sorry...yea okay...okay bye" he hangs up.

"Who-?" you attempt to speak but your mind is still fuzzy as he throws his backpack over his shoulder and grabs his sweater before coming back to you.

"My manager" he says, taking your hand "i have to go"

"Oh-"

"I'm sorry" he kisses your lips "you want me to take you to your dorm?"

"No- no i dont want you to get in trouble" you shake your head.

"Sure?" He tilts his head.

"Yea, of course, im good" you nod, a smile tugging at your lips because he looks really cute with his messed up hair and puffy lips.

"Here" he gives you his sweater "im sure its colder now"

"you'll get cold though" you hold it up.

"nah, i'm hot blooded" he quips, leaning down to lock lips again.

More lingering this time, you feel you stomach churn with butterflies when he moves to your cheek.

"i'm not finished with you" he whispers into your ear, winking before walking out the door.

a/n: ik im supposed to be writing zephyr but this popped in my head and wrote itself so easily i was like👁👄👁 anyways hope u liked it🥰 not proofread so i just know there are thousands of spelling errors in there😍😍

#skz #stray kids smut #skz smut #skz hard hours #stray kids #lee minho smut #lee know smut #skz minho smut #skz minho #minho smut #idk more tags lol

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quokkacore · 3 years

Text

can you dig it? (m) [kim doyoung & kim jungwoo]

summary: post concert highs can be a real bummer, and tonight, after a particularly intense performance, your boyfriends help you come down.

pairing: kim doyoung x kim jungwoo x fem!reader

genre: poly!au, 70s!au, band!au, smut, fluff

warnings: drug usage (weed specifically), mentions of other substances (lsd and cocaine), shotgunning, established poly relationship, soft dom jungwoo, mentioned switch jungwoo, hard dom doyoung, sub reader, high sex, sex on a water bed!!, unprotected sex, spit kink, they're all so sweaty help, mxm, degradation kink, praise kink, orgasm denial, overstimulation, minor possessiveness

song recs: don’t stop - fleetwood mac // unlock it (feat. kim petras & jay park) - charli xcx // love her madly - the doors // ziggy stardust - david bowie // rhiannon - fleetwood mac // eclipse - kim lip (loona) // flick of the wrist - queen

word count: 5.4k

a/n: this is for my best friend, who i love with all my heart,bc last month we were talking abt the dowoo photoshoot and she said smth about high sex with dowoo. happy birthday queen <3 thank u for listening to me complain abt writing all the time :’)

masterlist

Friday, July 22rd, 1977

The concert hall smelled like cocaine and sweat, you noted to yourself as the three of you joined hands to bow. Cheers from the crowd bounced off of the walls as you bid them your final goodbye, wishing them a good night and telling them to drive safe. Still, their chanting persisted. "Seoul Motel! Seoul Motel! Seoul Motel!"

You wondered vaguely if this was what it was like to be a young god.

The curtain lowered, and the three of you were ushered offstage, to take some pictures and then head back to the hotel, to try and get some rest before you were off to Philadelphia, some five or so hours from where you were now: Boston.

Truthfully, everything passed in a blur. It was almost always like this after these concerts. The thrill and euphoria of performing made it difficult to focus on things. That might have also been because Jungwoo had passed you a joint before the concert. You couldn't be completely sure.

Your tambourine and guitar seemingly disappeared, but you knew it would show up tomorrow for soundcheck when you got to the Philadelphia venue, right along with Jungwoo's bass guitar and Doyoung's drum kit.

What you did know was that here, in the car back to the hotel that your manager was driving, lecturing you and Jungwoo about the importance of being sober when talking to reporters, Doyoung had a hand on your thigh, and that was all you could focus on.

Doyoung was high too. You knew this because ten minutes before you were needed on stage he pulled you forward by the hips and told you to take a few hits from the hand rolled joint and blow the smoke into his mouth. Of course, he wasn't as high as you and Jungwoo were, and he knew how to hide it better. But if you were to get close enough you'd notice the redness rimming his eyes, the dilation of his pupils.

The three of you were something, that was for sure. You had been, probably ever since Jungwoo joined the band, some eight years ago, in the fall of '69. You only really defined what you were once you got your first big hit thanks to some disc jockey in LA playing a song you had written, Calabasas, on the radio back in '73.

The song had blown up, and suddenly the three of you were whisked into a whirlwind of celebrities, drugs, paparazzi and producers who thought the three of you were born yesterday. Yes, you were college kids that ran on booze and weed, but you weren’t complete morons. That was when the three of you sat down to properly discuss boundaries, what slid and what didn’t.

You and your boys decided that night that weren’t down with the idea of everyone knowing. Too many prying eyes. The public didn’t really know, because the press would have a damn field day.

Other than that, it was a pretty open secret. In the industry, who was going around with who didn’t really matter—a lot of them were too off their face to even care. You realized that a few years back when David Bowie walked in on you watching Jungwoo and Doyoung get it on in a bathroom at some afterparty in New York City, and closed the door muttering something about how strong the edibles were.

So, what your manager said fell on deaf ears. Too much weed, too much adrenaline, too much energy for someone who needed to head back onto the road in a few hours.

When you finally got back to the hotel, Jungwoo grabbed your hand in the elevator on the way up to your rooms, which were right next to each other. "You said that your bed was really big… can we come up?"

You nodded, leaning against his arm. Doyoung hummed affectionately at the sight, noting how tired you both were.

"You two are about five seconds from passing out," Doyoung mumbled, and you waved your hand in denial.

"Are not," you protested like a child.

"Y/N, don't be a chump. I'm pretty sure if Woo weren't next to you, you'd have fallen over."

You didn't have the energy to counter, and as the elevator slid open, you were the first one to march out, ready to just take a cold shower and die for the next few hours.

Realistically, you knew that wasn't what would happen. What would happen was that you would shower, get into bed and then toss and turn for another hour or so. Only then would the adrenaline truly wear off. The weed didn't help, making you feel sleepy.

You unlocked the door, and Doyoung and Jungwoo gawked at the sight—and size—of your bed. It could probably fit all three of you easily.

Since only one room would spark rumors, the manager usually booked two: one for Doyoung and Jungwoo and one for you. Your room always went unused. Usually, you would have to push Doyoung's and Jungwoo's beds together to make enough room, leaving an awkward and uncomfortable dip for the person in the middle. Whoever got the middle was handed the terrible double edged sword: cuddles galore, but a sore back in the morning.

Immediately Jungwoo jumped onto the bed, gasping and immediately laughed gleefully as the bed sloshed underneath him.

"A water bed!?" He exclaimed, splaying out his limbs. "Oh, far out. You really lucked out, dollface."

He kicked off his shoes and curled up in the middle, eyes fluttering shut. You followed, sitting at the side as you peeled off your white leather go-go boots. Throwing yourself down next to him, you sighed at the sensation of waves beneath you, and nodded. "Oh, this is ace," You murmured, "Feels great."

Peeling one eye open as Jungwoo wrapped his arm around you, your gaze landed on Doyoung, who was still leaning against the wall. You beckoned him over with a hand. "C'mere, princey."

He made sure that the air conditioner was working before sitting down on the other side of Jungwoo, for which you were grateful. The still drying sweat on the back of your neck and on your chest started to cool instantly. You and Jungwoo giggled as Doyoung’s weight sent waves rippling beneath you.

"So, are you guys gonna sleep or what?" Doyoung asked, kicking his shoes off as well and peeling off his denim jacket. His eyes were still wide open and he didn't look tired at all. "I'm probably staying up a little later, I have some ideas for some lyrics I want to get down—"

"I would love to sleep. But I can't," Jungwoo declared before glancing knowingly at the both of you, "and neither can either of you."

You hummed in agreement. "Hmm, you're not wrong. Too much energy left."

You turned to bury your face into his chest. His forest green short-sleeved button up was only buttoned up halfway, easily revealing his collarbones. He smelled like pot, sweat, and designer cologne. His chest rumbled as he continued to speak.

"What about you, bunny boy? You can't tell me you don't still feel it."

"The weed or the concert jitters?" Doyoung's voice was raspy, cautious. He had a feeling he knew where this conversation was going. Once you and Jungwoo ganged up on him, it wouldn't take long to wear him down.

"Both," You and Jungwoo said in unison. You laughed at the sound. Doyoung chuckled as well, and you cracked your eyes open, despite how cozy you felt with Jungwoo stroking the skin of your nape.

"Well, the jitters are still there. That's why I'm staying up. As for the weed… well, yeah. I still feel it."

Jungwoo sighed. "How's the weed hitting you, though?"

"Honestly?" Doyoung's eyes met yours, and you felt something simmer in your chest. He huffed, deciding to take a bite of the apple, and leaned towards the both of you.

"The weed, plus watching you two perform… Safe to say I'm pretty fuckin' horny right now."

You bit your lip, giving him a sleepy grin. "Oh, Woo, we turned him on." The teasing tone wasn't missed despite the sleepiness in your tone.

"And what about it?" Doyoung asked, leaning back on his hands. "You can't say that watching Jungwoo do the thing doesn't get you going."

"I have a thing?"

"We all have a thing, Woo. Princey's over there is at the end of Mr. Jones' Motorcycle. You know, when he finishes the solo? He always throws his head back, because there's sweat and hair in his eyes. You can see his neck and shit..."

Jungwoo blinked. "Shit, that is his thing… What's mine?"

You raised an eyebrow at Doyoung. "His is the thing where he gets so into it that he throws his head back and plays, and still manages to get every bass note right, right?"

Doyoung nodded with a satisfied hum. "Gets you going, right?"

You brought a hand up to Jungwoo's chest, slowly sliding it down his stomach. Your voice lowered to a raspy murmur, and Jungwoo's hand tightened around your waist. "Damn right it does."

"And plus, you both have told me that watching me put together the drum kit is hot."

"'Cause it is!" Again you laughed as Jungwoo said the same thing you did.

"Jungwoo." Doyoung's voice sounded thicker. "You can't tell me that Y/N isn't an absolute vixen on stage."

"You're right," The younger man answered, voice gruff. His hand slid down, gripping your butt and giving it a light squeeze, before directing his words at you. "Oh! Y/N, your thing is when—you know how every time you play the transition from Calabasas to Saturn’s Rings you sway your hips and flip your hair back and forth? Sometimes you’ll look at me or at Doyoung while you do, and you looked at me tonight. You're a little tease up there, dollface."

Your breath hitched at their words. “Oh, yeah?” You goaded, cuddling further into Jungwoo’s chest. You let a coy smile grace your face as your eyes fluttered shut. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Don’t be a brat,” Doyoung growled.

“No, Doie,” Jungwoo hummed. He suddenly sounded a lot more awake. “...What would you have her do about it?”

Your eyes fluttered open, swallowing despite the sudden dryness in your throat. Doyoung's pupils were still blown wide, but you were pretty sure it wasn't because of the weed. He licked his lips. "Princess, get on your knees."

Jungwoo prompted you up, pulling you up to stand at the side of the bed. Doyoung circled around the bed, before standing next to Jungwoo. Your gaze fluttered between your two boyfriends, one looking stern, the other looking like he was having the time of his life.

Quietly, you lowered yourself to kneel on the plush carpet, fingers gripping the silver fabric of your dress' skirt to hike it up, so that you wouldn't kneel on it. Your hands itched to reach for them but you knew you needed to ask for permission. "Can I touch you?"

Doyoung smiled, reaching for his belt. "There's our good girl," He said. Your mouth was already watering embarrassingly as you helped him undo his belt, pulling him out of his boxers. He was already half hard, and as you lifted your hand to spit in it, someone grabbed you gently by the rest. Jungwoo leaned over, turning your hand to reveal your palm to him. His eyes seemed to burn into yours as he let his spit fall into the palm of your hand. You felt your legs close, thighs trying to rub together at the sight.

"Go on," Jungwoo murmured, using a hand on your jaw to move your head. Your eyes fell on Doyoung's cock again, slowly getting harder and harder. Your hand wrapped around it, stroking slowly as you met his smoldering gaze. You stroked him until he was rock hard in your grip, and his breathing turned heavy. Again, you swallowed, and Doyoung noticed this time.

“What is it, princess? You want it in your mouth?”

“Yes, please,” You whispered, eyes wide. He chuckled breathily, head tipping back as you ran your thumb over the slit. His eyes met Jungwoo’s, who was palming himself through his pants.

“What do you think, baby?” He asked him.

“Don’t be mean, Doyoung,” Jungwoo said softly. “Look at her, she’s desperate. Isn’t that right, Y/N?”

You whined, nodding. The pair chuckled. Jungwoo grinned at the state you were already in. “Go ahead, dollface. Give it a kiss.”

Before Doyoung could say anything else, you took his dick into your mouth, and let out a soft moan at how heavy he felt, hot and pulsing. He let out a guttural groan of your name, a hand burying itself in your hair. His other hand gripped Jungwoo’s shirt, pulling him forward to meet in a tongue-filled kiss.

Slowly, Doyoung’s hips started rocking back and forth, grinding into your mouth. Your hands stroked what you couldn’t fit, as well as his balls. Your eyes fluttered shut, trying to relax so as to not gag on his length. But when he sped up, it became too much to avoid.

A tap on your shoulder, and Doyoung let you off of his cock. You turned your head to look up at a very flushed Jungwoo, who had pulled his dick out of his pants as well. The words, “Me too?” tumbled out of his swollen lips. And with that gentle, breathy tone, who were you to disobey?

You wrapped your lips around Jungwoo, who hissed at the sudden heat of your mouth. From there, something primal inside of you took control, wanting nothing more than to please—you took turns sucking them off and stroking them, the muffled sounds of their moaning spurring you on.

It was always like this—during sex, Doyoung was the meaner one, manhandling you and throwing degrading words in your face that made your stomach curl in sick pleasure. He was the one who could put you in your place when you became too bratty to handle. Jungwoo was gentler, but he was all too content to watch Doyoung toss you around. He would always swoop in after Doyoung took you apart, and piece you back together. He’d tell you how good you were, how good you made the both of them feel, and while he definitely didn’t treat you like fragile porcelain, he definitely didn’t leave as many bruises as Doyoung did.

And then, when they were both done, they’d shower you in kisses, and whisper in your ear how grateful they were to love you, and say some philosophical thing about eternal love and the cosmos that you’d always be too fucked out to comprehend, but that made your heart do a backflip regardless.

“Shit,” Jungwoo groaned, pulling away from Doyoung’s lips. “Y/N, I’m gonna cum.”

You pulled off of Doyoung to look up at Jungwoo. “In my—in my mouth, please, Woo.”

He nodded, licking his lips as his hands fisted themselves in your hair, gripping but not pulling as he allowed you to touch him the way you wanted. His hands gathered the loose strands into a makeshift ponytail, using it to guide your mouth up and down his hot cock. His hips bucked into your willing mouth, the sound of his hissing and his moaning getting louder and louder, until…

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, Y/N… Y/N!" He groaned, as he came into your mouth. His head tipped back, which gave Doyoung access to his neck, pressing sloppy kisses to the skin. This sight was worth the bitter taste that coated your tongue: one of your lovers in ecstasy while the other anchored him to the ground.

He left his dick in your mouth for a moment, before pulling out with a shaky breath. Doyoung pulled away, letting him breathe. As Jungwoo caught his breath, Doyoung pulled you up, and he sat on the bed, bringing you down with him to straddle his lap.

You turned your head to face Jungwoo, who smiled at you, coming closer to the both of you. One of his hands patted the top of your head. "That was wicked," He said.

Doyoung smiled softly, and gripped your chin to get you to face him. His sweet grin didn't disappear as his grip forced your mouth open. He groaned at the sight of your tongue coated in Jungwoo's semen.

"Gorgeous," He mumbled, eyes trained on your lips as it began to spill out.

"Kiss her," Jungwoo told him, "You know you want to."

So he did, his tongue almost immediately slipping past your lips to get a taste of Jungwoo for himself, swallowing it down greedily. Your hands came up to unbutton his black dress shirt, and his hands pushed up the skirt of your dress to get you to rock your hips against his. You gasped against his mouth at the feeling of only your soaked panties separating him and you, before pushing the shirt off of him.

He moved to lie you down on the bed. As he pulled away from you, you caught his tongue slipping out to lick at a dribble of Jungwoo's cum on his lips. To make matters even worse, the bed was rolling beneath you, making your head spin.

Jungwoo pulled his shirt off before he sat down behind you. Meanwhile, Doyoung moved down your body, parting your legs. He prompted you to sit up, resting your back against his chest. He pressed a kiss to your earlobe as Doyoung peeled your underwear off of you, biting his lip at the sight of your drooling pussy.

"You're absolutely drenched, princess. And all from sucking our cocks, huh?"

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut as Jungwoo's lips began kissing along your jaw. When you didn't say anything, Jungwoo pinched your sides gently. "Use your words, doll," He whispered. From behind you, his eyes met Doyoung's. "You're gonna keep being our good little girl, right?"

"Y-yes, Jungwoo." Your hand lifted itself to press against his cheek, a silent plea for more kisses. He smiled against your skin.

"Atta girl," He praised, "On your best behavior for us tonight, huh?"

"The little slut's just being good because she wants to get fucked, Woo. Don't get it twisted."

"Please, Doie," You pleaded at the mention of being fucked, "Need it."

The older man chuckled lowly, pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit.

"Told you."

His tongue pressed itself against your hole, and you immediately cried out. You would have immediately started grinding against Doyoung's face if it weren't for Jungwoo's hands on your hips, holding you down and keeping it still.

"I don't think you wanna do that," He murmured. His hands travelled underneath your skirt, gripping the silvery blue gossamer as he tried to lift it up. You did your best to keep your squirming at a minimum as you tried to help him get you out of it. Finally, the bell sleeves were pulled off, and you were left naked as the day you were born.

Jungwoo’s hands moved to your breasts, playing with them as he watched you whimper at the sensation of Doyoung’s mouth working at your folds. When he slipped his tongue inside, you keened, head falling against Jungwoo’s shoulder.

“You’re so pretty like this,” He whispered.

Your chest heaved, squirming up and down as he began to tug and pinch your nipples, calloused fingertips making you cry out.

Doyoung’s free hand gripped your thigh, and his fingers on the other hand slipped inside when he pulled his tongue out. Immediately, he plunged in two fingers, curling his fingers as he attempted to search for that one special spot.

"Ngh, Doie, faster, pleasepleaseplease." Your legs were trembling slightly now.

"So fucking slutty," Doyoung mumbled, chuckling wickedly, "And all I had to do was stick my fingers inside."

He complied with no protest, and the sensation of Doyoung stroking your walls and Jungwoo continuously pawing at your breasts caused a string of moans to come pouring out of your mouth. Jungwoo had been sucking a bruise into your clavicle, but leaned up to press his lips against yours.

"Don't want anyone hearing what's meant for Doie and I," He said, lips brushing yours.

The idea made you even needier, the double entendre making your head spin. Jungwoo didn't want anyone to hear you because if they did, rumors would spread. And on top of that? He didn't want anyone to hear. You were theirs. They were yours. This was a sacred ritual between bodies meant to be witnessed by only the three of you.

Your head felt like you were floating, even though your limbs felt like they were sinking into the watery mattress. A coil began to tighten in your stomach, and your soft whines, muffled by Jungwoo's plush lips, increased in pitch.

They both knew what this meant, because a second later, Doyoung removed his fingers from your core, and Jungwoo pulled away, his hands moving from your breasts to rest on Doyoung's atop your hips. You were left reeling and breathing heavily, that familiar sensation floating away.

When you looked down at Doyoung, you swallowed at the sight of his lips, chin and fingers, all glistening with your wetness.

He lifted himself up off the mattress, and proceeded to sandwich your chest in between his own chest and Jungwoo’s back. He gripped his dick, rubbing it against your folds, which were now even more soaked than before.

"Tell me how much you want it, princess." He pressed his forehead against yours, hissing when the tip caught your clit. You let out a desperate whine, clinging to his broad shoulders.

"Do—Doyoung, please fuck me," You begged, reeling at the sensation. He was so close, all he had to do was slide in. But he refused.

"Not good enough," He insisted.

"Doyoung, don't be mean," Jungwoo said, but he seemed to be more amused by your desperation than anything.

"No, I wanna hear how much she needs us."

You closed your eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to gather your words. Jungwoo's hands stroked your sides, trying to calm you down. "You doing alright, doll? You wanna take a breather?"

"We can always stop." Doyoung's voice had turned stable, secure, safe. He started pulling away, until you grabbed him by the forearm and shook your head. You opened your eyes, seeing concern in his eyes

“No,” You mumbled, “Jus’ want some water. Think there’s some in the minibar. ‘M really hot.”

Doyoung nodded, getting up and striding over to the small refrigerator on the other side of the room. He pulled out a water bottle, and popped open the cap before passing it to you. Jungwoo had taken to fanning your face lightly with his hand. You took several long swigs of water, before setting it on the nightstand.

“I’m fine,” You promised. “Can we please keep going? I can take it.”

Doyoung pressed a kiss to your temple. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yeah,” You said with a nod.

“Doyoung,” Jungwoo murmured, “Be careful.”

“I know, baby." He lowered his eyes to study your face. "I won’t go that hard on you, Y/N.”

You nodded, even though deep down you wanted to protest. You knew that this was probably the best route to take. You could already feel the high—from the weed and the concert—wearing off. You knew that if Doyoung were too rough you’d probably crash on the way down instead of float.

So, Jungwoo brushed some stray hair out of your sweaty face, and Doyoung grabbed your legs gently, wrapping them around his hips. Slowly, Doyoung eased in, and you sighed in satisfaction of finally being filled. He bit into your shoulder, taking deep heaving breaths as he let you get used to the sensation. Jungwoo took turns pressing kisses to the top of your head and the top of Doyoung’s head.

“I love you both so much,” He whispered, “I’m so grateful the universe brought us together.”

Doyoung looked up at him, pressing a kiss to his lips. “My baby,” He murmured against Jungwoo’s lips. He then turned to you and did the same, “My princess.”

You smiled at their words, but the need in your core was becoming unbearable. "Doie, Woo, I love you both so much," You murmured, "But Doyoung, if you don't move I'll pin you down and do it myself."

"And you were doing so well," Doyoung groaned with a laugh, before beginning to thrust his hips. It was a slow, torturous glide, and the way it caused the bed to rock left you dizzy in the best possible way. Doyoung was panting into your ear like some sort of beast, and you were whining softly with every cant of his hips.

"You must feel so good right now, huh, doll?"

"Jung—woo," You moaned, clawing at his bicep.

"I know, dolly, I know." He sounded sympathetic enough, but the way he was grinding his dick against your ass suggested otherwise. "Bunny boy is just so good with those hips of his, hm?"

"H-he is!" You cried, "Feel so full, ah, Doyoung!"

Doyoung's eyes met yours, and his hips picked up their pace, until your eyes rolled up into your head. Your head thrashed side to side, leaning against Jungwoo's shoulder. His mouth lowered once again to kiss at your neck, and your hand wrapped itself against his nape, while the other gripped Doyoung's shoulders.

Jungwoo's hands slithered down to where you and Doyoung were connected, and started rubbing at your clit. You shrieked, chest arching. Doyoung hissed. "Shit, do that again," He bit out, "Fuck, princess you just got so tight."

"D-Doie, harder!"

Doyoung looked up at Jungwoo, the two having an unspoken conversation. A second later, Jungwoo gave a cautious nod. Doyoung smiled, before he adjusted his legs. Then…

Then. He began pounding into you at a breakneck pace. Your legs tightened around him, wanting him even deeper than before.

"You love this, don't you? Our pretty little slut." His voice was tighter now, panting with exertion. You nodded.

"Yes, yes! I'm your slut!"

Doyoung grinned, before locking lips with you. His tongue dipped into your mouth, before letting you do the same to him. You could tell he was starting to feel something—he always kissed you or Jungwoo as a way of telling you he wouldn't last much longer.

Truthfully, you could feel it coming too—your body felt like it was on fire, and your hips couldn't stop squirming. Whether it was towards Jungwoo's calloused fingers on your clit, Doyoung's cock, or away from both, you couldn't tell. Your moans were getting shriller too.

You clenched down on his length again, and he grit his teeth, grunting as his pace turned sloppy.

"C-c'mon, princey," You pleaded, "Give it to me, give it…"

"Shit, yes…" His head lolled onto your shoulder. "Gonna stuff you so full, princess, you'll be dripping—"

"Please! Oh, please—"

The two of you fell apart almost at the same time, your orgasm triggering Doyoung's a second later. Your mouth fell open, legs trembling and heart pounding as waves crashed over and under you.

When you came down, Doyoung rolled off of you, turning onto his side to watch you and Jungwoo. Jungwoo, who ceased the movements of his hands and slowly laid you down. Your head landed against the pillows, and you let your eyes shut as you caught your breath.

"Can I take care of you one last time, doll?" You heard Jungwoo say. Your eyes opened blearily, and you reached a hand out towards him, legs parting of their own accord.

Both of your lovers groaned at the sight of your pussy, Doyoung's cum brimming from your folds.

"Absolute perfection," Jungwoo murmured, crawling between your legs. He gripped his dick with one hand, the other swiping through your folds, and you immediately whined at the sensitivity there, teetering the fine line between pleasure and pain.

"Please," You whimpered, "Woo, I want it."

"You're insatiable." He sounded so affectionate, so in love. You watched as his eyes studied his index and middle fingers, covered in a mix of Doyoung's cum and yours, before dipping them into his mouth to lick them clean. You sighed, a dopey smile gracing your features. He lowered himself down to brush noses with you, dark eyes blown wide, wide awake despite the dark circles underneath.

"Guess I'll just have to do something about that."

He slid in as if he was coming home, immediately setting a solid pace that had you seeing stars, arms wrapping around his shoulders to lock hands at his nape. The sensitivity left you pliant in his arms, and Jungwoo didn't hesitate in cradling you in his arms.

"So good for us, Y/N. Always Doie and I's sweet girl."

You nodded, tears brimming at your eyes at the heaviness in your chest, the pulsing in your core. His hair was falling into his eyes, and you lifted your hands to his face, doing your best to brush it away. Your hands cupped his cheeks, heavy eyes burning into his. Your hips were rutting against his desperately now, wanting nothing more than to feel that high with him.

Jungwoo pressed a brief kiss to your neck, feeling something simmer in his gut embarrassingly fast.

Doyoung placed his head next to yours, gently lifting Jungwoo's head to kiss him, hand brushing the other man's ass. When he pulled away, he kissed you as well, and Jungwoo's mouth pressed itself to one of your nipples. You keened against Doyoung's mouth, hips losing all semblance of grace.

Here, you were needy, animalistic, running on instincts, and your boys were drinking it up like water from a desert oasis.

Doyoung pulled away, a thin trail of spit connecting his lips to yours. His hands cradled your head.

"Can you feel it yet, princess?"

Your eyebrows furrowed, silent moans falling from your lips. "Ah, yeah, Doie… s-so close…"

"Me too," Jungwoo groaned between your breasts, "So wet, Y/N…"

"That's from all the cum she's filled with, right, princess?"

You nodded. "Mm—ngh! Stuffed me so good, Doie."

"Yeah? You gonna let Jungwoo fill you up even more? Gonna keep it all inside, right?"

Your stomach did a backflip, and you felt your toes curl. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, I want it—"

"I'll give it to you, doll," Jungwoo growled, "It's all—fuck—all yours. S-same way this is all for us, right?"

Those words were what caused you to finally fall over the edge. Your high was so intense that you could have sworn that your ears popped—clawing at Jungwoo’s shoulders, your eyes squeezed shut. Only one side ended up scratched, since you always kept your right hand nails short to properly play guitar. You sobbed against Doyoung’s lips, and he eagerly swallowed up your cries, shushing you gently as you came back down.

You didn't feel Jungwoo come inside, but you felt it immediately afterwards—the satisfying stickiness, the warmth in your stomach.

You looked at Jungwoo, pressing a soft kiss to his sweaty forehead before prompting him to move off. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you towards him as his little spoon, peppering kisses to your cheek and whispering how good you were. The two of you looked at Doyoung. You reached out, making grabby hands at him. His eyes were drooping, and he was blinking blearily as if he were trying to fight off sleep.

Still, he got up and pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, as well as his lighter. As he sat back down on the bed, the waves sent you and Jungwoo further and further into the recesses of slumber. As consciousness left you, you caught Doyoung looking down at the two of you as if you were the most precious beings he'd ever encountered. His tone was low and grumbly, but there was a glint of smug satisfaction in his eye.

"I hope you two are happy. I can't remember those goddamn lyrics anymore."

#kwritersworldnet #nct smut #doyoung x reader #jungwoo x reader #doyoung smut #jungwoo smut #kpop smut #kpop au #nct scenarios #nct 127 smut #nct 127 x reader #nct x reader #nct fluff #my writing

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3rensgf · 3 years

Text

rent a gf - two eren yeager x reader

word count: 2.9k

warnings: mentions of sex, talks about "getting bitches", eren is an idiot, fuckboy!eren implied, tatbilb mention, uhh fluff idk theres not much to warn abt in here, not beta read

notes: chapter two is out! i'm really glad a lot of people are enjoying rent a gf. it really means a lot! i see some people commented on the previous chapter, and i would love to reply to them, but i'm not familiar with tumblrs commenting system D: if you wanna leave a comment for me to just read, that's fine you can still keep commenting here on tumblr. but if you would like me to reply to it, you can comment on ao3, and i will reply! happy reading :) p.s, waffles w whipped cream r so much better

[ read on ao3 ]

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In the early hours of Saturday morning, you felt a hand shaking your shoulder to wake you. Groaning and mumbling, you sleepily swatted the hand away and pulled the covers over your head. No one should be forced to wake up early on the weekends. It was Saturday, for fucks sake. Not to mention your hangover due to last nights mistakes was making your head throb.

The hand rested on your shoulder once more, shaking you gently. “(Y/N),” Mikasa said softly. “Your alarm has been going off for the past 10 minutes. Wake up. I have water and Advil.”

“Nooooo,” you moaned, snuggling deeper into your bed. “Don’ wanna.”

Mikasa stopped bothering you for a moment, and you let your guard down. Finally you could sleep. When it was time to wake up, you’d wake up.

Right as you were about to pass out again, your blanket was roughly tugged off of you. “Mikasaaa!” you whined, covering your face with your hands. “What was that for? I was trying to sleep.”

“Get up. You have to shower and get ready for lunch with Eren today. Breakfast is almost finished,” she explained, setting down the pills and water on your bedside table. “Go brush your teeth and wash your face so you can eat. Now,” she instructed sternly, moving to your window to open the curtains. The bright sunlight hit your still half-asleep face, making you hiss quietly.

She left the room moments after, probably to check up on breakfast. Honestly, you didn’t know how she could function this early in the morning despite having partied all night last night. Curse her and her inability to get hungover.

Grumbling to yourself, you adjusted your sleep clothes that had gotten disheveled overnight to make sure you looked decent. Your sleepy gaze wandered over to your nightstand to see two Advils on a napkin beside a glass of cold water. Thanking every higher power for sending Mikasa to you, you downed both pills and the glass of water. Even though you might bitch and moan to her constantly, you really weren’t lying when you said you’d die without Mikasa.

After sitting down at the edge of your bed for a few moments, you eventually shuffled into the bathroom to brush your teeth and do your morning routine. It took longer than usual thanks to your sluggish and tired movements, but you got done nevertheless.

A wonderful aroma came from the kitchen when you left, stomach grumbling in anticipation for the wonderful food you were about to scarf down. Mikasa was in the process of setting down both your breakfasts on the island, sitting down on the stools when you walked in. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” she greeted, resting her chin on her hands.

“Morning, sweet angel,” you replied, sitting at the stool beside her. In front of you was a plate of Funfetti pancakes with whipped cream instead of maple syrup (syrup was for pancakes only). There were a couple of cut up fruits beside them, too. “Where did you get these?” you asked, picking up your fork to take a bite of your breakfast.

Mikasa dug into her own breakfast of oatmeal as soon as you started eating. “Went grocery shopping and saw the mix in the baking aisle. I thought you’d like it,” she explained, taking a bite of her food. “Good?”

Your response was a moan, tilting your head back as you chewed. “Insanely,” you said, cutting up another bite. You stabbed the piece with your fork and guided it to Mikasa, keeping your hand under it to catch anything if it dropped.

She finished her bite and leaned in to take the bite, humming in satisfaction at the taste. “Good,” she nodded.

“They put like crack ‘n this shit,” you said through a full mouth, shoveling forkful after forkful into your mouth.

You could feel Mikasa's judging gaze for eating like a pig, but you didn’t care. All you cared about was eating these crack laced waffles as greedily as possible. “What time are you supposed to meet Eren today?” she asked to make conversation.

You remember drunkenly slurring to her that Eren was supposed to take you out for lunch today while she was trying to put you to bed. All she did was nod and dodge your flailing limbs while she tried to change you into your night clothes.

“Uhhh,” you trailed off, “I dunno actually. I think he’s gonna text me when.” The familiar notification from your phone indicated you had a text from Eren. “Right now.”

ren ᕙ(`▿´)ᕗ - 9:04 AM picking u up at 12 dont be late

you - 9:04 AM k

ren ᕙ(`▿´)ᕗ - 9:05 AM dont use k with me that makes me sad :(

you - 9:05 AM k

“He says 12,” you told Mikasa, setting your phone back down on the table. You went to go take another bite of your waffles, only to be met with stray bits of whipped cream and waffle crumbs. How disappointing.

“You have time to get ready then,” she said, finishing up the last bit of her own breakfast. Holding her plate, she got up to go put it in the sink, taking your plate for you as well. Literally an angel.

Suddenly, she leaned in to sniff you like the weird English professor you had your freshman year and cringed. “You’re gonna need all the time you can get. You stink.”

Never mind, not an angel.

Grumbling and cursing under your breath, you got off the stool to go take a shower. “And here I was about to offer to get you something for lunch while I was out.”

“A burger from the joint I like would be nice. So would a Coke and side of onion rings.”

“Size?”

“Medium for both.”

You would’ve caved in and bought her something, anyways. Might as well know what she wanted in the first place.

Showering took longer than expected. Most of your time got wasted by you standing under the shower stream and soaking in all the warmth. It wasn’t until Mikasa knocked on the door asking you not to use up all the hot water that made you actually start going through your routine.

The clock read 10:09 when you got out. You still had more time to kill until Eren came, so you elected to sit on your bed in your towel to scroll through social media. At 10:45, you started to get ready for real now.

Your makeup was just enough to cover any imperfections on your face, and your outfit cute enough for a lunch outing with your friend-fuckbuddy.

At 11:50, you stepped out into the living room with your belongings in hand to lounge around while you waited for Eren. You would’ve gone to bug Mikasa, but she had just stepped into the shower minutes prior.

12 on the dot, a rhythmic knocking was rapped on your door, meaning Eren was finally here. Skipping over to the door, you opened it to reveal him while slipping on your shoes.

“Hey,” he grinned when the door opened. He leaned in to give you a kiss on the lips after you’d straightened up from putting on your shoes.

A grin found its way on your lips during the kiss. It only lasted a couple of seconds, ending with you pulling away with a quiet smack. “Hi,” you greeted back.

“Ready to go?” he asked, one hand leaving his jacket pocket to jut his thumb down the hallway towards the elevators.

“Yup, ready,” you said. Over your shoulder, you yelled into the apartment to say goodbye to Mikasa and locking the door once you closed. “Okay, ready for real now.”

There was a new hot pot restaurant near campus, Eren told you, that he so desperately wanted to try. He overheard some people talking about the place in his Stats class, and he’s been wanting to go ever since.

“So, about what I told you last night,” he said, leaning on the table close to you after giving your orders to the waitress. “You said you would help me get Mina.”

“I said it was a bad idea,” you countered, taking a sip of your drink.

“But you said you would help me. For a price.”

“That I… did say,” you sighed. “What’s your plan?”

Smiling, he opened up his jacket and dug into the inner pockets, getting out a small notepad and a pen. Your eyebrows raised at the sight of them. “Okay,” he started, flipping through his notepad. “So I was thinking about it this morning, and this is what I have down so far.”

Sliding it towards you, he waited impatiently for you to read what he had.

Your lips pursed to prevent giggled from leaving your lips. Well, it was a plan, alright. Written in Eren’s chicken scratch of handwriting were a few very simple steps.

eren yaegers fool proof plan to get bitches get mina aka operation rent a gf by eren yaeger 1. talk to mina to get her interested in you ✓ 2. get hot girl ((Y/N)) to pretend to be your gf and show you can be a good bf 3. get mina jealous so she wants you even more and not poopy thomas wanker 4. “break up” with (Y/N) and pretend to be sad 5. get mina to comfort you 6. get bitches make mina your gf 7. pay (Y/N) for her services 8. ta-da!

When you looked up from the notepad, you saw Eren waiting for your answer. “Well? What do you think? Is it any good?” he asked.

“Were you high when you wrote this?” was the first thing you asked him. Eren shook his head innocently. “You’re 100% serious?” He nodded.

You bit your lip, deep in thought about Eren’s supposedly fool proof plan. “What makes you think it’s gonna work?”

“I know girls and how they act. If Paradis University let me major in women -- don’t get smart with me I don’t mean Women Studies -- I would be passing all my classes with flying colors. I know it’ll work, trust me,” he said cockily, leaning back in his chair.

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do. I know you. I know everything about you, (Y/N). I even know how to make you scream my name in--”

“Okay!” you cut him off, not wanting the strangers around you to know the intimate details of your sex life with Eren. “Okay.”

“I knew you were gonna do that. See, I do know women.”

A moment or two passed, both of you staring at each other. You with a deadpan expression, and him with a proud one. You were the first one to break the silence with a heavy sigh. “Okay, say I agree to this. What do I get in return?”

“Anything you want,” he said. “Within reason, of course. Please don’t ask me to like, hide a body or something.”

Ignoring his last comment, you continued speaking, “You’re not allowed to back out of whatever I ask you to, right? If this plan fails or succeeds, you still owe me whatever you promised.”

Eren nodded. “Of course. I swear on it.” He shifted a little so his elbow was on the table, holding out a pinky. Instinctively, you held out your pinky as well and intertwined the both of them. Pinky promises were something you and Eren had been doing for years now. It meant that the other was dead serious on their promise.

The waitress came back with your broth and dipping ingredients, setting them on the table for you right when your pinkes left each other. Thanking the waitress, the two of you talked some more while you waited for the broth to heat up.

“We should make it official. With a contract and set of rules,” he said. “Like that one movie you forced me to watch with you. The Boys I Loved or some shit like that.”

“To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before,” you corrected.

“Yeah, that. They’re kinda doing something like us, yeah?”

“Guess so,” you shrugged, picking up your chopsticks and a sice of pork belly when the broth started to boil. “After we eat though.”

Idle chatter was shared between the two of you as you ate. Even though you saw each other nearly every day, you never ran out of things to talk to. You could be talking about complete nonsense or how quantum physics made no sense, and you would still have the best time of your life.

By now, the broth had been drunk up and the table had been cleared out to be replaced with banana milk and ice cream. Eren brought out his notepad again to write down the set of rules for your fake relationship while enjoying your desserts.

Good progress had been written so far on the notepad. Both of you had given input and criticism on each rule made. In the end, you finally had a good set of rules written down.

(Y/N) and erens contract and rules for eren yaegers fool proof plan to get mina aka operation rent a gf by eren yaeger 1. act normally. eren and (Y/N) act like a couple already. just double the pda a little more 2. don’t tell anyone about the deal. the more people who believe in the relationship, the more likely it is for the plan to work 3. post each other on ig a lot. maybe add names and a date to bios to make it more believable 4. date night every saturday (go out or just hang out) 5. go to parties together 6. walk each other to class if you can 7. call each other cute pet names 8. after breaking up, the couple act has to stop including the sex 9. DON’T SLIP UP

payment for (Y/N):

Eren tapped a beat on the notepad, reading “payment” over and over again. Eventually he looked up at you, deep in thought. “Have you thought of anything so far?” he asked, clicking the pen to write what you wanted.

This was a tough decision. Eren was ready to give you anything to help him get Mina. You had to be wise and pick something big to take advantage of him. Something you were sure you wouldn’t ever regret getting.

“How about,” you started, trailing off, “you do my laundry for the rest of our time at ParadisU, buy me lunch every Wednesday even after we break up, recommend that godsend of a tutor you keep gatekeeping to help me too, and…”

“And?” Eren asked, looking up from his writing, waiting for your next words.

“All the orgasms I want during our relationship,” you finished, satisfied with what you chose.

“Is that all?” he asked, writing down the last of your words. “That’s a lot.”

“How about I let you know if I wanna add more,” you said. Eren nodded in response. His head hung to look at the notepad again, writing something down. Once he was done, he plaed the pen on the pad and slid it to you.

“Sign it so it’s official,” he instructed.

There were two lines beside each other, one already with Eren’s signature. Without hesitation, you signed your name neatly on the paper, giving the items back to Eren once you were done.

payment for (Y/N): eren has to do the (Y/N)’s laundry for the rest of university, buy her lunch ever wednesday, get tutor to help her and give her as many orgasms as she wants during the course of the relationship

signed x eren yaeger x (y/n) (l/n)

The two of you shook hands when Eren put away his things, to seal the deal again. The waitress came by again to give you the bill and collect your dirty dishes. Eren set down the cash needed to pay along with a tip in the check presenter before the two of you left.

You walked hand in hand back to Erens car before you realized you missed something. “Wait. What do we tell people when they ask how we got together?” you asked, pausing in your tracks.

Eren stopped with you, turning to look at you. “Um, you can say I confessed after lunch, and that this is technically our first date,” he suggested, tugging your hand to walk back to the car.

“Huh. Okay. That works,” you nodded.

The two of you got into the car a little bit past 2:30 in the afternoon, ready to go home. “Wait,” you said again, making Eren pause. “Mikasa wanted a burger from that one joint near our apartment. Could you take me there first?”

Eren smiled and nodded, starting the car. “Of course. Burger with medium Coke and onion rings?”

“How did you know?”

“She always gets that when we go there.”

“Huh… I guess you’re right.”

“When am I not?”

"Always."

taglist - @thestrugglesofateenagedirtbag , @lazalee , @countthemoons , @se-va-muriendo-mialma , @liaxxx109 , @prxttyguardian , @jeansbabycake

italic names, it wouldn't let me tag you!

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ashotofeuphoria · 3 years

Text

As I Hold You

Pairing: Firefighter! Jongho x Injured! Reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: character death (not member or reader), ANGST, car accident, blood, injury, fire, v brief description of a dead body, trauma, potential miscarriage (hinted at), let me know if i missed anything!

Authors Note: First fic! Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy!

You don't remember the impact. The sound of metal crushing, of horns blaring, and tires screeching. Everything just went black.

You had been out running errands all day with your younger brother, Gabriel. You needed to pick up some more supplies for your baby who was soon to arrive. Your first baby shower was scheduled for this upcoming weekend. While you knew that your family and friends would support you and buy you most everything you needed for your baby; you still wanted to buy cute outfits and toys in the anticipation of their arrival.

Your final stop was a new boutique that opened across town, and your younger brother was eager to chauffeur you. He knew that you were a little scared of what the future held and wanted to ease any stress he could, by doing little acts of service for you.

You were living with your family and would remain there throughout your first year of motherhood. You hadn't meant to become pregnant. In fact, you were rather scared of the idea of children and pregnancy. But accidents happen, as they tend to, and your (ex)boyfriend ended up knocking you up.

It was an amicable split when you broke up. You both knew it wouldn't last, and children don't fix broken relationships. He did agree to support you the best he can and you're thankful for that much. It's overwhelming honestly, having the amount of support from everyone that you do. One thing is for sure, this baby will be so loved.

Your brother walked you out to the car, all the bags in his hands, opened the door for you and helped you in. You were only about 4 months along, so you just barely had a visible bump on your small figure. But he held your hand and helped you step into the car regardless. He shut the door and ran around to the driver's side before opening the door and hopping in.

"Thank you for driving me today, buddy. I know you have other things you could be doing," you said as he started the car.

"You know I'd rather spend time with you than do anything else. All I do is read and listen to music in my room, it's not like I do all that much," he chuckled, finding it amusing how appreciative you are of a simple car ride.

"Yeah, alright," you smiled towards him, "Still I know you aren't required to help me out, so thank you. Love you, bubs."

"Love you too, y/n," he said as he glanced towards you with a soft smile.

The car pulled out of the parking lot with the GPS routed 20 minutes down the highway to the boutique. Gabriel took a left out of the neighborhood, and you asked him for the aux.

"Sure," he replied, keeping his eyes on the road but reaching for the cord to hand to you.

You began playing your K-pop playlist, something that's been getting you through the days recently. When you hit shuffle, Love Die Young by Eric Nam started playing. You started to harmonize with the chorus as Gabe pulled the car onto the highway.

"Not this sappy shit, y/n, really?" he giggled as he watched you dramatically act out the song, clutching at your heart as you sing, staring at him with a smile plastered on your face.

"His voice is so smooth I can't help it Gabe," you exclaimed in a sing-songy tone. "So, what do you think I'm gonna have? A boy or girl?" you ask him as the car hits the speed limit and he puts on cruise control.

"Honestly, I think it'll be a little girl. I hope it is at least. We gotta buy so many cute outfits today. I can't wait to help you take care of them. Whatever they may be," he laughed glancing over at you.

"I have this whole idea for their room, I want to do a taupe and mossy green color for the walls. And I think I want a lot of cute pictures of plants and different animals. Ya know, to keep it pretty but neutral, something that can age well with them," you explained to him as he steadily controls the car.

"I think it'll look perfect," he responded. "10 more minutes and we'll be there."

You nodded your head and looked out the window at the greenery. Ideas of outfits and nurseries swimming in your head. You closed your eyes, propped your arm up on the window, and leaned your head against your hand as the car drifted down the highway.

Your eyes jolted open when you suddenly hear Gabe go from a whisper to a shout "fuck, fuCK, FUCK Y/N HANG ON!"

A car had swerved and jumped the median and was driving directly towards you, mere meters away. Showing no signs of stopping, and Gabriel having no real way to swerve to avoid them, he threw an arm in front of you, and you brought your hands up to cover your face, your knees coming up on instinct to protect your belly.

And everything went black.

----

When you came to, the first thing you noticed was the smell. Metallic, and smoky, like something was burning. Then you felt a searing pain in your head. You struggled to open your eyes but when you did you couldn't believe what you were surrounded by. The airbags had deployed, but there was blood splattered across the car. You could tell smoke was rising out of the engine, but you couldn't see much else through the cracked windshield.

You look to your left and see Gabriel covered in blood, eyes closed. And you immediately feared the worst.

"Gabe! GABE!" you reached over to shake him, to hold onto his cheek and try and get him to face you. To open his eyes. To do anything. Your ears are ringing, and you can feel your eyes stinging when he won't respond. Your hands are desperately grabbing at his shirt, and hair, willing for him to wake up, for him to be okay.

"Gabe," your voice barely bubbling out of your throat as sobs begin to overtake your body. "Gabe, please, please, wake up. please, you can't, no, please, Gabe, bubs, you're okay, we're okay, please," the sobs wrack your body as you gasp for air between each word. Tears are streaming down your face and suddenly your focus is on your hands, and you see they're covered in blood.

You hold your hands in front of you and stare at them in horror when your vision redirects to your legs. You're crushed in the car. Your legs trapped under the dashboard. Your hearing is slowly coming back as you hear sirens somewhere in the distance, but from what direction you were unaware.

You remember a car had hit you head on when it crossed into your lane going well over the speed limit. As you glance out of the passenger window to see what happened to the other car (and if you're even still on the highway) you're met with a ghastly picture of your face in the side view mirror. Your forehead has been deeply cut, and blood is dripping thickly down your forehead and has mixed with the tears falling down your cheeks.

You cough when you begin to inhale smoke. Your vision blurring, your head falls back onto your headrest as you pass out.

----

As you come to, a faint knocking sound begins to grow louder, until you can hear a man yelling "Ma'am! Ma'am! Can you hear me! You gotta wake up! Ma'am!"

You cough the smoke out of your lungs, your head throbs from the movement and you wince in pain. You're brought back to the situation you've found yourself in and remember Gabe is next to you. You look over to him and the feelings become overwhelming again, as you stare at what you can only assume is his dead body.

As a sob erupts from your throat, you look out your window at the man who was calling for you, and are met with desperate, soft brown eyes staring at you through a helmet and face guard. He's a firefighter dressed in full gear. He yells something to you, trying to overpower the other noises happening on the busy highway but you can't connect the sounds with words in your brain. You can only stare at him in confusion, tears falling faster down your cheeks, your breathing uneven.

You see him reach for the handle of the car door and try and open it mumbling a quick "fuck!" in frustration. You're trapped in this car, and he needs to find a way to get both of you out before the whole car goes up in flames.

"Get the jaws! The doors are jammed!" He yells at the team of firefighters surrounding the car and the truck.

He looks back down to you and says as clearly and reassuringly as he can, "Hey, it's okay. It'll be okay, we're gonna get you out of there, okay?"

You begin to nod your head in response when a knock is heard at your brother's window. You whip your head around and see stars for a moment. When your sight clears you see a taller man in uniform shouting to your brother, who isn't responding. Your voice is small and cracks as you try and tell the man outside "he can't, he's not-" and you feel your chest become tight once more.

You hear the man at your window begin talking to you.

"Ma'am, please try and stay still. We must make sure your head is okay. Alright? Please don't move too much. Can you do that for me?" he politely asks you, empathizing with your situation.

You meekly nod your head. Your eyes are stinging. You don't know if it's the smoke or the tears, but it's probably both. As you focus on the man in front of you, you hear the man near your brother begin yelling at his team about the window and needing to check Gabriel's vitals. The man in front of you can tell you're not paying attention, so he speaks up.

"Yunho is going to break the glass to check the man next to you, okay? Just look at me, don't look away from me, okay? My name's Jongho. Just look at me, okay? What's your name?" Jongho asks you to keep you preoccupied and focused on him.

"Y/N," you try and get out of your throat. It's so dry and scratchy your voice isn't much higher than a whisper.

"Okay, y/n. Listen to me, you'll be okay. I'm going to get you out, okay? Who is that in the car with you?"

"M-my brother, Gabe, but he, I-I don't thin-nk," you choke out as you stare at Jongho, unable to say the words. That Gabe is dead. But you don't want him to be. You don't want it to be true. You look down at your door, suddenly feeling very claustrophobic, unable to breathe. You hear glass shatter. As you begin to turn your head, Jongho raises his voice, keeping your focus on him.

"Your brother? Yunho is going to check on him and make sure everything is okay." you hear him say.

"Ma'am, are you okay?" Yunho calls out from the driver window. "Try not to breathe the smoke in, Jongho is gonna break your window to get to you, I'm going to take your brothers vitals and make sure he's doing okay. We're going to get you out of here as quickly as possible, okay?"

You glance towards him and nod your head, finding your eyes drawn to the way he checks for a pulse on Gabe, his slender fingers dancing on his throat, his wrist, anywhere he could find a heartbeat. And seeing the increasing worry on Yunho's face does nothing to reassure you. You see his eyes widen, and yours follow. He leans back and yells over to the team, "There's a pulse. It's faint, we need to get him airlifted asap! San, I need you over here!"

While you're fixated on Gabe's pale and limp figure, you hear glass shatter next to you followed by a warm hand turning your cheek towards him. You involuntarily gasp and sputter at the influx of fresh air.

"Deep breaths for me, Y/n. Please look at me." he gently demands. You look into his eyes as he shines a flashlight above them checking your pupils. He can see how bloodshot your eyes are from crying, and he glances over at your brother, then back at you. "Hey, it'll be okay, we're here now. Just look at me, don't look at him. You're okay. Everyone is here to protect you." he rushes out.

His hand rests under your chin as he uses two callused fingers to check your pulse. Then he gently tilts your head to each side to inspect the gash on your forehead as quickly as possible. He glances down your body to check your arms, and torso seeing they're mainly just bruised, when his eyes land on your bump.

His eyes widen as he asks you urgently, "Y/n are you expecting? Are you carrying a child?"

You hadn't even thought about your child. You had been so distraught over your brother; you didn't even consider the health or wellbeing of your unborn baby. Your heart rate rapidly increases as panic begins to set in.

"y-yes I am, I'm 4 months. I-I'm, do you think, are they? god please don't tell me-" you start blubbering as all the possibilities begin to tumble through your head.

Before he can reassure you, he checks down the rest of your body and sees your legs are trapped under the dashboard. And that even when the door is off you won't be able to get yourself out of the car. Jongho defaults to reassurance as he really can't even begin to answer the questions you're asking him, "I-it's okay. Everything is okay. Let's get you out of this car."

Smoke is becoming thicker around the front of the car, and you watch as it blows around Jongho's figure, flooding out the highway from where you sit. Tensions are growing higher as the crew knows there isn't much longer before the car is gone. Four men are teamed together and grab the Jaws of Life from the truck as they begin walking toward your car. Setting up on your brothers side you begin to hear metal cracking and snapping as the four men work to pry the car open with the heavy machinery. You're itching in your skin wishing to jump up and run now that you're trapped, and Jongho can tell. He has his hand braced at the back of your neck, keeping it steady, as you once again begin to panic; he rubs circles on your arm, and pushes your hair back from your sticky forehead and out of your eyes.

You can hear the Jaws stop and in the reflection of the side view mirror you can see Gabe's lifeless body being pulled from the car, his body pale and bright red from blood, blue and purple littering his figure. He's placed on a gurney and run towards the truck where someone begins CPR.

You redirect your eyes to meet Jongho's, whose eyes are looking deeply at you searching for any sign of pain or discomfort, any sudden changes in your condition. "Is he going to be okay? He has to be okay. Please tell me they can fix him." you plead with Jongho, who looks at you with nothing but the heaviest of hearts.

"We're going to do our best. I promise you we will do everything we can. But right now, we need to get you out of here too." he explains. "I'm going to go bring the Jaws over this way and we are going to get you two out of here," he asserts, gesturing at your bump. "I need you to stay still just like you have been, okay? You're doing so great. Keep your arms as close to your body as you can, and don't look at the window in case anything splinters. Do you understand me?" he asks you.

"Please don't leave me. P-please don't, don't go. Please stay." you sob as you realize you'll be left alone in your wrecked car.

"I'll be right here. Remember stay still and close your eyes." he reminds you as he drops his hands from you and gives his team room to operate on the car door.

You sob quietly to yourself. You can't believe this is happening. How Gabe could be here one second and now he's gone. The image of his pale bloody face is burned into the back of your eyelids as you squeeze them tightly shut. You hear the metal of the car frame crunching and cracking once again, as all four men yell commands and directions at each other. Your sobs are uncontrollable as you wish it had been you and not your brother. You wish with all your heart that you could've taken his place.

The door hits the asphalt and almost instantly you hear Jongho next to you, "It's okay. I'm here. I'm right here. I never left." He notices how black the smoke has gotten and decides to check your legs to see if he can carry you out before the rest of the car is disassembled.

"Can you feel your legs?" he urgently asks you.

You nod your head as you cough so hard that you gag.

"shit-" Jongho mumbles under his breath, looking all over your figure and the car, knowing he must move now or never. With his mind moving a million miles a second, he makes the decision that your legs are likely not broken and brings out a blade from his pocket to saw your seat belt off you. You watch as the sweat beads down his forehead and across his dimpled cheeks as he grits his teeth.

Jongho puts his arms under yours, pulling you into his chest, getting your upper body mostly out of the car. When your legs are more visible, he puts one arm under your back and the other under your knees and lifts. You slide out from under the dashboard and with your neck cradled by his bicep and forearm he jogs you away from the car towards the firetruck. He gets five strides in when you hear the explosion. You peek past his arm to see your car engulfed in flames. You can feel the heat on your face, and the sound has left your ears ringing once more.

The team must've anticipated the event as hoses immediately start spraying to drown the car fire. Jongho gets behind the firetruck away from the fire and sets you down making sure you are stable, with no further injuries from his manhandling. He gently places a hand on your bump and hopes against everything that this baby is okay. Just as he's about to stand to find his captain and report your status he feels your hands fist into his uniform jacket holding onto him.

"please don't leave me. please don't leave. d-don't go." you hiccup as you stare pleadingly up at him. With the way you're gripping onto him, he knows there's no way he can walk away from you right now. Instead, he stands up and grabs a clean towel from just inside the truck and begins to tenderly wipe the blood and tears off your face, avoiding the gash on your forehead.

He doesn't have the heart to tell you that Gabe didn't make it, his body covered with a sheet on the other side of the truck. He also doesn't know how to explain that if Gabe hadn't reached over to protect you, he might've been in less critical condition. That he died protecting you. So, for now he wipes away the grime; and, after seeing you shaking, unbuttons his thick uniform jacket so he can hug you; until the paramedics arrive and will inevitably pull you away from him. You don't hesitate to wrap your small arms around his waist, and he holds you, pressing your head against his chest where you can hear his steady heartbeat.

"It's okay, y/n, it's going to be okay. You're okay. I'm here. I've got you." he repeats it like a mantra, over and over, convincing he thinks, both you and himself.

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buck-buck-boose · 3 years

Text

I'll Love You 'Til I Die

Masterlist | Playlist

Summary: A Brooklyn schoolgirl fell in love with James Buchanan Barnes at the tender age of nine. With this love she made a vow, promising to love him until her very last breath.

Pairing: Bucky x OFC

Warnings: Language, violence

Word Count: 4.3k

Author's Note: I am... so sorry for taking so long. I was not expecting the start of the semester to be so hectic. I can't promise I'll go back to posting as regularly as during the summer, but I can promise that I'm not disappearing. I promise. I WILL SEE THIS FANFIC THROUGH EVEN IF IT KILLS ME. Thank you for the kind words and support while I've been MIA. Enjoy a chunky chapter.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Little Saint Lottie

October 27, 1943

“I’m worried about her, Betty.”

“I know, Gladys. I know.”

Lottie couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten a full night’s rest. Days seemed to bleed into each other, with no slumber to distinguish today from tomorrow. It wasn’t long after arriving at Azzano that she realized that he wasn’t waiting for her. Bucky was gone. In his place, dozens of men awaited her arrival with sunken eyes and twitching lips that begged for relief, whether it be through a healing touch or a final blow to the head.

When the realization hit Lottie, there wasn’t much she could do besides throwing herself into her work; if she couldn’t help Bucky, the least she could do was help his brothers in arms. Although anxiety ate her up from the inside out, Lottie had confidence in Bucky’s abilities. He wouldn’t let himself die in some POW camp, he just wouldn’t. Because then who would take care of her and Steve? He’d fight tooth and nail to get back to them, she just knew it.

She threw herself into her work, rarely stopping long enough to have a proper conversation or a full meal; this bad habit of hers came to a halt, though, when she came upon a boisterous redhead in need of stitches. Lottie had been deep in thought while examining the gash above his forehead when the soldier cracked a grin and peered up at her without moving his head too much.

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

Lottie shook her head, “I’m afraid not, Private—” she glanced at his dog tags, “—O’Connor.”

“Ever done pinup? Maybe I know you from one of those cheesecakes we’ve got hanging up.” The man— more of a boy really, with his lanky frame and jovial smile —wiggled his eyebrows and ruined her diligent work of cleaning the blood from his wound.

The question left Lottie flustered; the idea of dozens of men gawking at her scantily clad figure left her feeling mortified, “Certainly not! I find that my talents are better suited for healing.”

O’Connor nodded and inspected her face carefully as she went to work on his gash once more. “I’ve got it!” Lottie nearly jumped away from him when he clapped his hands together, “You’re Little Saint Lottie, in the flesh!” The boy crowed his revelation, earning him glares from the other men recovering in the medic tent.

Lottie nearly dropped the needle that she’d been preparing to thread, “Excuse me?”

“Ah, it’s a funny story,” O’Connor chuckled, “Y’see, Sarge had this little photo he’d take everywhere. Always had it in his pocket, tucked in his helmet, you name it. Wouldn’t let the damn thing go. Anyway, we stole it out of his fatigues one day while he was cleaning up in some river ‘cause we wanted to see what the big deal was. Once we saw it was some dame—” Lottie shot him a look, “—lady, we started yanking his chain about it. He was just about as obsessed with that photo as my Ma is with her holy cards, so when he finally told us your name, we dubbed you ‘Little Saint Lottie,’ patron saint of the one hundred and seventh. That kinda pissed him off, but it’s not like you’re his girl, y’know? Though he sure acted like you were.”

Lottie was speechless. About halfway through his story, her mouth had dropped open and her hands had fallen to her lap. Here she was, looking dumb as an ox, while the soldier in front of her chuckled with childish glee.

“Me and the guys would even ask for your intercession whenever the chaplain came by to pray with us. Poor guy had no clue which saint we were talkin’ about. We tried to give it a place of honor in the tent but Sarge made us run laps when he found out we’d nicked it again.”

O’Connor nearly doubled over in laughter as he watched Lottie’s expression grow in horror. “Well as I’m sure Bucky— Sergeant Barnes has told you, I’m no saint. I’m just a nurse. Now hold still, unless you want these stitches to be more painful than they already are.” Before she could stop herself, the question came tumbling out of her mouth, “Speaking of Sergeant Barnes, do you know—” she fumbled with the needle as she made the first stitch, “—is he alright? Did you see him?” The soldier let out a hiss of pain, “Yeah, I got a glimpse of him while they were takin’ him away. He was battered but alright. There’s no man quite like Sarge, I know he’ll be back. He’d fight tooth and nail to get back. That’s what he said at least, ‘cause he always went on and on about how you needed him and all that. He sure talked about you an awful lot for a guy who hasn’t even asked you to go steady.”

Lottie’s breath hitched at the final comment, the mere idea of going steady with Bucky reducing her to a stuttering schoolgirl. She began to tie off his stitches, “We’ve been best friends for over a decade, it’s perfectly normal to care for each other deeply without bringing affection into it.”

O’Connor shrugged, which jostled her arm slightly, “I’ve never heard a guy talk about his best friend like that.”

Lottie didn’t respond. She gave his fully sutured wound one last glance, “Looks like you’re all set. Now don’t do anything stupid to get it infected.”

He gave her a crooked grin and wiggled his eyebrows, Lottie nearly scolded him but held her tongue, “As you wish, Saint Lottie.”

Lottie rolled her eyes and moved along to the next bed, where another soldier waited with a smile just as wide. It seemed that these men had become pleased as punch to know their patroness had come to grace them with her presence.

The USO’s visit to their camp took Lottie completely by surprise. She’d spent so much time floating from one medic tent to the next that she’d ended up completely out of the loop of the camp’s other goings-on. It wasn’t until she saw the fully-erected stage in the middle of camp that she realized. Her heart beat powerfully within her; with Steve here, she would be one step closer to finding Bucky. One step closer to bringing him home. “They say he’s gonna be here in a few hours,” Mary beamed, obviously giddy to see the Star-Spangled Man up close and in the flesh.

Lottie returned her smile, though it was weak. The weariness was starting to catch up to her, making her feel much older than a youthful twenty-three. Her stomach was in knots with anxiety; she needed to get to Steve as soon as possible.

Betty stood with them as they watched the hustle and bustle of preparations, “I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones looking forward to seeing Captain America. All these boys care about is seeing a bunch of girls dancing for them on stage, not some hunk of meat in a red, white, and blue suit.”

Nancy, who had just joined the conversation, scoffed, “It’s quite disappointing how little you think of these men and their patriotism.”

Gladys rolled her eyes, “They’re still men, Nancy. Scantily clad women or a guy singing about war bonds? They’re gonna prefer the women.”

Several hours later, Gladys was indeed proven right. Although he’d been driven off-stage with jeers and taunts, Lottie was waiting for him with a warm embrace.

“Hey, Lottie,” She could hear the smile in his voice, she felt its warm timbre as it surrounded her and reminded her of home.

“Good to see ya, Stevie.”

Steve pulled away from her and gazed around the camp, a grimace growing on his features, “Things don’t look to good around here.”

Lottie nodded, a twin grimace gracing her lips, “The hundred and seventh started out with two hundred men. Now they’ve only got fifty left. They’re barely holding on.”

Steve’s gaze shot to hers the moment she mentioned the one hundred and seventh, “Lottie that’s— this is Bucky’s—” The desperate look in his eyes made her own calm exterior begin to crack.

“Stevie, I know,” she whispered, a lump forming in her throat and tears pricking at her eyes, “I know, and I’m sorry. He’s not here. They— Those bastards took him, damn them!” For the first time since arriving at camp, Lottie cried. She sobbed and clung to Steve once more, feeling every bit like a scared little girl from days gone by.

Steve rested his hand against her back, “I’ll get him out, Lottie. He’s gotta be alive and I’ll get him out.”

She shook her head and wiped the hot tears from her cheeks, “No, Steve. You’re not going alone. I’m coming with you.”

“Lottie, you know I can’t put you in harm’s way like that—”

“Steve. I’m serious. What do you think I was doing that whole time I was with the SSR? Yes, we were making the serum, but they nearly trained us to death. I can shoot, I can use my knife. I can’t let you go without me.” Her voice was starting to crack, “We have to find Bucky together.”

There was silence between the two of them until Steve finally conceded, a wary gaze in his eyes, “Fine. But you need to be by my side the whole time.” Lottie nodded her chest warming with hope. “C’mon, we need to have a conversation with Colonel Philipps.”

The two of them jogged to his tent with their coats held above their heads to shield them from a sudden shower of rain. They entered the colonel’s tent, looking comical with their wet hair and heaving chests. Around them, soldiers and officials paced to and fro, examining maps or signing off various forms. If Lottie squinted, she could just barely make out the words. Letters of condolences; heartbreakingly clinical letters of regret for the losses of these sons, these brothers, these boys.

“Colonel Phillips,” Steve began, “Are you planning a rescue mission? For the surviving prisoners from the Battle of Azzano?”

The colonel looked back at him with a straight face, “Yeah, it’s called winning the war.”

Steve’s blond eyebrows furrowed, “But if you know where they are why not at least—”

“They’re thirty miles behind the lines. Through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We’d lose more men than we’d save, but I don’t expect you to understand that because you’re a chorus girl,” before Lottie could protest, he shot her a glance as well, “and you’re just a nurse.”

Steve’s gaze on Colonel Phillips was cool, “I think I understand just fine.”

The colonel pushed past them, “Well then understand it somewhere else. Now if I read the posters correctly, you’ve got someplace to be in thirty minutes.”

“Yes sir, I do.”

Steve grabbed Lottie’s hand and pulled her behind him, “C’mon, we’ve gotta get going. You go get changed.”

Lottie nodded; her medical uniform would impede this mission so she’d need to wear the fatigues that the government had finally issued to them. Her heart raced a mile a minute as she scrambled back to the nurse’s tent to change. She knew that Colonel Philipps would be terribly angry once he found out she’d shirked her night duties, but her loyalties to Bucky took precedence. The recovering soldiers were left in the capable hands of her peers. She swore as she nearly toppled over while yanking her boots on; it was rather hard to get dressed in such a hurry. By the time she was ready and had exited the tent, she was met with the somber faces of Agent Carter and Steve.

“Agent Carter, what are you doing?” For a moment, she feared that they’d already been caught, that the SSR was already putting an end to their mission.

The other woman pursed her lips, “I’m here to help.”

A mere half-hour later and they found themselves in the SSR’s plane, headed to Krausberg, where the POW camp was located. Howard Stark called out to them from the cockpit, “We should be able to drop you right at their doorstep.”

Fear was starting to creep into Lottie’s mind and burrowed itself deep within her gut. She heard the conversation continue all around her, but she was still processing the daunting mission before her. She and Steve up against Hydra. All alone. Even Bucky had struggled against them; he’d lost to them in the Battle of Azzano. Bucky. That’s what worried her most. It’s what filled her with the most fear. If she and Steve got through the Hydra camp safe and sound only to find that he was dead, Lottie wasn’t sure how she’d deal with it. She’d probably go mad, in all honesty. She’d end up in some institution, crying over lucky pennies and charcoal drawings while being molly-coddled by some woman in white. How tragic that would be.

Before her thoughts could become any darker, Lottie was jolted back to reality by the sound of bullets against metal. Steve grabbed his shield and her arm, urging her to join him by the plane’s exit.

Agent Carter shot up from her seat, “Get back here! We’re taking you all the way in!”

He turned to respond, “As soon as I’m clear, you turn this thing around and get the hell out of here!” “You can’t give me orders!”

A smile grew on his face, “The hell I can’t! I’m a captain!”

Steve shifted his goggles and nudged Lottie, “It’s go time. When you see me pull the chute out, you do the same.”

Lottie nodded with a quiet determination, and together, they jumped.

Entering the base was painstakingly quiet; once they’d snuck into a truck and eliminated the guards inside, Steve and Lottie were left to mouth words and offer silent support through unwavering gazes. Once they’d safely passed the gate of the base, they exited the truck and swiftly dealt with any opposition.

Steve led her across the base with caution, giving hand signals when it was safe to turn a corner and sprint across a patch of unobstructed space. The two of them traveled with the shadows, avoiding any spotlights that could catch them in the act. Lottie scarcely felt that she could breathe, it was as if one exhale would reveal their presence to the multitude of guards.

Once they entered the main building, the two of them found themselves in what seemed to be a factory. There were giant sheets of metal everywhere and huge bombs seemed to surround them. Amongst them all, Hydra soldiers transported other metal parts and containers of glowing blue material. That did not bode well with Lottie at all.

Lottie spotted some guards walking to a lower level, jangling keys in hand. “Steve, they might be guarding the prisoners.” Her whisper was barely audible, fear keeping her from speaking any louder.

“The blueprints said they were below the manufacturing level. C’mon.”

They followed the guards onto a walkway that had large circular grates that cut into the metal, each forming the ceiling of small cells that the poor prisoners had been separated into. Lottie and Steve knocked the guards out and stole their keys. The two dropped to the same level as the cells and began unlocking their doors.

One of the soldiers gazed at them through the bars of his cell, “Who are you supposed to be?”

Steve panted from stress, “I’m Captain America.” He gave Lottie an expectant look.

“I guess I’m Little Saint Lottie,” she responded somewhat sarcastically, referencing the retrospectively comical nickname that was developed by the one hundred and seventh.

Some of the men cracked grins, “So you’ve heard our prayers, huh?”

“Loud and clear. Now let’s get you out of here, yeah?”

She tried to ignore the growing horror inside of her upon the realization that none of these men had brilliant blue eyes. Not a dimpled chin in sight.

“Is there anybody else? I’m looking for a Sergeant James Barnes.” It seemed that the same horror was growing within Steve.

A man in a scarlet beret responded, his British accent prim and proper, “There’s an isolation ward in the factory, but no one’s ever come back from it.”

“Alright,” Steve nodded, “The tree line is northwest, 80 yards past the gate. Get out fast and give ‘em hell. We’ll meet you guys out in the clearing with anyone else we find.”

“Wait, you know what you’re doing?” “Yeah. I’ve knocked out Adolf Hitler over two hundred times.”

Lottie couldn’t help but stare at Steve in amazement. Gone was that awkward boy from Brooklyn. He was a man now, a leader who could do anything he put his mind to. He’d grown so much, not just physically, but in his character.

While the prisoners worked their way out of the base, Steve and Lottie began their search for the isolation wards. Lottie tried to ignore the sounds of explosions and men crying out from below them while they traveled across metal catwalks. She could only hope that the cries of pain were coming from Hydra soldiers.

After turning several corners, they found themselves in an old hallway, surrounded by brick on both sides. They hurried down the corridor out of desperation; they knew they were running out of time. Lottie stopped suddenly when she heard a groan. It was close. She drew her weapon and dragged Steve into the room, her heart stuttering and her palms slick with sweat.

“Sergeant. Three-two-five-five-seven…” That voice. Oh, how she knew that voice; she loved it so. Lottie heard it whenever she found the time to fall asleep. It crept into her sweetest dreams but tore her apart whenever it wiggled its way into her nightmares.

Bucky lay in front of them, strapped down to a table; his lips moved ever so slightly as he repeated the same phrase over and over again.

She rushed to his side alongside Steve and nearly let out a cry of happiness. Had the situation not been so dire, she would’ve descended upon him with a bone-crushing embrace and great big sobs of joy by that point.

Lottie whispered a quiet, “Bucky?” His eyes were glazed over and his mouth agape, “Is that— is that—”

“It’s us, Buck,” Steve nodded reassuringly as he tore at the straps across Bucky’s chest. Bucky looked up at him, taking his face in,

“Us?”

“Me and Lottie,” he nodded, tugging her closer so that the two of them could be in Bucky’s field of vision.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at him, finally feeling whole again. She’d gotten her Brooklyn boys back. Bucky only looked back in confusion, “Little Lottie, she— she’s always been here. Always. Stayed with me the whole time.”

It was Lottie and Steve’s turn for confusion. Lottie brushed the hair back from his forehead to calm him down and ground him, “Bucky, I’ve been with the SSR this whole time. We’re here to rescue you.”

Steve nodded and dragged him off the table, “I thought you were dead.”

Bucky was obviously having a hard time processing everything that was happening, “I thought you were smaller.”

Lottie listened as the gunfire intensified, “Come on, we need to move.” Steve threw one of Bucky’s arms over his shoulder and the two fell into step behind her.

“What happened to you?” Bucky grunted out, pain etched into his voice.

“I joined the army.”

“Did it hurt?”

Steve was growing agitated, “A little.”

“Is it permanent?”

“So far.” Lottie huffed, “I’d sure hope so after all that effort I put into it.”

Bucky mustered out a befuddled, “Huh?”

“I helped to create the serum that made him like that.”

“So that’s why you left without saying a word.” Bucky’s tone was only slightly accusatory.

Lottie muttered a weak “Yeah.” They’d need to have a lengthier conversation once he wasn’t struggling to walk five yards.

As they crossed the catwalks to get towards the exit, the factory below them began to combust. Huge flames erupted from the metal contraptions and triggered explosions all around them. They hastily climbed the metal stairs to get to higher ground.

“Captain America, how exciting!” A thick German accent cut through the noise of explosions and gunfire. “I am a great fan of your films!” Before them stood two men; one was a short little fellow clad in a jacket and fedora. The other was tall and wore a distinguished Hydra uniform with its menacing crest emblazoned on his shoulder.

The taller of the two gave Captain America a once over as he strode across the catwalk that separated them, “So, Dr. Erskine managed it after all. Not exactly an improvement, but still, impressive.”

“You’ve got no idea,” Steve snarled and punched the man in the face. The swift blow caused a blotch of redness to appear near his eye and a sinking feeling of realization settled into Lottie’s stomach. This was Schmidt, the monster who used the serum prototype.

Before she could say anything, Schmidt struck back and left a dent in Steve’s shield, “Haven’t I?”

There was a brief scuffle before Schmidt backed off while the other man pulled a lever, pulling the catwalk apart. With a grin, Schmidt began pulling at the skin of his face and revealed fiery red muscle and tissue beneath, just as Lottie had seen when she first began experimenting with the formula. “You are deluded, Captain. You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality, you are just afraid to admit that we have left humanity behind. Unlike you, I embrace it proudly. Without fear!”

“Then how come you’re running?”

Steve never got an answer. Schmidt and the other man had already boarded an elevator and left them standing on the catwalk, nearly helpless.

Another explosion went off, cueing the trio to leave, “C’mon, let’s go. Up.” Lottie instructed the men to follow her, though she wasn’t too sure how to escape the factory. All she knew was that they needed to keep ascending the stairs.

When they reached the top of the stairs, they were faced with a metal beam that led to a catwalk with an exit. It was terrifyingly slim, with only enough room to place one foot in front of the other.

“Ladies first,” Bucky murmured, “but I’ll be right behind you.” Lottie felt sure of herself knowing that at least she wouldn’t have to cross on her own.

She took a tentative first step, testing how well it would hold her weight. Lottie tried not to look down at the fiery pit below while she carefully moved along the beam. It was a comfort to have Bucky behind her with his chest nearly pressed against her back as he followed her every step. Lottie had just scrambled over the railing of the catwalk when a jarring explosion shifted the beam’s position and sent it careening downwards. She gasped in horror as Bucky leaped to grab onto the catwalk.

“There’s gotta be a rope or something!”

Steve stared at the two of them from across the pit, “Just go! Get out of here!”

Bucky slammed his fist on the railing, desperation tearing at his voice, “No, not without you!”

“Steve, please! We can’t just leave you here!” Lottie pleaded. Steve couldn’t die, not like this.

With a look of determination, Steve backed up and made a running jump to clear the gap between the two catwalks. An explosion threatened to swallow him up, but he made it over safely, although a little worse for wear.

Lottie and Bucky could only stare in amazement. Steve nodded to them both, “Let’s get outta here.”

Several ladders and a whole lot of dodging later, the trio found themselves trudging towards the tree line.

It was silent amongst the three of them; painfully, dreadfully silent. She decided it was time to break the silence, “Bucky, I—”

“Look, Little Lottie, I know you’re sorry, alright? And I forgive you. Even though you lied to my face and left without saying goodbye, I had a whole lotta time to spend forgiving you.”

Now that the fear of being caught by Hydra soldiers had fully subsided, Lottie allowed herself to let out a sob of joy and nearly threw herself at Bucky. She almost apologized for the force of her embrace since it was likely to hurt a man who’d been captured by Hydra, but he didn’t show any sign of pain. She’d need to remember that for later.

“I missed you so much, Bucky. I really did,” Lottie nearly whimpered. Gosh, she sure sounded lovesick. “I missed you too, Little Lottie.” His embrace was sure and strong, and with it, a flood of memories came back to her. Nights on her fire escape. A birthday evening spent swing dancing. A lucky penny slipped into her hand. For the first time in months, Lottie finally felt whole. Her heart that had been splintered into shards of pain and hopelessness had finally begun to mend itself back together. While she found comfort in his arms and forgiveness, she knew there were still so many words left unsaid; words that he needed and deserved to hear.

“Yeah, I missed you guys too,” Steve muttered, obviously peeved that he was being left out of their moment.

“Aw, come on, Stevie,” Lottie grinned and pulled away from Bucky a little to allow Steve to join their hug.

“And if I remember correctly, Bucky, I think it’s actually Little Saint Lottie now,” she grinned. While she couldn’t see his face at the moment, she just knew it was turning a gorgeous shade of scarlet, based on the sputtering coming out of his mouth.

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your-daily-biaswrecking · 3 years

Text

Serva me, Servabo te

save me and I will save you

pairing: photographer!Taehyung x f.reader

genre: smut, angst, slight enemies to lovers

word count: 10.5k | reading time: 60 min

chapter summary: The two of them spend their day on good terms for the first time, but still manage to find something to rile them up

warnings: switch!tae, switch!amy, oral f&m receiving, face sitting, dirty talk, teasing, a lil bit of orgasm control? some name calling (bitch), light spanking, hair pulling, unprotected vaginal sex, riding, praise, squirting, also some spooky stuff, i don’t remember what else ahh

A/N: I know absolutely nothing about photography, so if you do and you read this and think to yourself nothing is making any sense, you are right and I am wrong. Please just enjoy this as best as you can lol

All chapters | Masterlist | Read on AO3

Chapter 7: Love is just a form of possession

The place was definitely haunted. But perhaps it was in a good way. Perhaps it was magical.

It felt that way when you slowly opened your eyes to find a snoozing Taehyung just inches away from your face. His expression set in a natural pout as he had his arms snaked around your body like he was afraid he would lose you in his sleep. You bit your lip as you inspected his resting form better; his ruffled hair, his soft but dehydrated lips, his naked shoulders that were peeking under the blanket. Last night you had moved on the couch, struggling to fit on it at the same time but managing to entangle your limbs just right so that he wouldn't fall over. You had a light rug that you had found in the room over your bodies, as well as Taehyung's sweater on to keep you warm, although the heat from his bare body was all you needed.

And the fireplace. You heard it crackling before you raised your head to look over at its direction and confirm the fire was big and strong once again. Yep. This place was definitely haunted.

Taehyung's arms tightened around you, pulling himself nearer until his face was buried in your neck. "Don't go," he mumbled in a way it was hard for you to understand, with his voice heavy from his slumber. He had felt your body move while you were trying to look around the room and without even opening his eyes, his reaction was to hold you closer.

You ran a hand through his hair, smiling to yourself. "I'm not going anywhere."

Rain was still falling, not as heavy as the previous night, but it was just enough for the rhythmic melody it created by hitting the windows. That meant you were stuck in the house for one more day. Not that you had any interest in leaving, in even getting out of that room or that couch. Not only was it warm in there, in Taehyung's embrace, but it was safe, too. Perhaps, on any other occasion, you would hate yourself for just how nice you felt at that moment, but you were starting to believe that being by his side wasn't just appealing, but also necessary. You wouldn't last another day in that Manor otherwise.

"What should we have for breakfast?" you heard him whisper, right before he started stretching so much he almost fell over.

"Oh, um..." you mumbled, thinking about it. "Is it my turn to cook?"

You felt his smile against your neck, a low chuckle being produced at the back of his throat. "It is. What will you feed me?" You took a couple of seconds to think, and his smile grew. "You know, you could just offer me your cunt right now and I'd happily have that as a meal."

You groaned. "Tae!" you whined, pushing him on his chest. "You're disgusting!" He had certainly ruined the romantic atmosphere that the room was painted in. But that's just how that man is, isn't it?

He was laughing as he was trying to catch himself from falling, grabbing the sweater you were wearing and the arm of the couch. "Oh, come on," he said once he found his balance. "You can't tell me you're still shy after everything we've done."

But you rolled your eyes at him. "This isn't a matter of openness, it's just very inappropriate."

He looked up at you, licking his lip slowly as he watched your eyes. "So, you're turning me down?"

For a moment you tried to get up, but he held you tighter. The truth was that the way he was looking at you was almost making you cave in, but thankfully you could think better in the daytime. Even though you didn't have much of a reason to, anymore, you still didn't feel quite comfortable just casually doing stuff like that with him. It was too much already that you had woken up cuddling him as if he was your boyfriend.

"I need to go shower," you said, both replying to him and changing the subject in a way. "I'm so nasty from last night."

"You and I both. Do you want to shower together?" He made his proposal by reaching up a bit and kissing your jaw. It made you drop it, not to give him better access, but because his words were making you flustered again.

"No- why would we- we..."

"I'm just saying; it's cold and it's raining. There might not be a lot of hot water. We should be frugal."

Since you hadn't stopped him exactly yet, he took it as a sign to keep kissing you. Up your jawline and down your neck. And now forming a coherent thought was even more difficult. Your body squirmed around like you were being tickled, and you wanted to block him but at the same time not at all.

"Now, you're just making up excuses," you snorted, trying to sound austere but the smile he had managed to get on your lip served the exact opposite mission. "Do you want to have me for breakfast that bad?" you teased since he wasn't the only one able to do that.

But Taehyung pulled slightly away, biting his lip and looking at you through his lashes with the most innocent face he could muster. "Actually, I was hoping that if I eat you out, you might return the favor and help me out with this morning wood." And with that, he pressed upon you more, so that you could feel exactly what he was talking about. Your eyes widened and you gasped a bit, realizing that the hard thing nudging your thigh wasn't actually his knee like you thought.

"Oh..." you mumbled.

"But you don't have to!" Taehyung was quick to say when he saw your surprised reaction. But it wasn't so much surprise as it was a feeling of guilt; the man had done everything to please you the past couple of days, and you hadn't had the chance to do much for him in return. And there he was, with a pout on his lips and his dick begging for attention.

When you kissed him, you didn't do it just because you felt a sense of duty to do it, but mostly because the idea that he needed you turned you on so much, and so fast. You kissed him hard, not wasting any time to slip your tongue in his mouth, and your chest filled with pride when he started moaning. He was moaning more and louder than usual, probably being less interested in controlling himself since he still hadn't fully woken up yet, and you hadn't even touched him yet.

The rag slid down your shoulders as you moved over him, changing the position that had you both on your sides, to one where Taehyung was lying on his back and you were straddling him. You didn't have anything on other than that sweater, and so when you ground on his hard-on, it was easily gliding between your folds, making the man growl harder.

"Shit, Amy," he moaned and his voice was higher in pitch than normal. "I feel like a goddamn teenager. You're- shhh- you're gonna make me cum just like that."

You found his little voice cracks so adorable. You didn't know -could have never guessed- just how needy, desperate, whiny, and loud Taehyung got in the mornings. He always put on that facade of being in control, when in reality, deep down, all he wanted was to pleasure you as best as he could; all he was waiting for was a chance to be good for you. And then he was at your mercy for his own release. It was obvious in the way he hung from your lips, clawing at your sweater. Completely dependent on you and your moves.

"You can't cum like that, baby," you reminded him, pressing his chest down and sitting up, keeping your lips out of reach to make him whine more. You weren't used to this exactly, but damn, torturing this poor boy felt so good. Perhaps because you still wanted to hate him, so now that he was hooked on you and you were in control, you wanted to make him suffer; make him beg. Just like he had the audacity to do to you. "You can't cum before I tell you to, alright? If you do, I won't let you touch me again for the rest of our days here."

Taehyung cried out, his hips rising involuntarily to grind on your core more. "Stop," he breathed out. "Don't do that."

You laughed. Was he trying to order you around when his whole face was pink and he was panting, unable to compose himself? That was bold. Especially since what you were telling him seemed to turn him on even further.

You let two fingers run down his chest toward his belly. "You will finish in my mouth, okay? Nowhere else." Just to test him, you pushed down on his dick more, almost letting him inside you, and he crushed his head back, groaning.

"Amy- I'm so close already," he complained. "Just- just..."

You clicked your tongue, withdrawing both your hands and your hips from his body. "I don't like your tone, mister."

But he just looked at you with pitiful eyes. "I won't last if you don't..."

"You want me to suck your dick?" He nodded frantically. "You have to ask nicely."

"Son of a bitch," he sighed, biting his lip. And you could see him twitch all alone underneath you. It made you smirk.

"That's not nicely, baby," you cooed.

Taehyung's forehead started glistening as he got a little sweaty. And he groaned once more. "Amy..."

"Yes?"

He panted. "You don't even need to do much, just let me cum," he hummed.

And you chuckled. "Man, you really don't know how to ask politely, do you?" Then you snorted. "Well, what did I expect from someone like you."

You could tell all he really wanted to do was anything you asked of him; he just didn't like the fact that you were doing it on purpose. And if he just let you see exactly how desperate he was for you, then it would be a lot harder to establish himself later when he would need to again. But when one of your hands traveled south and wrapped around the base of his cock, there was truly little holding him back.

"Amy, please!" he squeaked, his voice cracking again. "Please, what do you want me to do? I've been as best as I could to you."

The words made your stomach do a flip, and you smirked, slowly running your fist up and down his length. "Yes, you have," you whispered. You lowered your head to his dick and stuck your tongue out. Taehyung watched you with wide eyes as you lazily brought the tip of your tongue on his head, gathering up all the precum that had leaked out. And he took a sharp breath in through his teeth. "You've been so good."

"I'm gonna cum," Taehyung announced, dropping his head back.

But you held him tighter. "Not yet." And you dropped your mouth entirely onto him.

Taehyung's mouth fell open in a silent cry as he did his best to control himself. This was torture. Sure, he had asked for it, but he had already woken up so close to his orgasm with the kind of dreams he was having, that all it would need to spill his seed out would have been a couple of strokes. It would have probably served him better to just go to the bathroom and deal with it himself. Now, he had this pretty girl with her warm, wet mouth all over him, sucking him off hard, and it felt so good he thought he would explode. And yet he couldn't. He had to wait.

"Amy, please," he choked out when you brought him deep enough to hit the back of your throat. "Ugh, please, let me cum."

You had never enjoyed giving someone a blowjob as much as you did at that moment. Besides the fact that Taehyung's dick was straight-up delicious, the sounds he was making and the way he was begging had your head spinning. It had you rubbing your legs together, bopping your head faster, and sipping him up harder as if you were trying to milk him. And you would have kept on doing that for so much longer, until your jaw was in too much pain, if it weren't for how his cries made you feel sorry for him.

So you popped him off your mouth just enough to say these words: "Coat my mouth with your scum, baby. Let me taste it."

You didn't have to touch him any longer; your words alone drove him over the edge he had been dancing on for a while now, spurting his seed on your offered tongue, his hands holding your head for the first time to keep you still. He gave you a couple of pumps, some of them missing the target and hitting your nose before he groaned and dropped back down. Panting and sighing, pulling his hair away from his face and whipping the sweat that had formed on his forehead. You stayed still, not sure if you wanted to spit or swallow, but since you couldn't immediately think of where you could do the former, you gulped down all that he had gifted you.

From your point of view, Taehyung had never looked hotter than he did at that moment; completely exhausted and dried up, probably without a single thought in his head. And all because of you. If you hadn't just made him finish and his dick go soft, you would have already jumped to sit on him, not even waiting to wear protection. Your core itched with want, too, and since he looked ready to go right back to sleep, you needed to go take that shower you had mentioned right away. And by shower, you know what I mean.

You went to get off the couch. But Taehyung's hand wrapped around your wrist instantly, keeping you back. His head foggy from his orgasm but still super aware of you and your movements. "Where are you going?"

"I'm gonna go take a shower. Like I said." Your voice was a lot lower than before, much of your confidence having left you the moment that scene was over. In contrast, Taehyung seemed to be gaining his old self back little by little, considering the way his eyes were piercing you.

"Not before I'm done with you," he rasped, pulling your arm until you lost your balance and fell over his body. "Come sit on my face."

Your eyes popped open wide. "Wha- no, I'm fine."

While licking his lips, Taehyung snaked his free hand down your sides and cupped your pussy, a finger immediately sliding between your folds as if he was trying to gather up all your juices. "You call that fine?" he asked smugly as he made sure you could hear just how soaked you were. A moan caught in your throat, trying to hide how much you needed him. He smiled sweetly at you. "What, you thought I'd just leave you hanging? Come on, babe, turn around and sit that pretty ass of yours on my face because I don't have the strength to get up right now."

It would have been hard to say no to that when you could both feel the way you gushed out at his words. So you moved around until you were facing his feet and kneeled over his head. One of his arms wrapped around your hips, his other hand still playing with your folds. You hesitated coming down to him, that being a position you weren't used to, but he was pulling at you until his tongue managed to replace his fingers, licking a stripe from your clit to your entrance. You moaned, your legs shaking a bit as he gave you kitten licks to see the way you squirmed over him.

And then you felt a strong smack on your ass.

"Bitch, I said sit on my face, not hover over it!" Taehyung scolded.

"Ah!" you cried, a sound that sounded like pain at first but turned to more like thrill later. Your head whipped back, trying to see the man lying beneath you. "I am sitting," you insisted.

"If I can breathe while you do it, you're not doing it right." And then he gave you another smack on the ass, making you yelp again.

"Ah, stop! You'll suffocate."

"Good." His hands kneaded your buns strongly, waiting for you to move. But you were still uncertain. So he exhaled and raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong, Amy? I thought you hated me, yet you don't even want to choke me with those thighs? I thought you wanted to kill me?"

It was a cheap trick to rile you up. Cheap, but it worked. You let yourself drop down completely, not holding any of your weight back. It felt weird at first, you felt pretty self-conscious, but then Taehyung's arms secured you around him and his tongue slipped inside you, and you didn't have the right mind to worry about anything else. You pushed even further down, trying to get him even deeper. He squeezed and pinched your things, moving your hips as best as he could to get you to grind on his face. And once you felt how nicely your clit rubbed on him, it was hard to do otherwise.

You held onto his hips for leverage to thrust against his tongue, as you could feel the feeling inside your tummy growing rapidly. And you moaned his name like a prayer. He pushed you off him just for a second enough to take a breath before he was pressing his mouth on your sensitive bud. His tongue flat on you to let you move against it in the way it felt best for you. Voice getting higher and higher as you got closer and closer, Taehyung smacking your ass again to make you scream. And with just one more hit, you were gushing all over his face, legs, and hips shaking violently as you fell over on him.

He remained lapping at you, cleaning you up, until you got so sensitive you had to pull yourself away. You got up and suddenly remembered to check on him. "Are you okay?"

He gave you one of those boxy grins, his eyes almost closing completely by how hard he was smiling. "Couldn't be better."

"Your face is all red." He looked like he had nearly died from asphyxiation. But he kept grinning.

"To be completely honest, I did forget for a moment to breathe. But that's not your fault. It was just too good to stop." With that he sat up and swung his legs to the side, in front of you, looking up at you.

You had to laugh. His whole approach to the moment, and even his bright red face with his hair all chaotic framing it, made you feel a lot more at ease. He seemed so happy for what he had just done. Almost like he had enjoyed it more than you.

"I have never met anyone who likes this so much as you," you admitted with another giggle.

Taehyung got up finally, looking around the room to find the discarded clothing items and get dressed. "Well, you have been dating all the wrong guys then," he said matter-of-factly before he found his briefs and jumped into them. He turned to look at you again. "See, this is what happens when you have standards and won't go for someone like me."

"I'm with you right now."

"Yeah, but you still won't date me." His words made you frown momentarily. Because they sounded slightly like a complaint. Or like a wish in disguise. But before you could have the chance to think twice, he cleared his throat and started putting on his pants, the eye-contact over. "Let's go shower and then eat something. This doesn't count as breakfast."

The atmosphere was awkward, only for a little, because then you occupied yourselves enough with dressing up, and going upstairs, and getting in that shower. You didn't shower together, chose the separate bathrooms instead. Which, you thought, was for the best; he might have already seen you naked but that was only while having sex. You didn't know if you were comfortable enough to be in your birthday suit and just... exist like that around him. But you still couldn't stop thinking about him. About what he would look like with all the water hitting his face. How you would like to shampoo his hair just to be able to hold him more intimately like that. Or for him to help you scrub your back and brush your hair. Generally, showering with someone else was another one of those things you didn't do much.

You heard the doorknob turn, and it brought butterflies to your stomach, thinking he had come to find you after all. But no one came in. You peeked your head around the curtain and the door was still closed. The shadows moving on the floor betrayed someone had just walked by, but he was still not entering.

"Taehyung?" you called but got no answer. Had he changed his mind?

You finished that shower alone. When you returned to your room, you found your phone was on your bed. You blinked at it, confused as to how it could be in such plain sight, and yet you still hadn't been able to find it yesterday. You grabbed it to see if you had any more notifications, and found a couple more missed calls from Yoonji. Oh, she would kill you for not responding earlier. Thankfully, you found just enough signal -you still hadn't been able to predict when or how that happened- and you called back. But she didn't answer. And when you called a second time, she still didn't answer. There was no way Yoonji was anywhere away from her phone; she must have just gotten mad at you for not calling earlier and ignoring your calls. But what would you even say? That your phone magically disappeared and reappeared today? And that you were too busy, what with fearing for your life and the sex and all?

"What did you want to talk about?" you sent her a text. Whatever. If she can hold a grudge against you over this petty thing, then it couldn't have been anything too important. Let her reply whenever she wanted to.

Taehyung had already served some breakfast when you got down, but at least this time it wasn't anything too extravagant, had simply opted for some toasted bread with marmalade, a boiled egg, and orange juice. You talked about his work and your studies, almost like making small talk. Like you would if you were meeting for the first time. Which is so odd; the two of you really just do everything the other way around, don't you?

What was making things uncomfortable was the fact that the two of you weren't fighting anymore. You certainly weren't used to that. But at the same time, you weren't exactly okay. Sure, you talked and spent your time together, you cooked and ate your breakfast and lunch, you played games and even cuddled sometimes. But it was all a little tricky. Because you had to be careful not to enjoy yourselves too much and let any emotions slip and show, or be too weird and ruin what you had managed to get. You almost felt guilty for liking being around him. But at the same time, you almost didn't want your days there to end.

You didn't want to go back to your reality, to your routine. Back to where you didn't talk and hated each other. But that would require you to admit it out loud first, and you definitely weren't about to do that.

"Amy?" Taehyung called for you after he had gone upstairs to get something and you had parted ways for a good five minutes. Five minutes and you already wanted to be in the same space again.

"In the kitchen," you shouted to let him know where you were. You were making both of you some afternoon tea since you had liked it last time. And yes, you wanted another excuse to keep him around you.

The photographer came jogging into the room with a grin on. "Look what I found!" he exclaimed, raising his hands to reveal a camera. A very old-looking camera.

"That's not yours?"

He shook his head excitedly. "No! I found it in that room with all those antiques!" With two steps he appeared right next to you, showing the tool around like a little kid that had just gotten a new Lego set. "Loot at this baby! It's a Japanese Arsen from the 1940s! This is insane, I don't think they realize how good this is if they just have it laying around here."

You chuckled. You had never seen Taehyung so enthusiastic. You knew, of course, that he must love photography and the such, but he always seemed more of a show-off about it than having a genuine passion for it. And seeing anyone talk about their passions, even if you don't understand a word about them, is sure to make your heart warm up.

"And get the best part," he went on. "I have a film with me that I think can work with this!"

"You do? You just carry around old film with you like that?"

Taehyung started picking the camera apart, opening up things you didn't quite understand to check whatever he needed to. "I am in the middle of using different models of analog cameras for a festival of 100 years of photography that we got going on in two months. So, yeah, I have a variety of films with me right now." He finally set the machine on the counter and looked back at you. "I don't have the exact film this would normally take, which would be a Vest Pocket film that's black and white, right? But I do have a Rera Chrome 100, and they're both 127 format films, so it should work." You were just staring at him with a confused smile. "This is the only 127 film with color, too."

You felt like a grandma listening to her grandchildren talk about technology you didn't understand. But you were happy for him. "That's all very amazing!" you finally said. "Are you gonna take pictures?"

"Yeah, I was thinking we could try to. The camera seems good to me, I think it should be working," he mumbled more to himself, taking another look at it. "You wanna go catch fairies with this thing?"

His words caught you a bit off guard. "What? Fairies?"

"Well, you know, the rain finally stopped and they always come out afterward, like snails." You were pretty sure he was messing with you. But he did take your hand to pull you out of the kitchen. "All we need is a pretty bait, which is where you come in. You will sit between the flowers in the garden, I will take your pictures with this, and then when we develop them we can see if we managed to recreate that famous picture with the little girl hanging out with the fairies."

You chuckled. He was definitely messing with you about the fairies, but he still seemed pretty serious about the photoshoot.

"I thought fairies were bad," you responded right as he threw a coat over your shoulders to push you out of the front door.

"Depends on who you ask," he told you with a wink.

Everything outside was still damp, even the atmosphere somehow. There was the distinct smell of the rain and the fresh air probing your senses, and for the first time since you got there, the environment felt nice. Like anything bad had been washed away. The plants glowed a bit brighter, the trees swinging around more rhythmically. You almost felt like an intruder when Taehyung guided you through the garden. But he was great at making you feel more relaxed and confident to pose for him; helping people like that was part of his job, after all.

He shaped and forged you in all those different positions, steering your body, or your face and your eyes in the direction he needed, before snapping the few pictures the film provided. Always kissing you in between. Every time his lips hit yours, you almost got too distracted to remember what you were up to. But the cold breeze brought you back each time without fail. It was sad that you couldn't see the pictures right away; Taehyung swore they were gorgeous yet you were doubtful. You would have to wait to go back in town to prove him wrong, though. And that was only if you even talked again after that.

The afternoon carried on calmly. This time you didn't occupy yourselves with work or studying at all. The days that you had left there were getting fewer and fewer, and it was no secret that you wanted to enjoy each other's company; even if you would never admit it. So you just had that tea you had forgotten, played some more games, talked about this and that. It turns out you had a lot more in common than you would have guessed. And the conversation was easy as long as you didn't fight.

"Any ideas for dinner?" he asked you once it had started to get somewhat late.

You nodded immediately. You had already thought about this beforehand. "Yeah, pizza!"

"Pizza?"

You nodded again. "Yeah. You know, I used to date an Italian-American guy and he taught me the easiest way to make good pizza," you explained while you started walking towards the kitchen. "It's so easy even I can do it."

"Oh," Taehyung mumbled before following behind your step. "Used to date? Like, how long ago are we talking about?"

You chuckled at his clearly annoyed reaction, then peeped at him over your shoulder with a smirk. "Why do you care?"

He was quick to shrug. "I don't care," he insisted as he started engaging himself with anything he could find on the counter that had no real use. "It's just a little suspicious that you would just casually bring up your ex like that."

You were torn between laughing at him and rolling your eyes at his behavior. "Yeah, I brought him up because of the pizza. If I had just said I'll make us pizza I'm pretty sure you would have complained that I don't have the skills for that, so I offered an explanation."

Taehyung snorted. "It was unnecessary."

"Are you jealous?"

"No, why would I be jealous?" He was avoiding your eyes while you decided not to stall any longer and start getting the flour and the rest of the ingredients ready. "I'm just saying-" he kept talking behind you, "-people usually talk about their exes when they still have feelings for them. And if this is a recent relationship I don't want to get caught in between. I don't want any Italian-American dudes showing up, wanting smoke."

You couldn't help but chuckle, your tongue pressing on your cheek, and you finally humored him by glancing at him. "Tae, that's not going to happen. Don't worry, I'm not like you when it comes to relationships."

He didn't say anything else, simply helped you with anything you needed for dinner. He helped you with rolling out the dough, and cooking the sauce, and shredding the cheese. You were always thankful for the moments you were cooking or eating, because no matter what was going on with the two of you, these were moments of reconcilement every time.

You made two big pizzas and a smaller one. The crust was a bit thin, but you argued that it was the way Italians make it. In one of them, you played safe and simply used sauce and mozzarella cheese. On the next one, Taehyung got to decide the toppings, and he went with pretty much anything he could find that would work on a pizza. And on the smallest one, you had minimal sauce left and no cheese, so you just improvised with some spiciness and pepperonis. You really didn't know if you would be able to eat them, but Taehyung never complained.

The photographer fixed up the fireplace a bit so that you could go eat next to it again. And you're not sure if the food was actually pretty good or if you were just very hungry and in a good mood that couldn't be ruined easily, but you both ate everything fast until there wasn't even a crumb left. And you felt so proud of yourself. Treating Taehyung made you almost blush before you reminded yourself that he wasn't it; that he wasn't your boyfriend and all of this would be over the moment you left this house. That you shouldn't be feeling this way. Just because you liked the sex didn't mean you had to start liking the man, too.

"Wanna play beavers?" you asked him once you had finished and you didn't really have anything else to do. I mean, you did, but you couldn’t just ask that yet.

But Taehyung was busy with his phone, not even glancing at you. "Give me a second."

He had been on his phone for the past half an hour or so, on and off, and you had never seen him so glued to it before. It made you frown in curiosity. "Are you talking to someone?" you asked.

Taehyung nodded. "Yes, Jimin." His face was way too serious to be texting his best friend, and it made you worry a bit.

"Jimin?" you murmured, leaning closer like trying to peep at his screen, although that's not what you did. Was something wrong? Did Jimin know about you? Had something bad happened with Yoonji; is that why she wanted to talk to you? "What are you guys talking about?" you finally asked. Taehyung's jaw moved around as if he was chewing an invisible gum, and you weren’t sure what to do because you had never seen him like that. You leaned back away, feeling a little off. "Tae?"

"You," he said then.

It took you a second to realize what he was answering. "What?"

The photographer dropped his phone next to him, looking at you in the eyes at last. His scrutiny making you cower a little. "We're talking about you."

You gulped. "You told him what happened between us?"

He shook his head. "No. I didn't say anything." But it was clear that from his stance and his words, he was still not making any sense, so he carried on. "He is the one talking about you."

Somehow, that statement was worse than the one you had expected. You didn't know what Jimin could possibly be telling him, but it was certainly not anything good, given Taehyung's serious face. And suddenly your blood went cold, trying to think of anything wrong that you might have done. And you were so scared, and you didn't even know why. Were you scared of disappointing him? Of ruining the little that you had with him? Why did the idea of Taehyung being mad at you, make you feel so bad?

"Wha- what is he saying?"

He clicked his tongue. "Can I ask you something…?” he mumbled, straightening his back and rubbing his chin. “You keep saying your not like me when it comes to relationships. And you’re still mad about what I did three years ago. But what did you do then?”

You gulped. You had no idea what he was referring to, but somehow you already felt guilty. “What do you mean? What did I do?”

Taehyung leaned in closer to you. “I mean, you obviously hated me. How did you handle that? Very… maturely, like you constantly try to pretend to do?”

You huffed. “Just get to the point, dude. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The corner of his lips twitched, almost like he was about to smile, even though it was clear his mood was anything but cheerful, while his eyes bored into yours dangerously. And he took his time replying, either waiting for you to admit whatever it was he wanted to hear first, or simply to keep you sweating. And then he finally sighed. “You made up a rumor about me, didn’t you?”

It wasn’t what you suspected he would say, and for a split second, you frowned, confused by his words. “What? What rumor- what are you saying? I’ve never done such a thing.” You didn’t get all the way defensive like you normally would because even though you couldn’t understand what was going on straight away, you still felt that guilt in your stomach.

The photographer chuckled in the darkest way you had ever heard. “Oh, so you’re telling me you didn’t spread around that I had the smallest dick ever?”

You choked. “Wha- no, I- I didn’t…”

“Oh, please. Yoonji said so herself.”

You couldn’t lie; you knew exactly what he was referring to. Had you said those exact words before? Yes. Had the rumors spread around so much that everyone on campus knew about them and they eventually reached back to you? Also yes. But had you intended for that to happen? Absolutely not. You had simply told a friend of yours and then Taehyung’s reputation did the rest; he was in the spotlight, everyone was talking and wanting to know more about him.

“I wasn’t trying to spread any rumors,” you tried to excuse yourself. But the boy was already shaking his head at you, not exactly seeming to want to listen to you. “It wasn’t my fault. I just told one girl and then she-”

“But you didn’t even know!” he interrupted you with a bitter laugh. “You never saw me, you just straight-up lied. Why would you tell anyone something like that?” He didn’t sound hurt, nor angry. He mostly sounded disappointed and that was so much worse.

You definitely didn’t like fighting with Taehyung when you were clearly the one at fault. “To be fair-” you kept talking even when he wasn’t paying any attention to you, “-when I said you had a small dick, I meant metaphorically. As in you had small dick energy. 'Cause you were a cheating little shit.”

He scoffed. “You know I don’t actually care about that.” Saying that, he got up and you were immediately on your feet as well. “I never cared about those rumors, we both know how fake they are.” He paused and leaned closer to your face. “What I care about is that you started them,” he whispered, and it was so much worse than if he had chosen to yell instead. “That you keep pretending you’re oh-so-perfect and I’m the asshole who deserves nothing but hate. When all this time you were just as guilty.”

Your entire face burned, your fists so tight you could feel your nails digging in your palms. All because he was right and you hated being put in that situation. “I said- I didn’t actually mean to-”

“Tell me, if my dick’s so small, why can’t you get enough of it?”

Your jaw dropped dramatically. “I-”

“And you can’t stop screaming my name when I fuck you?”

You were pretty sure he was just trying to rile you up, and you shouldn’t just let him succeed that easily. But, god damnit, he was good at everything he was doing. Whether that was getting on your nerves or turning you on. “Gosh, I hate you!”

He laughed at you. “If you hate me so much, why can’t you keep your hands to yourself?”

He had gotten so close to you, starring down at you with a smirk, and at that point, you weren’t even sure what his mood was. Was he angry, trying to make you so, too? Or was he trying to get something else out of you? You pushed him back, the proximity choking you. “I’m the one who can’t keep my hands to herself?” you mocked. “Might I remind you who was begging me to touch him this morning?”

Taehyung licked his lips as he looked away. “Might I remind you who was thanking me for making her cum so hard last night?”

You snarled, stomping your foot on the floor. “And might I remind you who tried to get in the shower with me ‘cause he still hadn’t had enough?”

His smile faltered. And then he slightly frowned. “Not me.”

“Yes, you!”

But Taehyung shook his head, keeping up the amused look on his face. “I only joked about it, I didn’t actually do it,” he mumbled with his frown still on, confused as to why you were bringing it up. “It doesn’t count.”

Yet you pressed on. “Oh, come on, you didn’t just joke about it, you did it!”

“Did not.”

“Did too!” you insisted. “I heard you when you tried to get in the bathroom while I was showering, Taehyung. You can’t lie to me.”

Taehyung lost his smile completely. And he looked at you seriously, his frown deepening. “You heard what?”

“The doorknob,” you announced, with a smug look.

But the photographer’s expression didn’t change. “Amy, that wasn’t me. I didn’t go anywhere near the west wing today.”

The arrogance left you within a second, your face turning pale and your eyes wide, as they stared into his very similar ones. “Stop,” you murmured.

“What?”

“Stop playing!” you whined suddenly in a high-pitched voice.

But Taehyung raised his hands defensively. “I’m not! Amy, I swear, I’m not joking. I don’t know-”

Before he had time to finish his sentence, you threw your body on his, gripping his shirt tightly in your fists, holding onto him like your life depended on it. Perhaps it did. "Tae!” you cried. “Someone tried to get in the bathroom while I was showering! Taehyung, there was someone-”

“Are you sure?” he simply asked you, his eyes searching yours with worry. You knew he wasn’t lying by the way he was genuinely concerned, too. By the way his arms wrapped around you like he was trying to protect you.

You nodded frantically. “Yes! Tae, I’m telling you, someone turned the doorknob to get in, but then didn’t.”

“Maybe you got confused and thought that’s what happened, but…” Taehyung tried to say. He wasn’t saying that to invalidate your words or doubt you. He, too, was trying to think of a logical explanation as you were freaking out in his embrace.

“No, I’m 100% sure. I heard it, I saw it! Someone was outside the door, Taehyung, and they tried to get in!” Before you knew it, you had tears threatening to fall down your cheeks. “I thought it was you, I called your name. But no one responded.”

His fingers brushed your hair behind your ears as he talked in the most soothing voice he could muster. “Alright, alright. I believe you, Ames.”

“There was somebody, or- or something in here!” you continued wailing.

“Maybe it was a cleaning lady-”

“What cleaning lady, Tae?” you shrieked. “Have you seen any ladies in here?”

But he held your face firmer, forcing you to look into his eyes. “It must have been. Maybe she wanted to get in the bathroom, realized you were inside, and left.”

You sniffed at him, looking over your shoulder to check the room as if you would find anything out of place. “That’s just wishful thinking and you know it.” Then you buried your face right into his chest, your grip tightening. “This place is haunted! This place is haunted and we’re gonna die!”

He let you go just so that he could grab your wrists and pull your hands away from your face so that he could look at you. “Amy, no,” he rasped. “No one’s gonna die.”

“I want to leave,” you whined again, your tears blocking your view and unable to meet Taehyung’s concerned eyes. But you could still feel his thumb caressing your cheek, whipping those tears away. And it still calmed you down as much as possible.

“Hey, okay,” Taehyung mumbled before he started walking towards the door while pulling you with him. “Okay, okay…” he kept repeating under his breath as he led you through the corridor and toward the main hall. You were confused as to what he was doing until he reached for that old phone sitting on a small coffee table.

“What are you doing?” you asked. “Are you calling the owners?” Your sniffs and sobs died down, seeing more clearly now as you watched Taehyung roll in the number that was written on a card next to the phone without looking at you.

“Yes, we need to get to the bottom of this,” he stated as he raised the phone to his ear.

“Tae, why are you calling the people at this hour? You will disturb them,” you almost whispered.

But he shook his head sternly. “No, it’s more important that you feel safe. Plus, they did say we could call any time.” Before you could say another thing, Taehyung started speaking on the phone. “Good evening, I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you. Yeah, no, everything’s alright. I was just calling to ask you about the housekeepers. Yeah. Do you know if they came in this morning?”

The conversation was making you a little uncomfortable; you were never the kind to confront people at work. But just the act on behalf of Taehyung was already making you feel better. “What’re they saying?” you mouthed, and he glanced at you, his hold on your hand getting a bit stronger as though to console you.

“No, nothing’s lost. We just had a situation; we didn’t see anyone here and I wanted to know around what time they’re here.” He was nodding along to whatever the woman on the other end of the line was telling him. And while he listened, his thumb started drawing circles over your hand absentmindedly. “Yes, I think one of them tried to get in the bathroom while my friend was there- No, no, nothing like that. She was just curious to know if it was one of them. Yes. Yes, I understand.” Taehyung gave you another look, noticing how your teeth were digging into your lip, and smiled at you. “Could you? Thank you, that would be great. Yes, thank you. Have a nice evening.”

And with that, he hung up. And he turned completely toward you and smiled brighter. But he wasn’t saying anything; just looked at you like he was admiring your beauty like he forgot you were still anxiously waiting for the results of the conversation. “So?” you asked.

Taehyung leaned in and gave you a peck on the lips, holding your face with both hands. “They were here this morning and the lady said one of them probably tried to get in the bathroom to get some cleaning supplies. She said she will ask and tomorrow morning they will talk to us, okay?”

You chewed on your lip as you watched his face so close to yours. This all sounded so ridiculous suddenly; they had seriously called in for something like that? But Taehyung didn’t once make you feel like you were overreacting. He didn’t see it like that. He thought you had every right to be scared, you had every right to feel panic. And he would do anything to calm you down, to make you feel protected, as well as actually protect you if he had to. His whole stance and presence made you feel at ease.

You wrapped your arms around him and hugged him tightly. “Yes. Thank you,” you murmured against his neck.

You heard him take in a deep breath like he was trying to take in all of your aroma as if it would be his last chance. And then he sighed as he exhaled. “Don’t go anywhere, Amy. It’s more dangerous for you to leave right now.” It was a long way home on a muddy road with no lights or anything close-by for help. Late at night, with rain threatening to pick up soon and a terrible signal. Of course he didn’t want to let you go of his arms.

You shook your head a bit, still buried in the crook on his neck. “I know. I won’t leave.” You had managed to calm down a surprisingly good deal. Even though you had nothing more of an answer as to what was happening in that Manor than you did earlier when you were just guessing, it felt good enough. Taehyung was there, ready to help you in any way he could, and it was enough.

“We should just forget about this and go to sleep,” he whispered before pulling away to look at you. “Then we can see what happens in the morning, okay?” You almost started to get nervous again, your fingers gripping his shirt immediately. Without having to say anything, the photographer noticed the change in your eyes. “Don’t worry, nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to hurt you, I will be right here to keep you safe all night. Okay?”

You pouted. “You won’t leave me alone?”

He immediately shook his head. “No, not at all, baby. I won’t leave you from my sight for a second.”

He led you to his room on the east wing, a bigger and darker room than your own. Yet somehow it felt safer, too. Perhaps because Taehyung’s energy was all over the place. A pretty and slightly scary at first room, but once inside, it’s inviting and better than the rest. That was definitely Taehyung’s energy.

He had you seated on the king-sized bed with the raven covers while he locked the door, then pushed a dresser in front of it as well, for good measure. He drew the curtains in front of the balcony door and lit up a couple of lamps around the room to make sure you would have light even after switching off the main one. And after having affirmed time and time again that you felt as safe as possible in there with him, he came to meet you in the bed. To give you another peck on the lips and hold your face a few seconds more. Looking at you like it would be the last time he would be able to.

“Let me give you something more comfortable to wear,” he offered when he noticed your jeans and how neither of you had thought about making a stop to your room before coming here.

You pointed at the shirt he was wearing. “Can I have this?” You didn’t want just anything, you wanted something that had his scent still all over it. To make you feel like you were being hugged by the boy himself.

Taehyung nodded. There was no way he would say no to you, and it wasn’t even because of the panic attack you had had earlier. In actuality, he had more or else been treating you like that from the beginning of your days here. Like deep down it was the only way he wanted to act around you; even if he liked to tease or rile you up every now and then. He probably only did that just to play into your idea of him and not scare you away with his affection.

Taehyung took off both his shirt and pants, getting in bed just with his briefs on. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, licking his lips. You didn’t mind, but it did make you a bit flustered. Ridding yourself from your clothing too, you put on his shirt and joined him.

He immediately turned you into the little spoon, snaking his limbs around your body and caging you against his. He nuzzled his nose in your neck, giving you a couple of kisses right under your ear, but other than that there was nothing sexual about his advance. He simply held you close to keep you safe like he had promised. Cuddling into you like it was something so natural, like you had been doing it for years. And his breath on your skin felt like company, his heartbeat on your back like a lullaby, his warmth and entire presence like a shield.

It almost ached you how good you felt at that moment. Good because you loved being with Taehyung, and ached because you wouldn’t be with him for much longer.

You cleared your throat, the sound filling the quiet room entirely. “I’m sorry I spread rumors about your penis,” you whispered, hanging your head low.

A low rumble of a laugh was heard muffled from behind you. “It’s alright,” Taehyung reassured you, holding you tighter. “Even with rumors like that, every girl still wanted to fuck me. And then they could be met with a pleasant surprise, right?”

You rolled your eyes as you could tell he just wanted to make you say it. “Right…” you admitted, without going into further detail about how big he actually was. “But still, I shouldn’t have talked bad about you just because I was mad.”

He continued chuckling, clearly finding your apology amusing. Maybe because he didn’t actually see the need for one, had already moved past the subject. “It’s really fine. Plus, they only lasted a couple of months before I completely disproved them.”

You rolled your eyes again. “By fucking the entire campus.”

“You have to do what you have to do.”

You knew it was a joke but it still served as a pretty good reminder of the fuckboy he really was. Of how different the two of you really were, on a fundamental level, even if staying in that house together had overshadowed that a bit.

“You haven’t been in an actual relationship since I’ve met you, have you?” you asked, not sure why.

Taehyung ran his nose up and down the slope of your neck for a couple of seconds like a predator circling his prey. “No,” he admitted then. “Relationships aren’t really my thing.”

“Not surprising.”

“What about you?” His hands were stroking your body, not in an erotic way, simply just feeling you up while he still could.

“I only do relationships,” you replied. “One-night-stands aren’t really my thing.”

See? Fundamentally different. Even if you didn’t have everything that was already holding you back, you would still probably never work. And no, the one week on vacation here doesn’t count. Because when you are trapped away in a Victorian Manor, with no other communications, in a world so contrasting to your actual routine, with a promise that when it’s all over, it really is… all over. Then you are bound to act some type of way. You are bound to seak the other’s company, you are bound to forget about the rules, you are bound to give yourself in for a romance with an expiration date. Right?

“I’m glad you made an exception for me, then,” Taehyung whispered in your ear. And you couldn’t help but turn to look at him.

Exception. Because this wasn’t a relationship; this wasn’t going to last. Whether it would end tomorrow or the day after that barely even mattered. What mattered was that the photographer and you were a one-time thing. A one-in-a-million thing. A thing that would never, ever repeat itself. And if you liked kissing him and wanted to do it for a bit longer, you had to keep it to yourself. And if you didn’t even want this night to dawn so that you never had to leave, you couldn’t admit it aloud. And if you wished you were his exception instead, you had to just accept you weren’t.

You closed the tiny gap between you and kissed him; softly. Because this might be your last chance to do so. And he let his lips be guided in your rhythm, dipped a hand through your hair to pull you as close as you wanted to be. You couldn’t entirely see the point of indulging in an act that made your stomach rouse like never before, when you knew how it would end. Why would you let yourself get used to something so sweet, when you know you’ll only ever be chasing that high from then on? Then again, you couldn’t stop. You kept kissing him, deeper and firmer, because why wouldn’t you indulge in this while you could?

Even as your kiss became more passionate, your bodies squirming and pressing against one another more desperately, this continued to be the softest you had ever been with him. Almost like there was something more than lust at play there. And even though you could feel his dick hardening on your hip, and your panties soaking up in your wetness, even though you both clearly wanted more, neither made that move. Your lips and tongues were enough; you wanted to take your time to memorize exactly how that alone felt.

And when you had plenty of that, you straddled him gently to press down on his erection with your wet core.

“Ah, Amy,” he moaned, his mouth dropping open. “Fuck me.” It was a kind request, the man’s brain having rotten from desire and you appearing like his sole savior in the moment. His hands traveled down your body, to hold your thighs as you ground on him, sneak under his shirt and pull it over your head. Then they reached your breasts, massaging them like a kid messing with playdough. “Baby, use me.”

You growled as you pressed down on him harder, throwing your head back. Your fingers ran through his hair and you pulled it, making him whine. You loved those eager sounds he made so much. You couldn’t imagine never hearing them again.

You didn’t want to waste any more time. “Do you have a condom?”

He sighed, biting his lip with a pained expression like he just remembered, too. “I- I don’t. Only had one in my wallet, didn’t exactly think I’d get some here.”

It was clear he felt bad, thinking that meant you would stop. And he was ready to accept it. But you were too far gone for that. You couldn’t give two fucks if you had protection or not; there was nothing stopping you from feeling him where you wanted him tonight.

“It’s okay,” you said, surprising him a bit. And right away, you pulled his briefs down to free his cock that stood hard against his lower abdomen. “Just tell me before you cum.” And, with a swift movement, you pushed your panties to the side and lined him up with your entrance.

Taehyung, still somewhat processing what you were doing, widened his eyes and growled when his naked head brushed on your wet pussy. He quite literally howled as you started slowly sinking on him, spasming from how good you felt around him. And you were close to doing the same. You weren’t sure if it was the rawness of it, the intimacy of your treatment earlier, or the adrenaline from even before that, but Taehyung inside you felt so good you almost orgasmed before even bottoming out, your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your lips digging in your bottom lip.

“Gosh, princess, I love— this so much,” Taehyung moaned once he could feel all of you, his dick curved inside and pressing straight on your cervix. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”

As by his order, you started rocking up and down. Arching your back to move back and forth smoothly, and in circles, and in any way that made your man make those delicious sounds. His hands held you like you were something to worship, a goddess, as he helped you in your movements. Until you were dripping sweat and your knees hurt so much you fell forward to crush your body on his. That’s when he hugged you and started thrusting up inside you, all while kissing your forehead sweetly. You ground on him, trying to get your clit to rub against his pubic bone in order to build up your climax.

“Good girl,” Taehyung purred in your ear. Because he knew you were close, and he knew how much his words and his voice affected you. He wanted to push you over the edge with just that. “You make me feel so good, baby.” You whined in response. “You and your perfect, little cunt. Feels so good wrapped around me like that.” And you whined again, picking up the pace of grinding against him, chasing your high. “I want to feel you cumming on me, princess. Want your cum all over my bare dick.”

In his attempt to make you orgasm, his thrust became deeper and harder, and they were immediately attacking your g-spot. You cried out loud, the sensation of it along with the constant stimulation of your clit being a little too much. Your pending climax suddenly felt like so much you tried to hold back. “Tae-” you whined, trying to push back.

But his arms held you down on him more firmly. “No, no, don’t fight it. Give me everything you got.” And he continued to hit that spot inside you, pressing two fingers on your clit as well. And you had an orgasm building upon orgasm, and it was getting uncontrollably big. “Give it to me.” Your mouth fell open in a cry as you reached beyond the point of going back, yet still tried to hold it in. But Taehyung kept thrusting, kept begging. “Please, baby, please cum on me.”

How could you refuse that? You spilled on him before you could understand what was happening, screaming his name at the top of your lungs as more and more spurt sprayed out of you and onto his stomach, like it was never-ending. The high you were ridding was never-ending. A high you had never experienced before, a high you didn’t want to get off, a high sure to make you fall in love.

“That was so hot-” It was the first thing you heard after who knows how long. After you managed to recollect your mind and see in front of you again. And then you realized Taehyung was no longer inside of you; he had pulled you off him and released his own cum against your ass while you were blacked out.

When you looked down, it was a mess. You quickly got off him. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” you said.

“Princess, what are you apologizing for?” Taehyung grabbed your arm to pull you back close to him. He kissed your lips softly. “You looked like you had such fun, never apologize for that.

You bit your lip as your eyes were still glued on his glistening belly. “I… I think I… Did I just squirt?”

Taehyung smiled at your innocent and shocked expression. “You did. And I liked it so much.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Was that your first time?” he asked when he saw you were still processing everything. And when you nodded shyly, he pulled you in for another soft kiss. “First of many to come,” he said.

Almost like he was promising he would be there to make sure that was the case.

The bed was big enough for you to lazily clean yourselves and roll to a drier side to sleep. Taehyung wrapped his arms and legs around you again, the same way he had done before, nuzzling into you like you were a teddy bear. And you closed your eyes and allowed yourself to melt and mold against his body in a way that it would be the perfect fit.

The fear of the haunted Manor forgotten. The only thing on your minds being each other.

Next Chapter

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