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whoretan · 6 months ago

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ARK 45 | 03

Summary: One misstep spirals into chaos. An "audition," a quiet dinner—and suddenly, you’re in the lion's den, with secrets unraveling faster than you can catch your breath.

WC: 11.4k

Play me while you read.

Pairing: Club Owner/Mafia!Jungkook, Hitman!Reader (ft. Jimin)

tags: um, this is long af, shit is getting INTEEEENSE, everyone is up to no good, does this bitch have a degradation kink?

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 (ur here)

Your heels click against the marble floor, each step echoing like a gunshot in your skull. The security guard barely glances up as you flash your ID, probably because you look like death warmed over.

You'd spent an hour in the shower trying to scrub away the feeling of Jimin's hands, his mouth against your skin. The memory burns through your mind like acid, making your stomach clench.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding that feels too cheerful for your current state of mind. You step inside, jabbing the button for the executive floor harder than what was necessary. Your reflection stares back at you from the mirrored walls, and you note with grim satisfaction that at least the bruises on your cheeks have faded to a dull pink. The ones on your shoulders, hidden beneath your crisp white blouse, are a different story.

The massive oak doors leading to Jimin's office loom at the end of the hallway like sentries. You force yourself to look away, focusing instead on the mundane task of settling into your desk and powering up your computer.

Your phone vibrates in your purse, making you jump. Unknown number. Odd. You consider letting it go to voicemail, but something makes you answer.

"Hello?"

"Joanna Webb?" A smooth female voice asks. Your stomach drops at the fake name. No fucking way. "This is Jessica from ARK 45. Mr. Jeon would like you to come in for a second interview tonight at 11."

Your throat goes dry. Jimin's office doors seem to mock you from down the hall, holding secrets you'd rather forget.

"Miss Webb?" The woman prompts. "Are you there?"

"Yes," you hear yourself say. "I'll be there."

You end the call, fingers trembling slightly as you lower the phone. The familiar ding of your email draws your attention to the screen.

Dear Park Incorporate, This is the Goutman Courier Services, regarding Shipment 401928 to the Terrero region has been successfully delivered.

The blood in your veins turns to ice. Jungkook's shipments. The very thing that started this whole mess.

You stand from your desk, legs unsteady. The walk to Jimin's office feels like a death march. Each step brings you closer to facing him, to pretending last night never happened while discussing business that could— probably will— get you both killed.

Your knuckles rap against the solid wood before you can lose your nerve.

"Come in."

Jimin's voice carries through the door, professional and detached. As if he hadn't left bruises on your skin just hours ago. As if you weren't still feeling the ghost of his touch with every breath.

You turn the handle, stepping into the lion's den.

The first thing you notice is the sound– rain beating against the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the back wall of his office. The second is the scent of his cologne, stronger now, mixing with the rich leather of his chair and something else. Coffee, maybe. Black, no sugar, like always.

Jimin doesn't look up from the stack of papers on his desk. His shoulders are rigid beneath his tailored suit jacket, an unusual tension in his normally fluid posture. A strand of black hair falls across his forehead as he signs something with careful precision.

"You received an email," you say, voice steady despite the way your pulse quickens when his pen stills. "Goutman Courier Services. The shipment to Terrero was delivered."

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Still, he doesn't look up. "Close the door."

You turn, giving him your back as you push the heavy door shut. The soft click of the latch feels too loud in the quiet office. When you face him again, his eyes are fixed on the papers before him, but his pen hasn't moved.

"Anything else?" he asks, tone professionally distant. As if he hadn't left marks all over your body mere hours ago. As if you couldn't still feel the ghost of his fingers wrapped around your throat.

Thunder rolls outside, making the windows tremble. You take a measured step forward, heels sinking into the plush carpet. "ARK 45 called. They want me to come in tonight."

Now he looks up. His dark eyes find yours, and for a moment, that careful mask of indifference slips. Something hungry flashes across his features before he can catch it, gone so quickly you might have imagined it.

"Interesting." He leans back in his chair, finally abandoning the pretense of working. His fingers drum once against the leather armrest – the only tell that he's affected at all. "What time?"

"Eleven."

His gaze drifts to your neck, lingering just behind your ear. A slight furrow appears between his brows. "You missed one."

Heat crawls up your spine as his meaning registers. The hickey. You resist the urge to touch the spot, to cover it like a guilty teenager. Instead, you maintain eye contact, watching as his pupils dilate slightly.

"I'll take care of it," you say, voice low. Professional. Even as your skin burns under his scrutiny.

He nods once, sharp and dismissive. "That's all."

You turn to leave, focusing on keeping your steps measured, unhurried. The weight of his stare follows you across the room like a physical touch. Just as your fingers brush the door handle, his voice stops you.

"And ___?"

You pause, not turning around. "Yes?"

A beat of silence, filled only by the steady drumming of rain. Then, so quiet you almost miss it: "Be careful."

The words settle between your shoulder blades like a blade.

The handle feels like ice beneath your palm as you pull the door shut behind you. Your heels click against the marble with each step back to your desk, mind racing behind your carefully blank expression.

Be careful.

The words replay in your mind as you sink into your chair. Coming from Jimin, they may as well be a death sentence. He doesn't tell you to be careful– not when you're tracking targets, not when you're disposing of bodies, not even when you're playing with fire in the form of Richard Ricci's empire.

Why would Jungkook want you back?

The question pulses through your mind as you stare unseeing at your computer screen. He'd made it crystal clear what he thought of you. Called you a whore before walking away like you were nothing more than a mild inconvenience in his night.

But he'd known who you were.

He'd known, and he'd still let you grind against him, his hands guiding your hips like he owned them. Like he wasn't fully aware that those same hips had been positioned over his father's body weeks before.

Rain continues to pour outside your window, the sky growing darker as evening approaches. You spend the rest of the day moving through the motions of being a secretary, all while your mind dissects every possible angle. Every potential trap. Every way this could end with you in a body bag.

Your reflection catches in one of ARK 45's tinted windows as you approach. The black dress hugs every curve, falling just below your knees, the off-shoulder neckline exposing enough skin to be enticing without looking desperate.

You'd curled your hair, letting it fall in waves behind your shoulders, and painted your lips the exact shade of red that coats the bottoms of your Louboutins.

The neon sign bleeds red through the rain, and the bouncer simply nods, same from before, pulls the door open without a word. No clipboard. No questions.

They're expecting you.

The main floor of ARK 45 pulses with a different energy tonight. Gone are the typical strobe lights and pounding bass, replaced by something deeper, darker. The air is thick with expensive cologne, cigar smoke, and worn leather- the scent of old money and even older sins.

Red velvet drapes frame the main stage, and crystal chandeliers cast shadows that dance across the walls like wandering spirits. The usual poles have vanished, leaving an expanded platform dotted with vintage microphones and elaborate props.

Men in tailored suits crowd the tables, drinking amber liquid from crystal glasses while their eyes follow the girls who weave between tables in elaborate costumes - corsets dripping with jewels, feathers that trail behind them like oil spills.

"This way," the hostess says, leading you toward one of the elevated booths that line the upper level.

A voice like honey and smoke fills the space, drawing your attention to the stage. A woman in a black corset trails her fingers down the microphone stand, her red lips forming words that make the men below her lean forward in their seats. The backing track builds slowly, promising something sinful.

"You must be the new girl."

You turn to find a woman leaning against the railing beside you. Her costume- if you can call it that - consists mainly of strategically placed crystals and black lace. A snake tattoo winds up her thigh, disappearing beneath the lace.

"I'm Angelina," she says, eyes scanning you with the kind of attention usually reserved for identifying weaknesses. Her gaze lingers on your shoes, your dress, calculating something behind her practiced smile. "Haven't seen you around before."

You take her offered hand. "Joanna."

"Hmm." She tilts her head, studying you like a cat who's found something interesting to play with. "Private booth on your first night? That's... unusual."

The word carries weight, a warning wrapped in curiosity. On stage, the singer's voice builds to a crescendo, and Angelina's smile sharpens.

"Enjoy the show, honey. And remember,” she leans in close enough that her breath tickles your ear, "not everyone survives their first night here."

You watch Angelina sashay away, cataloging every detail with the same precision you use before a kill. The slight favor of her left leg when she walks- old injury, probably a torn ACL. The way her eyes dart periodically to the VIP section as if she's waiting for someone's attention. The calculated swing of her hips doesn't match the nervousness in her fingers as they tap against her thigh.

She's scared of something. Or someone.

The realization brings a familiar thrill to your spine, the same one you'd felt watching John squirm in his chair. People are always so easy to read when they're afraid. Like now, watching the way Angelina keeps glancing over her shoulder, the slight tremor in her practiced smile.

You could break her in half without smudging your lipstick.

The thought brings a smile to your face as the hostess gestures to the booth. You slide into the plush leather seat, letting the elevation give you a better vantage point of the club. The strategic positioning isn't lost on you- perfect view of the stage, but your back exposed to the door.

The opening notes of "Fever" fill the air as the curtains part. Three dancers emerge, their movements liquid and practiced. You force yourself to appear engaged even as your mind dissects every possible exit route. Two through the main floor, one through the kitchen if you cut through the service corridor, and, if things get really ugly, the large windows could work with enough momentum.

The leather seat dips beside you.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't show."

Your blood turns to ice in your veins. You don't need to turn to know who's joined you, his presence alone sets every instinct on high alert. But you do turn because that's what an innocent wannabe dancer would do.

Jungkook lounges against the leather like he was born to it, one arm draped across the back of the seat. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kill. His dark eyes find yours, and his lips curve into that same arrogant smile that had haunted you all day.

"I always keep my appointments, Mr. Jeon."

The lights from the stage catch on his Patek Philippe watch, the kind that costs more than most people make in a year. His black suit is perfectly tailored, each line custom cut to his frame, making him look like sin personified. The fabric shifts like liquid shadow as he moves, revealing the crisp white shirt beneath. His hair is slicked back tonight, showcasing the sharp angle of his jaw, the dangerous curve of his lips.

A heavy silver ring adorns his right hand as he signals for service, the same hand that had gripped your hips days ago. You notice there's an engraving on it, but can't make out the details in the dim lighting.

"Champagne," he tells the server without taking his eyes off you. "The Armand de Brignac."

His voice carries that same arrogant lilt from before, but there's something else there now. Something predatory lurking beneath the polished surface. You've heard that tone before, in your own voice, right before you go for the kill.

"Expensive taste," you comment, watching his reaction. Testing.

His lips quirk upward, and he shifts slightly closer. The movement is subtle, calculated. Like a snake coiling before it strikes. "I only invest in things that interest me."

On stage, the dancers move through their routine, all glitter and grace. But you're hyperaware of every micro-expression that crosses Jungkook's face. The slight tightening around his eyes when he smiles. The controlled way he breathes. The steady rhythm of his thumb taps against his knee.

He's studying you just as intently.

"Tell me about your dance experience," he says, accepting two crystal flutes from the returning server. The champagne glows golden in the low light as he hands you a glass. "You seem... experienced in movement."

Your fingers brush his as you take the glass, and you swear you feel him tense for a fraction of a second. "I'm versatile," you reply, matching his tone. "I adapt to whatever the situation requires."

Something dark flashes behind his eyes. He takes a slow sip of champagne, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. When he lowers the glass, his tongue darts out to catch a stray drop on his bottom lip.

"Adaptability is crucial in this line of work." His gaze drops to your neck, lingering on the spot where you'd covered the hickey. "Things can get... intense here. Not everyone can handle the pressure."

The implications hover in the air between you, sharp as razor wire. Below, the music swells to a crescendo, but all you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears as he leans closer.

"Are you sure you can handle it, Joanna?"

The way he says your fake name makes your skin crawl. Like he's savoring some private joke.

You meet his gaze over the rim of your glass, letting the champagne sit untouched. "I've handled more intense situations than you could imagine, Mr. Jeon."

The corner of his mouth twitches. He shifts again, angling his body toward yours, and the expensive fabric of his suit brushes against your bare shoulder. The contact sends electricity racing down your spine.

"Have you?" His eyes are impossibly dark in the low light. "Tell me about them."

On stage, one of the dancers lets out a sultry laugh that echoes through the club. Jungkook doesn't even blink. His attention is laser-focused on you, waiting for your next move like this is all some elaborate game of chess.

"My last position was..." you pause, watching his ring catch the light as his fingers tighten infinitesimally around his glass, "particularly demanding. The kind of job that keeps you up at night."

His smile grows wider, showing teeth. "I can imagine. But that's what I appreciate in my employees— dedication. The willingness to do whatever it takes."

The music shifts to something slower, heavier with bass. Jungkook's knee brushes yours under the table, and this time it doesn't feel accidental.

"Even if it means getting your hands dirty?" you ask, the words escaping before you can stop them.

Something flashes in his eyes, triumph, maybe. Or hunger. He leans in close enough that you can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Especially then," he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. "Though I have to admit, you don't strike me as someone afraid of a little mess."

Your heart pounds against your ribs as he reaches across you, arm brushing your collarbone as he sets his empty glass on the table. The movement brings his lips close to your ear.

"Tell me, Joanna," your false name drips from his tongue like honey-coated poison, "what exactly are you willing to do for this position?"

The question hangs between you like a blade. You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze at close range. This close, you can see flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint scar above his eyebrow. Can count his individual lashes.

"Whatever's necessary," you breathe, watching his pupils dilate. "I'm very... thorough in my work."

His exhale ghosts across your lips. "Are you?" One hand slides from the back of the booth to rest on your bare shoulder, fingers tracing patterns that feel like threats. "Even when it gets messy?"

The touch burns through your skin, but you hold still. Like facing down a predator. "The messier the better, Mr. Jeon."

His grip tightens fractionally on your shoulder. "Call me Jungkook."

On stage, the music builds to something primal, all bass and breathy moans. The dancer's silhouette writhes against the backdrop of red velvet. But in your booth, time seems to stop, crystallizing around the dangerous game you're playing.

"You know," his thumb brushes your collarbone, "I had someone look into your background."

Your pulse skips, but you don't flinch. Can't flinch. "Find anything interesting?"

His laugh is low, dark. The kind of sound that promises violence. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing before six months ago." His fingers trail up to the spot behind your ear where Jimin's mark had been. "It's like you appeared out of thin air."

"Maybe I did."

"Or maybe," he leans impossibly closer, lips brushing your ear, "you're very good at covering your tracks."

Heat pools in your stomach, warring with the ice in your veins. Every instinct screams to put distance between you, to run. But you're trapped between his body and the leather seat, his cologne filling your lungs with each breath.

"Tell me, Jungkook," you turn your head, letting your lips brush his jaw as you speak, "do you always investigate your dancers so thoroughly?"

His other hand finds your knee beneath the table, fingers splaying across bare skin. "Only the interesting ones." His grip tightens, thumb stroking slow circles that make your breath catch. "Only the ones with secrets."

You feel his smile against your temple. "And you, Joanna? You seem like you're full of them."

His thumb continues its torturous path along your knee, each circle drawing slightly higher. The touch burns through your skin like a brand, setting every nerve ending alight. You can't remember the last time someone made you feel this unraveled, this desperate to maintain control while your body betrays every attempt at composure.

"So many secrets," he murmurs against your skin, and you can feel his smile widening. His cologne fills your lungs with each shortened breath, making your head spin. Or maybe that's from the heat of his palm sliding higher up your thigh, fingers splaying possessively across bare skin.

The rational part of your brain screams that this is dangerous, that you're losing control of the situation. But your treacherous body leans into his heat like a moth to flame. Your eyes flutter shut as his other hand traces patterns on your shoulder that feel like ownership, like promises of violence wrapped in silk.

His breath fans across your neck, lips barely grazing your pulse point. "I wonder what other surprises you're hiding."

A small sound escapes your throat- half gasp, half surrender. Your fingers grip the leather seat beneath you, nails digging in deep enough to leave crescents in the expensive material. The music from the stage feels distant, muffled under the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

Then. A shift.

The pressure of his fingers lessens incrementally. His breath moves away from your neck, the loss of heat making you suppress a shiver. When you force your eyes open, he's leaning back slightly, watching you with dark satisfaction.

"Tell me something," he says, voice dropping lower as his hand stills on your thigh. "Do you always get this... affected during job interviews?"

The question cuts through the haze like ice water. You watch as he withdraws completely, each movement deliberate and controlled. He straightens his perfect suit jacket, adjusts the heavy silver ring on his finger. All trace of intimacy bleeds from his expression, replaced by cool professionalism, except his eyes. His eyes still burn with dark amusement at your flushed state, at the way your chest still rises and falls too quickly.

"Well," he says, tone shifting to something lighter, almost casual. But there's a edge underneath, sharp as a razor. "I think you'll make an excellent addition to ARK 45."

You force your breathing to steady, trying to ignore how your skin still tingles where he touched you. How your body aches at the sudden loss of contact. His calculated withdrawal feels like another form of torture, knowing he can affect you this way and simply choose to stop, like flipping a switch.

"The position is yours, if you want it." Each word is crisp, businesslike. But the slight quirk of his lips betrays his satisfaction at your struggle to compose yourself. "You'll start tomorrow night. Eight sharp."

The smirk playing at the corners of his mouth grows wider as he watches you process this shift. This is what he wanted: to prove he could unmake you with a touch, then sit there looking perfectly composed while you try to piece yourself back together.

His eyes gleam in the low light, and the message is clear: he owns this game.

"I should check on the other girls." He glances at his Patek Philippe, the gesture unnecessarily theatrical. "Busy night."

You watch him stand, every movement fluid and precise. Like a predator who's finished playing with his food for now. The leather of his shoes catches the stage lights as he steps back from the booth, giving him just enough space to button his suit jacket with practiced ease.

"Oh, and Joanna?" The fake name rolls off his tongue like a threat wrapped in velvet. "Wear red tomorrow. It suits you."

His eyes drift pointedly to your lips, then lower, and the weight of his gaze feels like a physical touch. You know he's remembering the other night - you in that red dress, grinding against him to The Weeknd while he played along with your charade.

He turns without waiting for a response, without a second glance. Like you're already forgotten. The dismissal stings more than it should.

The leather seat still holds his warmth, a ghost of his presence that makes your skin prickle. Through the crowd below, you catch glimpses of him, the broad line of his shoulders, the predatory grace in his movements. Bodies part for him instinctively, and you notice how the other dancers' eyes follow his movement, some with hunger, others with barely concealed fear. Even Angelina straightens her spine when he passes.

He stops at the bar, and even from here, you can see how the bartender's hands shake slightly as she pours his drink. Everyone in his orbit seems to vibrate at a different frequency. Like planets circling a black hole, both drawn to and terrified of getting too close.

You press your own trembling fingers against the cool glass table, watching condensation gather beneath your skin. Your thigh still burns where he touched you, each point of contact a silent reminder of how easily he'd played you.

You're supposed to be better than this. You've tortured men twice his size without breaking a sweat. Have ended lives with the same hands that are now unsteady against the table's surface. The Viper doesn't get rattled by pretty boys in expensive suits.

Except Jungkook isn't just a pretty boy, is he?

The way he'd touched you, like he knew exactly how it would affect you. How he'd pulled back at the precise moment you started to lose control. Each word, each gesture calculated for maximum impact.

Wear red tomorrow.

Your lip catches between your teeth as you watch him disappear into his office. The entire interaction plays on loop in your mind: his fingers on your skin, that dangerous smile, the sudden shift to cool professionalism. Like a choreographed dance where you'd somehow missed half the steps.

On stage, the dancers transition into something slower, more sensual. The spotlight catches on their jewels, sending fractured light across the walls like broken glass. Like the shattered pieces of your usually impeccable composure.

What kind of game is he really playing?

The champagne bubbles mock you from their crystal prison, and you resist the urge to knock the glass over. To create some small chaos in his perfectly controlled world. Instead, you dig your nails deeper into your palms, using the sharp pain to center yourself.

Two can play at whatever this is. Tomorrow night, you'll be ready for him.

At least, you hope.

The untouched champagne mocks you as you finally push yourself up from the booth. Your legs feel steadier now, the trembling in your hands replaced by something more familiar: determination. Tomorrow, you'll be ready for whatever game Jungkook's playing. Tonight, you just need to get the fuck out of here.

The music thrums through your bones as you navigate the upper level, each step carefully measured in your Louboutins. The red soles flash with every movement, reminding you of his parting words.

Wear red tomorrow.

Your heel catches on the last step down from the VIP section when a solid wall of expensive fabric collides with you. The sound of glass shattering cuts through the music, followed by a string of creative expletives.

"What the fuck?"

You steady yourself against the railing, taking in the man before you. Honey-blonde hair, sharp features twisted in fury, and a white button-down now soaked through with what smells like top-shelf whiskey. The liquid darkens the fabric, making it cling to what's clearly an expertly muscled frame.

"Watch where you're fucking walking," he snarls, accent thick with anger. His eyes flash dangerously as he assesses the damage to his clothes.

Something hot and familiar rises in your chest. The same feeling you get right before you make someone bleed. Your body shifts automatically, weight transferring to the balls of your feet. You catalog his weaknesses with practiced ease - the slight favor of his left side, the exposed tendons in his neck, the way his anger makes him drop his guard.

Three moves. That's all it would take to put him on his knees. Heel to instep, elbow to throat, knee to solar plexus. You can almost taste the violence, feel the satisfying crunch of cartilage beneath your hands.

"Maybe you should watch where you're going," you snap back, straightening to your full height. "Or is spatial awareness not a requirement for whatever it is you do here?"

His eyes narrow, jaw clenching. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

Your fingers curl into a fist, nails biting crescents into your palm. The urge to hurt him pulses through your veins like poison. You imagine grabbing the broken glass at his feet, showing him exactly who you are by opening his throat right here on the club floor.

He notices your stance, the predatory stillness that's overtaken your body, and his lips curve into something cruel. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Try it."

You're moving before you can think better of it, body coiling like a spring. The distance between you closes to inches, and you can smell the whiskey on his breath, see the moment his eyes widen as he realizes his mistake in challenging you.

But then you catch it— movement in your peripheral vision. In the VIP section above, Jungkook lounges against the railing, watching the scene unfold with undisguised amusement. His dark eyes meet yours, and that familiar smirk plays at his lips.

The reminder of where you are, who you're supposed to be, hits like cold water.

You force your body to relax, untangling yourself from the knife's edge of violence. The smile you plaster on feels like broken glass in your mouth. "I'm so sorry about your shirt. Send me the cleaning bill?"

The blonde's eyebrows shoot up at your sudden shift in demeanor. He opens his mouth to respond, but Jungkook's voice cuts through the tension.

"Taehyung." Just the one word, but it carries weight. A warning, maybe. Or a command.

Taehyung's posture changes instantly, though the anger still simmers in his eyes. "We're not done," he mutters, low enough that only you can hear.

You watch him stalk toward the VIP section, those expensive shoes crushing broken glass beneath them. When you glance back up, Jungkook is still watching you. His grin widens like you've just confirmed something he suspected.

Like you've just played right into his hands.

The broken glass crunches beneath your heels as you turn away, forcing yourself to maintain an easy stride despite the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. You can feel Jungkook's eyes following your movement, heavy as a physical touch. But you don't look back. Won't give him the satisfaction.

The main floor feels suffocating now, with too many bodies, and too much perfume mixed with smoke and expensive liquor. Your skin prickles with awareness, hyperconscious of how many of these faces might report back to him. How many are watching your exit, cataloging every micro-expression?

The cool night air hits your face like salvation when you finally push through the entrance doors. Rain still falls in sheets, casting halos around the street lights and turning the sidewalk into a mirror of neon reflections. Your hair will be ruined, but you welcome the excuse to duck your head as you navigate to your car.

It's only when you're safely behind the wheel, rain drumming against the roof, that you let out the breath you've been holding. Your hands shake slightly as you pull out your phone, droplets of water falling from your hair onto the screen.

You stare at Jimin's contact for a long moment before typing:

Need to meet. Now.

The response comes before you can even set the phone down. One word, like a command:

Côte.

Of fucking course. Trust Jimin to pick the most pretentious restaurant in the city after the night you've had. The kind of place where the waiters look down their noses if you can't pronounce 'bouillabaisse' with the proper French inflection. Where they serve portions that wouldn't satisfy a toddler and charge more than your monthly ammunition budget for the privilege.

He's probably already there, sipping some overpriced wine and charming the staff with his perfect pronunciation while you sit here in rain-soaked designer wear, still trembling with the urge to break Taehyung's pretty face.

You start the engine, watching rain cascade down the windshield. In the rearview mirror, ARK 45's red glow bleeds into the night like an open wound.

Time to find out just how deep this one goes.

Côte buzzes with the quiet murmur of New York's elite, the soft clink of crystal, the whisper of expensive fabric, the gentle scrape of silver against bone china. Every table draped in pristine white cloth, every surface reflecting the warm glow of crystal chandeliers.

Jimin sits at a table dead center in the dining room, positioned like a king holding court. His suit is different from this morning, a black Tom Ford that probably costs more than a car. The rosary still hangs at his throat, catching light with each breath.

He doesn't look up from his wine when you approach, just gestures to the chair across from him with two fingers. The movement is elegant, casual. Terrifying.

"You're late," he says, voice pitched just loud enough to carry across the table. A waiter materializes beside you, pulling out your chair with practiced efficiency.

"Traffic." You slip into the seat, hyperaware of the other diners. A couple to your left celebrating an anniversary. Business meeting three tables over. Everyone within earshot of whatever game Jimin wants to play.

His eyes finally meet yours as he sets down his wine glass. "How was your evening?"

The question sounds innocent enough, but his gaze is sharp as a blade. Testing.

"Productive." You accept the wine list from the hovering waiter, not bothering to open it. "My interview went well."

"Wonderful." He smiles, the kind that makes people think of angels instead of demons. "The Château Latour, François. The 1982, I think."

The waiter's eyes widen slightly at the casual mention of a wine that costs more than he makes in a month. "Excellent choice, monsieur."

Jimin waits until François retreats before speaking again. "And the entertainment? Up to standard?"

You think of Jungkook's hands on your skin, of Taehyung's fury, of the violence you'd barely contained. "Exceptional. Though I had a small wardrobe malfunction."

His finger traces the rim of his glass, the motion hypnotic. Deliberate. "Nothing that can't be fixed, I hope?"

"No permanent damage." You hold his stare, refusing to look away first. "Though I might need to adjust my approach."

"Hmm." The sound is noncommittal, but his eyes darken fractionally. "The clientele can be... demanding. Particularly the regulars."

François returns with the wine, going through the elaborate ritual of presentation and pouring. Jimin maintains perfect posture, the picture of refined wealth, while you fight the urge to drain your glass in one go.

"I noticed," you say once the waiter disappears again. "One seemed particularly interested in my qualifications."

Jimin's lips curve slightly. "Natural talent tends to draw attention."

"The foie gras to start," Jimin tells François without consulting the menu. "For both of us." His eyes never leave your face, studying every micro-expression like he's reading a book written in your skin. "And perhaps you could tell me more about these... qualifications they found so fascinating."

You watch him take another sip of wine, the motion deliberately slow. The crystal catches the light, sending prisms across the white tablecloth between you. "Standard interview questions. Experience, availability, flexibility."

"Flexibility," he repeats, setting down his glass with precise care. "Essential in any new position."

A couple at the next table laughs at something, the sound jarring against the tension coiling between you and Jimin. He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on either side of his place setting. The position looks casual, but you recognize the predatory intent behind it.

"And the dress code?" His voice drops lower, intimate. "Did they have any specific requirements?"

Heat crawls up your neck as you remember Jungkook's parting words. Wear red tomorrow. "They seem to have strong opinions about color."

"Red, perhaps?" The corner of his mouth twitches. "It does suit you. Particularly when it's fresh."

Your wine glass freezes halfway to your lips. The double meaning hits like a slap, red like the dress he'd given you, red like the blood you spill for him. You force yourself to take a measured sip instead of throwing the contents in his perfect face.

"They also seemed interested in my... previous work experience."

"Did they?" Something dangerous flashes behind his eyes. "And how deep did that conversation go?"

François appears with the foie gras, arranging the plates with flourish. Jimin sits back, that angelic smile returning as he thanks the waiter in perfect French. But the moment François retreats, his expression shifts back to something hungrier.

"Every detail," he says softly, cutting into the foie gras with surgical precision. "I want to know every detail of how interested they were."

You mirror his movements, cutting into your own foie gras with deliberate care. "The owner took a particular interest."

"Did he?" Jimin's voice remains light, conversational, but his knuckles whiten slightly around his fork. "How hands-on of him."

The foie gras turns to ash in your mouth as you remember Jungkook's fingers on your thigh, that calculated intimacy. Jimin watches you swallow, his dark eyes catching every tell you're trying to hide.

"Very." You take another sip of wine to wash away the memory. "He has an interesting approach to personnel management."

The businessman three tables over laughs too loudly at something his companion says. Jimin doesn't even blink, his focus razor-sharp on your face. "I imagine he does. Did he share his management philosophy?"

Your thigh burns with phantom heat where Jungkook had touched you. Where Jimin had marked you the night before. "He believes in testing boundaries."

"Testing?" His tongue catches the word like it's something sweet. "Or crossing them?"

A waiter passes too close to your table, and you wait until the footsteps fade before responding. "Both, I think."

Jimin sets down his fork with careful precision, the small clink against fine china somehow ominous. "And did you let him?"

The question hangs between you like a blade. You know he's not really asking about Jungkook's tests, not entirely. The marks he left on your skin throb beneath your dress, a reminder of boundaries already crossed.

"I played my part," you say carefully, watching his eyes darken. "Though there was a small... incident with one of his associates."

His eyebrow raises a fraction. "Oh?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

"I'm sure." He reaches for the wine bottle, refilling your glass with practiced ease. The motion brings him closer, and his cologne mingles with the rich scent of the food. "Though handling things isn't always the wisest course of action, is it?"

"Depends on the situation," you say, watching him settle back into his chair. "Some things require a... delicate touch."

"Ah yes." His smile is razor-sharp. "And you're known for your delicacy. Like a bull in a china shop." His eyes flick to something over your shoulder. "Speaking of which, François? We'll take the lamb. Rare."

The waiter appears to clear your plates, and Jimin's expression shifts seamlessly into practiced charm. The transition is terrifying, the way he can slip between masks like trying on clothes.

"Though I have to admit," he continues once François disappears, "I'm curious about this associate. The one you handled so delicately."

You think of Taehyung's fury, the whiskey soaking his shirt. The way Jungkook had watched it all unfold like it was a show put on for his entertainment. "Just a minor misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding." He tastes the word like the wine, letting it roll over his tongue. "The way a hurricane is a minor weather event?"

Heat crawls up your neck. "He started it."

"What are you, twelve?" But there's something almost fond in his mockery. It vanishes as quickly as it appears, replaced by that calculating stare. "Tell me, did our friend upstairs seem amused by your little display?"

The memory of Jungkook's knowing smirk makes your stomach clench. "Extremely."

"Mm." Jimin's fingers drum once against the stem of his wine glass. "How fascinating. The mighty Viper, reduced to bar room brawls and schoolyard excuses."

Your nails dig into your palm beneath the table. "Would you prefer I'd killed him instead? Made a scene? Blown my cover on the first—"

The word dies in your throat as Jimin's eyebrow arches a fraction. The subtle movement is more effective than a slap, reminding you of the couples dining nearby, the waiters hovering within earshot. Your voice had risen just enough to draw a curious glance from the businessman two tables over.

"What I prefer," Jimin says, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "is precision. Control." His smile remains perfectly pleasant, but his eyes promise consequences. "Perhaps we should discuss your methods of subtlety instead? Besides attempting to assault his inner circle?"

The weight of his stare makes you reach for your wine glass, needing something to do with your hands. Something besides imagining how satisfying it would be to wipe that controlled expression off his face.

"Well?" He leans back slightly as François approaches with the lamb, switching seamlessly into the role of gracious diner. "Merci, François. C'est parfait."

The meat on your plate is exactly as he ordered, blood red in the center. You wonder if he's trying to make a point.

"The owner," you say once François retreats, keeping your voice carefully modulated. "He had questions about my background."

"I'm sure he did." Jimin cuts into his lamb with surgical precision. "And did our thorough friend find what he was looking for?"

The memory of Jungkook's words echoes in your mind: It's like you appeared out of thin air. "He seemed... satisfied with the interview."

"Satisfied enough to hire you, apparently." Something dangerous flashes behind his eyes. "Though I have to wonder what kind of performance earned such a quick decision."

The double meaning in his words makes your chest tight. You watch him take a deliberately slow bite of lamb, the crystal chandelier above casting shadows across his features that make him look almost demonic.

"I maintained my cover," you say carefully. "Like you asked."

His laugh is soft, barely a breath. "Did you? Because from what I hear, you gave quite the... private audition."

Your wine glass freezes halfway to your lips. How does he—

"I do love," he continues, dabbing his mouth with his napkin, "how dedicated you are to your roles. Tell me, did he request the same song as last time? Or did you choose something new for the occasion?"

Your fingers tighten around the crystal stem until you're half afraid it might shatter. Around you, the restaurant continues its elegant dance of clinking silverware and murmured conversations, oblivious to the way your world tilts on its axis.

"Don't look so shocked," Jimin says, cutting another piece of lamb with meticulous care. "Did you really think I wouldn't have eyes in his club? That I wouldn't hear about my secretary grinding against New York's most eligible bachelor to The Weeknd?"

Heat crawls up your neck, but you force yourself to maintain eye contact. "You sent me in there to get information."

"Information." He lets the word hang between you, sharp as a blade. "Is that what you were getting when he had his hands on your hips? When you were putting on a show for him in that pretty red dress I bought you?"

A waiter passes too close to your table, and you both pause, masks of polite dinner conversation sliding seamlessly into place. But the moment he's gone, Jimin's eyes turn predatory again.

"Tell me," he says, voice dropping lower, "did you enjoy it? Playing dress up for him? Letting him touch what's mine?"

The possession in his tone makes your stomach flip. You think of last night, of his hands on your skin, his teeth in your shoulder. Of how quickly he'd switched to cold professionalism this morning.

"What I am," you say carefully, "is whatever you need me to be for the job. Isn't that what you pay me for?"

His smile is all teeth. "Oh, sweetheart. I pay you to kill people. Everything else?" He takes a slow sip of wine, eyes never leaving yours. "That's just you getting carried away with your performance."

"Getting carried away?" The words taste like battery acid on your tongue. "Like last night, you mean? Was that part of the job too?"

His expression doesn't change, but something dark flashes behind his eyes. "Careful."

"Why?" You lean forward slightly, voice barely above a whisper. "Afraid someone might overhear how you bent your secretary over your windows? Or is it only a problem when Jungkook's the one touching me?"

François materializes at your elbow with dessert menus, and Jimin's face shifts into that perfect smile. "The crème brûlée, I think. Two." He waits until the waiter disappears before continuing, "You're playing a very dangerous game right now."

"I learned from the best." You watch his jaw tick at your tone. "Tell me something— did you plan it? Send me to his club in that dress, knowing what would happen?"

"And what exactly happened?" His fingers trace the base of his wine glass, the motion hypnotic and threatening all at once. "Besides you spreading your legs for the man who's trying to kill us both?"

"You're one to talk about spreading—"

"I own you." The words are soft, precise, but they hit like a physical blow. "Every breath, every move, every drop of blood you spill— it's all mine. Or did you forget that while you were auditioning for your new position?"

The businessman at the next table signals for his check. A woman laughs somewhere behind you. The normal sounds of the restaurant feel surreal against the electricity crackling between you and Jimin.

"How could I forget?" You smile, sweet as arsenic. "You make sure to remind me every time you send me to kill someone. Every time you dress me up like a doll and point me at your enemies. Tell me, is that what last night was? Another reminder of ownership?"

His pupils dilate slightly. "Would you like another one?"

The crème brûlée arrives in pristine white ramekins, the caramelized sugar gleaming like amber in the low light. You watch Jimin crack through the surface with his spoon, the sound sharp as breaking bones.

"You haven't answered my question." His voice is velvet-soft, lethal. "Would you like another reminder of who you belong to?"

"Here?" You gesture subtly to your surroundings with your own spoon. "In front of all these nice people? How scandalous, Mr. Park."

His eyes flash at your mocking tone. "You didn't seem concerned about scandal when you were putting on a show in Jungkook's office. Tell me, did he make you beg for the job? Or did you offer that up freely?"

"Jealousy doesn't suit you."

"Jealousy?" He laughs, the sound cutting through you like glass. "Why would I be jealous of him playing with what's already mine?"

Your spoon clinks against the ramekin harder than necessary. "Is that what I am? Your toy?"

"No, sweetheart." He leans forward, close enough that his breath fans across your face. "You're my weapon. And weapons don't get to choose where they're aimed."

"But they can misfire." The words slip out before you can stop them, sharp and dangerous in the space between you.

His smile grows slowly, predatory. "Is that a threat?"

"A reminder." You meet his gaze steadily. "Since you're so fond of those."

Something shifts in his expression, a crack in that perfect control. His hand moves under the table, and suddenly his fingers are wrapping around your knee, right where Jungkook had touched you hours before.

"Careful," he says again, but this time it sounds like a promise. His grip tightens just shy of painful. "You're forgetting yourself."

"Am I?" You don't pull away from his touch, even as his fingers slide higher. "Or am I just reminding you that weapons can cut both ways?"

"You know what I think?" Jimin reaches for the wine bottle between you, his movements liquid and precise. "A good vintage is all about control."

He stands slightly, leaning across the table to refill your glass. The motion brings him close enough that his cologne mingles with the wine's bouquet, close enough that you can see the dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Too much pressure," he continues, angling the bottle with practiced ease, "and everything spills over."

The elderly couple at the next table glances over with polite interest, and Jimin's smile widens. He turns to them, bottle still poised above your glass.

"The '82 Latour," he says conversationally, like he isn't in the middle of threatening you. "Have you tried it? The tannins can be quite... overwhelming if not handled properly."

The woman practically preens under his attention. "Oh, how lovely. Richard, didn't we have that at the Bennett's last summer?"

"Indeed." Jimin's hand is perfectly steady as he finishes pouring your wine. "Though personally, I find it's best to let it breathe. Some things require patience to reach their full potential." His eyes lock with yours as he settles back into his seat. "Wouldn't you agree?"

You take a deliberate sip of wine to avoid responding, watching him over the rim of your glass. The elderly couple continues to eye him appreciatively, completely unaware of the game he's playing.

"The key," he says, loud enough for them to hear, "is knowing exactly how much pressure to apply." His fingers drum once against the stem of his own glass. "Too little, and you waste its potential. Too much..." He trails off, smile sharpening. "Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?"

The elderly woman - who introduces herself as Margaret, practically glows under his attention. Her husband Richard nods along, completely taken in by Jimin's performance. You watch him work, recognizing this for what it is - another form of torture, drawn out in public where you can't do anything but sit and take it.

"Take my colleague here," he says, gesturing to you with his wine glass. "She has quite the... refined palate. Always willing to try new things."

Your fingers tighten around your own glass as Margaret turns her interest your way. "Oh, how wonderful! Are you in the wine business as well?"

"She's my secretary," Jimin answers before you can speak. "Though she's recently taken on some additional responsibilities. Haven't you, darling?"

The endearment drips like poison from his lips. You force a smile, playing your part in his little show. "I like to stay busy."

"She's being modest." Jimin swirls the wine in his glass, watching the light play through the dark liquid. "She's quite talented at... handling delicate situations. In fact, she has a new position starting tomorrow night."

Richard perks up at this. "Congratulations! Where will you be working?"

Your mouth goes dry as Jimin's eyes meet yours over the rim of his glass. He's really going to do this, discuss your cover job at a strip club with this sweet elderly couple in the middle of Côte.

"A very exclusive establishment," Jimin answers smoothly. "Members only. The owner is quite particular about his employees." His smile sharpens. "Especially the ones who perform."

Margaret claps her hands together. "Oh, how exciting! Is it that lovely new theater in Manhattan? Richard, what's it called? The one with the red lights?"

You nearly choke on your wine.

"Not quite," Jimin says, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "Though there are certainly theatrical elements involved. The costumes alone are quite memorable."

Your heel connects with his shin under the table— hard. His only reaction is a slight tightening around his eyes, but you feel a savage satisfaction at the contact.

"Speaking of memorable," he continues, not missing a beat, "you simply must try this vintage. François?" He signals the waiter with two fingers. "Please bring our friends here a taste of the Latour. On me."

Margaret tries to protest, but Jimin waves her off with practiced charm. "I insist. After all, some pleasures are best shared, wouldn't you agree?" This last part he directs at you, voice laden with meaning.

François arrives with fresh glasses, and you're forced to watch as Jimin guides the couple through the proper tasting technique. His voice is hypnotic as he describes the notes of black fruit, the hint of tobacco, the way it opens up on the palate.

"The true art," he tells them, "is in the finish. The way it lingers." His eyes find yours again. "Some things are designed to leave a lasting impression."

You think of the bruises hidden beneath your dress, of the marks he'd left on your skin. Of how he's marking you again now, in a completely different way.

"Of course," he adds, "not everyone appreciates such refinement. Some prefer their pleasures more immediate. Raw." He takes another slow sip. "But those tend to leave a bitter aftertaste."

The threat in his words is clear. Jungkook is beneath you. Beneath us.

"More wine?" He's already reaching for the bottle again, standing slightly to lean across the table. The motion brings his face close to yours, and his next words are pitched low enough that only you can hear them. "Since you seem so thirsty tonight."

Your pulse jumps at his proximity, at the dangerous edge in his voice that their audience can't detect. Margaret and Richard are too busy savoring their wine to notice the way Jimin's hand trembles slightly as he pours, the only sign that his perfect control might be slipping.

"Tell me," he says, loud enough for the table to hear again, "what do you think of the finish? Does it satisfy your particular tastes?"

The conversation is cut short with a ring erupting from Jimin’s suit pocket.

Namjoon's call lasts exactly thirty-seven seconds. You count them, watching Jimin's face remain perfectly composed as he listens. Only the slight whitening of his knuckles around the phone betrays anything amiss.

"When?" A pause. "I see."

He ends the call with the same precision he uses to end lives, clean, efficient, and final. The elderly couple barely notices when he signals François, too engrossed in their wine to catch the predatory shift in his movements.

As the valet brings his Bentley around, rain starting to fall in earnest now, he tells you Jiwon is missing. One of his most trusted men— gone. At the snap of a finger. This will be an issue for tomorrow.

You're already stepping toward your car when his voice cuts through the humid air.

"Get in."

Two words, soft as a bullet before it's fired.

The leather seat is cold against your back as you slide in beside him. He doesn't speak, doesn't even look at you as he pulls away from the curb. The engine purrs beneath you as he takes the first corner too fast, tires squealing against wet asphalt.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, cataloging each micro-expression like you would a mark before a kill. His jaw clenches and unclenches in a rhythm that matches the windshield wipers. The tendons in his neck stand out like rope under skin. His breathing comes slightly too quick, slightly too shallow.

A red light bathes the interior in crimson. He runs it.

Then another.

The city blurs past in streams of neon and shadow. You count his breaths, twenty-three too fast, fifteen too shallow. His fingers adjust on the steering wheel every forty-five seconds, like he's trying to maintain that last thread of control.

The elevator to his penthouse opens with a soft ding that feels too cheerful for the electricity crackling beneath his skin. An elderly woman with a small dog gets in on the thirty-fourth floor. You watch Jimin's mask slide seamlessly into place, perfect smile, perfect posture, perfect lie.

"Evening, Mrs. Chen."

His voice doesn't waver. Doesn't betray how his left hand trembles slightly at his side, how the muscle in his jaw jumps arrhythmically. The woman chatters about building maintenance as you climb higher, oblivious to the bomb ticking beside her.

Nintey-six floors have never felt so long.

The moment his door closes behind you, something shifts in the air. You can feel it - that last thread of control starting to fray. He stands perfectly still in the center of his living room, staring at nothing. At everything.

The first crack appears when he loosens his tie. The motion isn't smooth like usual - it's jerky, aggressive. He tears the silk from his throat like it's choking him.

Then his suit jacket. The fabric whispers against his shirt as he shrugs it off, letting it fall to the marble floor. You've never seen him treat clothing so carelessly.

His chest rises and falls too quickly now, each breath slightly more ragged than the last. You watch him rake fingers through his perfectly styled hair, destroying hours of careful grooming in seconds.

The lamp goes first.

The Tiffany piece you'd admired that night against his windows becomes a constellation of crystal across marble. The sound of its destruction seems to awaken something in him - something primitive and raw that's been lurking beneath his perfect surface.

You don't move when he disappears into his office. Don't flinch when he emerges with a baseball bat that looks wrong in his manicured hands. Just analyze the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders as he takes the first swing.

The glass coffee table explodes.

Then his flat screen, expensive and pristine like everything else in his life. The screen spiders with cracks before sparks fly from its dying circuits.

The grand piano becomes kindling under his methodical swings. Each string snaps with a discordant scream, like the instrument is dying. The sound mingles with his ragged breathing, creating a symphony of destruction.

His aim never wavers. Even in this, he maintains a terrible precision. The bat connects with his drink cart, sending bottles of thousand-dollar liquor cascading across marble. The scent of alcohol fills the air, bourbon and scotch and wine mixing with the ozone smell of destroyed electronics.

You catalog every detail with professional detachment. The way his white shirt darkens with sweat. How his perfectly pressed slacks tear slightly at the knee as he kicks through the wreckage. The precise angle of each swing, like he's conducting an orchestra of chaos.

When he finally stops, chest heaving and surrounded by destruction, you understand. This isn't about Jiwon disappearing. This isn't about business or territory or power.

This is about control slipping through his fingers like water.

Like you, dancing in Jungkook's office.

"He knew," Jimin says finally, voice raw. The bat clatters to the floor beside what used to be a Versace vase. "He fucking knew about Jiwon. About the ports. About—"

He cuts off, running shaking fingers through his ruined hair. You step carefully through the wreckage, glass crunching beneath your heels. He doesn't move as you approach, just stares at the devastation he's created like he's seeing it for the first time.

"This isn't about Jiwon," you say quietly.

His laugh is ugly, sharp enough to cut. "No." His eyes finally meet yours, and they're black holes in his too-pale face. "No it fucking isn't."

Liquor seeps into the hem of your dress as you stand in the wreckage, watching him piece himself back together. His chest still heaves with each breath, shirt clinging to his frame with sweat and effort. The perfectly styled hair you'd watched him ruin now falls across his forehead in damp strands.

He looks wild. Dangerous. More like the man who marks your skin than the one who signs your checks.

"You should go." The words come out rough, like they've been dragged across broken glass.

You don't move. Can't move. Something tells you this moment matters, that walking away now would shift something irreparable between you.

His eyes snap to yours, dark and feral. "I said—"

"No."

The word hangs in the air between you, sharp as the crystal shards beneath your feet. You watch his jaw clench, watch the muscle jump beneath skin that's too pale.

"You don't give the orders here." But his voice wavers slightly, betraying the cracks in his armor.

"Then give me one." You take another step closer, glass crunching beneath your heels. "Tell me what you need."

His laugh is all edges. "What I need?" He runs a hand through his ruined hair again, the gesture almost violent. "I need Jungkook's head on a fucking platter. I need to know how deep his reach goes. I need—"

He cuts off, throat working as he swallows whatever confession was about to spill out.

You're close enough now to smell his cologne mixed with sweat and spilled alcohol. Close enough to see the barely contained tremors in his hands, the wild pulse at his throat.

"Tell me." Your voice comes out softer than intended. "Tell me what you need."

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment you think he might grab you. Might press you against the wall and fuck you right here among the wreckage of his perfect life. Instead, he does something worse.

"Kill her."

The words slip out like a caress, barely above a whisper. You watch his face transform. the wild thing in his eyes crystallizing into something colder, more familiar.

"Miranda?" Your voice remains steady even as your pulse quickens. "She's not involved in this."

"Developing a conscience?" His smile is perfectly crafted to cut. "How disappointing. You've gotten too comfortable behind that desk, haven't you? Started believing your own cover story?"

The air feels thick, heavy with spilled alcohol and the ozone scent of destroyed electronics. A bead of sweat trails down your spine, making your dress cling uncomfortably.

"You're upset," you say carefully, watching his eyes darken at the observation.

"No, darling." He steps closer, glass crunching beneath his feet. "I'm just remembering what you really are. What I made you to be." His perfectly pressed shirt clings to his chest, dark with sweat. "A weapon. Nothing more."

"This isn't about me."

"Isn't it?" His breath comes quicker now, shallow. "You walk around my building like you belong there. Playing secretary, playing normal." He runs a hand through his ruined hair. "Have you forgotten what those hands are for? What you are?"

Heat prickles at the back of your neck. "I know exactly what I am."

"Do you?" He's close enough now that you can smell his cologne mixed with sweat and rage. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like someone who's forgotten their purpose. Who's started thinking they're more than just a tool."

"And you look scared."

The words hit like a physical blow. His chest stills mid-breath, eyes going dark as pitch.

"What did you say?"

A drop of sweat rolls down your temple. The air crackles between you, heavy with violence and something else. Something rawer.

"You're terrified," you press on, even as your pulse races. "Jungkook's in your head and you can't stand it. So you're here, breaking your own things, trying to break me too."

"Get out." His voice drops to something dangerous, something barely controlled.

"No."

"Get. Out." Each word comes with a step forward, backing you against the wall. "Before I remind you exactly what you are. What you're for."

You hold his stare, even as your heart threatens to break through your ribs. "You mean before you remind yourself that you're losing control?"

His hand slams into the wall beside your head, making you flinch. His breathing comes in harsh pants now, chest heaving with barely contained violence.

"Leave," he grits out, voice raw. "Now. Before I do something we'll both regret."

You can feel the heat radiating off him, see the muscle jumping in his jaw. The perfect mask has cracked completely, leaving something wild and desperate in its wake.

Around you, his perfect life lies in ruins.

So you go, leaving him alone in his destroyed kingdom, both of you pretending not to notice how his hands shake as you walk away.

The elevator descends in artificial silence, only the subtle whir of machinery accompanying your reflection in the mirrored walls. Your hair slightly mussed, lipstick somehow still perfect. Like the confrontation upstairs was just a nightmare your body hasn't woken from yet.

Forty-seven floors to ground level. You count each one, using the numbers to steady your pulse. To push down the urge to go back up there and show him exactly what his weapon can do.

The lobby stretches before you in shadow and marble, empty except for the night security guard who barely glances up from his crossword. Your heels mark time against the floor, each step echoing your thundering heartbeat - too fast, too hard, everything threatening to spill over.

Night air hits your face when you exit the building, carrying the metallic tang of recent rain. The city spreads before you in sharp contrasts - neon bleeding across wet pavement, shadows pooling between towers of steel and glass. You inhale slowly, tasting ozone and exhaust and that particular Manhattan mixture of ambition and decay.

Bass thuds from an upscale bar ahead, all crystal chandeliers visible through floor-to-ceiling windows. You catalog the exits reflexively, the cameras, the blind spots. Old habits.

"Well, look what we have here."

The voice slides through the darkness like oil. Taehyung leans against a sleek black Mercedes, all dangerous grace in expensive clothes. His white button-down is rolled to his elbows, exposing ink that maps stories across his skin.

You catalog his stance with professional detachment, the same way you'd studied John strapped to that chair. Weight slightly forward, shoulders loose, that same arrogant tilt to his head that says he has no idea what's coming.

"Not tonight." You move to pass him, but he shifts, blocking your path.

"What's wrong, sugar?" Smoke curls from his mouth as he speaks. "ARK not hiring tonight? Or did they finally realize what kind of trash they were letting through the door?"

Fuuuuuuck it.

The first hit is pure precision, heel of your palm to his solar plexus, angled up and in. Just like you'd done to that businessman in Dubai last year. The cigarette falls from his lips as he doubles over, giving you the perfect angle to bring your knee up into his face.

The crunch of cartilage under your kneecap sends electricity down your spine. It's different from torture, faster, rawer. No time to savor each break and tear. But there's something beautiful in this too, in letting the violence flow through you like water.

He swings wild, trained but sloppy. You duck under his arm, noting how his stance betrays formal training. Boxing maybe, some Muay Thai. Everything too clean, too structured. Not like you, you were taught to end things.

Your elbow finds his kidney with surgical precision. The same spot you'd pushed the knife into that politician in Seoul. His grunt of pain is poetry, the way he tries to protect his side leaving his throat exposed for another strike.

The Mercedes alarm wails as you slam him against it, but you're already moving, letting momentum carry you both into the shadows of the alley beside the bar. This is what you're good at, making violence look like a dance, like something beautiful instead of brutal.

He tries to grab you, to use his size advantage, but you're already inside his guard. Your knee finds his liver, your elbow his temple. Each point of impact chosen with the same care you use when selecting knives for a job.

Your dress rides up as you move, but you don't care. This is what you are, not the secretary in designer clothes, not the dancer in red. This is your true face, painted in someone else's blood.

When he finally drops, you follow him down. One hand fists in his honey-blonde hair while the other draws back. His face is a masterpiece of destruction, nose crushed, lip split, eye already swelling shut. The kind of methodical damage that comes from years of practice.

You lean in close, letting him smell the Chanel on your breath mixed with his own blood. "Next time you decide to threaten me," your voice drops to barely above a whisper, "make sure you're ready for what comes after."

You leave him there, crumpled among garbage bags and broken glass. Your knuckles throb as you smooth your dress, check your reflection in a darkened window. A single drop of blood mars your cheek, you wipe it away with your thumb, watching it disappear into your skin like all evidence of violence eventually does.

The city swallows you back into its rhythm, the pulse of music from nearby clubs, the whisper of tires on wet asphalt, the steady beat of your heels against concrete. You rejoin the flow of normal people living their normal lives, carrying your savage satisfaction like a secret beneath your skin.

This is what you are. What you're for.

And for once, that doesn't feel like a curse.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #ark 45 #jungkook bts #jungkook au #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader smut #jungkook x oc #jeon jungkook x reader #jimin x reader #jimin #bts jimin #bts fanfic #bts x reader

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itsreallynotriri · 2 months ago

Text

The adventures of Danny and Hazzy

Harry and Danny growing up in the Potter-Black household.

[Regulus Black x fem Potter! reader}

word count: 4.1k

warnings: a lot of fluff, Y/N and Regulus kissing at the end

6 MONTH OLD DANNY AND FOUR-YEAR-OLD HARRY

The Black-Potter household was filled with soft giggles and the occasional delighted squeal. Six-month-old Danica or Danny as Harry fondly called her, sat propped up with pillows on a blanket spread across the living room floor. Her dark curls were already forming wild ringlets, and her bright gray eyes tracked her big brother's every movement.

"Look, Danny! It's a flying hippogriff!" Harry declared, holding a stuffed hippogriff in the air and zooming it around with exaggerated whooshing noises. He had charmed it to hover slightly, the wings flapping as it circled Danny's head.

Danny blinked, then let out a squeal of laughter, her tiny hands reaching up to grasp at the toy. When the hippogriff dipped low enough, she latched on with surprising strength, pulling it down and gnawing on the soft beak with a satisfied coo.

"You're a natural beast-tamer," Harry said, lying down next to her. He tapped her nose gently. "But you can't eat a hippogriff, Danny. That's rude."

Danny babbled in response, releasing the toy to pat Harry's cheek with a slobbery hand. Harry made a dramatic choking sound. "Ah! Baby drool! My one weakness!"

He flopped backward with a groan, limbs sprawled dramatically. Danny stared at him for a moment, then let out a delighted shriek, her tiny body bouncing with excitement.

From the doorway, Y/N and Regulus watched the scene unfold. Y/N's arms were crossed, a smile softening her face. "I give it three seconds before she crawls after him," she whispered.

"Two," Regulus corrected.

As if on cue, Danny tipped forward, arms wobbling as she pushed herself toward her brother. Her movements were clumsy but determined, her little fists digging into the blanket.

"She's doing it!" Y/N breathed.

"Go, Danny!" Regulus encouraged softly.

Harry peeked through one eye when he heard the rustling. His mouth dropped open. "You're crawling!" he gasped, sitting up. "Go, Danny, go!"

Danny let out a gurgling laugh as she reached Harry's knee and promptly face-planted into his leg. Unbothered, she turned her head to grin up at him, her cheeks flushed with effort.

"You're the best little sister ever," Harry said, scooping her into his arms. He stood and turned toward their parents. "Mama! Baba! Did you see? She crawled!"

"We saw, sweetheart," Y/N said, wiping away a tear with the back of her hand.

Regulus stepped forward and ruffled Harry's hair. "Good job, big brother. Looks like she's trying to keep up with you already."

Danny babbled happily from Harry's arms, then stuck her thumb in her mouth and leaned against his chest, suddenly exhausted from her grand adventure.

"She's gonna be unstoppable," Harry said proudly.

Y/N wrapped an arm around Regulus's waist and smiled. "She already is."

TWO-YEAR-OLD DANNY AND FIVE-YEAR-OLD HARRY

The Black-Potter household was rarely quiet these days, not with a curious, toddling two-year-old exploring every corner and a protective big brother trailing after her like a miniature sentry.

"Hazzy!" Danny's delighted voice rang through the sitting room as she toddled across the rug on unsteady legs. Her chubby arms were outstretched toward her brother, who knelt with his arms wide open.

"That's me!" Harry said with a grin, scooping her up and twirling her around. "Hazzy is here to save the day!"

Danny squealed with laughter, her dark curls bouncing with each spin. "Hazzy! Hazzy!"

From the armchair, Y/N smiled over her cup of tea. "Still not calling you Harry, huh?"

"Nope," Harry said, plopping down on the couch with Danny nestled against him. "I've tried to teach her, but she just keeps saying 'Hazzy.'"

"It's cute," Y/N said softly, watching as Danny poked at the buttons on Harry's sweater.

The sound of the front door opening interrupted their moment. Danny's eyes lit up, and she scrambled out of Harry's lap, nearly tripping over her own feet.

"Baba!" she cried, sprinting toward the hallway.

"Danny!" Regulus's voice answered with equal enthusiasm.

By the time he entered the room, he had Danny perched on his hip, her tiny hands clinging to his collar. His usually composed expression was softened into a rare, tender smile.

"And how's my little morning star today?" he asked, brushing her curls away from her face.

"Hazzy play!" she announced proudly.

"Ah, yes. The famous Hazzy." Regulus's gray eyes flicked to Harry with a smirk. "How are you handling your new identity, son?"

Harry shrugged. "I've accepted my fate."

Danny giggled and buried her face in Regulus's neck.

"She's been chasing him around all day," Y/N said with a laugh.

"Hazzy run fast," Danny agreed, peeking out with wide grey eyes. "Danny run too!"

"Oh, do you now?" Regulus asked, raising an eyebrow. "Well, maybe Baba will have to race you later."

"Race!" Danny pumped her fists in the air.

Regulus sat beside Y/N, his arm resting along the back of the couch. Danny squirmed until she was back on the floor, wobbling over to Harry.

"Hazzy, run!" she commanded.

Harry gave his parents an exaggerated sigh. "Duty calls," he said before launching into a playful chase.

Y/N leaned her head on Regulus's shoulder, watching them with a soft smile.

"She's getting so big," she murmured.

"Too big," Regulus agreed. "And that name's going to stick, isn't it?"

"Absolutely," Y/N said, laughing as Harry darted around the coffee table with Danny hot on his heels. "Hazzy's here to stay."

And as Danny's delighted laughter echoed through the house, it was hard to imagine life any other way.

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting golden patterns across the bedroom floor. Y/N stirred, her eyes fluttering open just as the door creaked. She turned her head and smiled softly at the sight of Harry and Danny standing in the doorway, hand-in-hand.

Harry's chesnut hair stuck up in every direction, defying gravity as usual, while Danny's black curls were tangled into an impressive bird's nest. The two siblings were still in their pajamas: Harry's covered in faded Quidditch brooms, Danny's patterned with tiny moon and stars.

"Hazzy," Danny whispered, tugging on her brother's hand. "Mama wake?"

"Yeah, Danny," Harry reassured her, squeezing her fingers. "See? Mama's awake."

Y/N sat up, tucking the blanket around her legs. "Good morning, my loves," she greeted softly.

Danny beamed, revealing the gap where her front tooth had recently fallen out. "Mama!" She let go of Harry's hand and barreled across the room, climbing clumsily onto the bed. "I had dream 'bout dragon!"

"Did you?" Y/N caught her daughter and pulled her into her lap. "Was it scary?"

Danny shook her head fiercely. "No! Big dragon, nice dragon! Hazzy say it like Uncle Charlie's dragon."

"Ah," Y/N chuckled, glancing toward Harry as he shuffled into the room. "Your brother knows a lot about dragons."

Harry gave a sheepish smile and climbed onto the bed beside them. "I just told her about Norberta," he said, leaning into his mother's side. "Danny likes dragons now."

"I see," Y/N mused, brushing Danny's wild curls with her fingers. "Maybe one day we'll visit Uncle Charlie in Romania and see real dragons."

Danny gasped. "We go? See dragon?"

"One day," Y/N promised.

The sound of footsteps interrupted them. Regulus appeared in the doorway, hair tousled and wand in hand, eyes sharp until he took in the sight before him. "Merlin," he exhaled, lowering his wand. "I thought I heard an intruder."

"Hazzy and Danny," Danny said proudly, throwing her arms wide. "Not 'truder!"

Regulus grinned and crossed the room, sliding his wand into his pajama pocket. "No, you and your brother are definitely not intruders." He sat on the edge of the bed and ruffled Harry's hair, not that it made any difference. "Why are you two up so early?"

"Danny had a dragon dream," Harry answered, tilting his head toward his sister. "Wanted Mama and Baba to know."

Regulus nodded solemnly. "Dreams about dragons are very important. Good thing you told us, Danny."

Danny's eyes sparkled. "I 'member the dragon name!"

"Oh?" Y/N asked. "What's its name, sweetheart?"

Danny scrunched her nose in thought, then declared, "Spork!"

There was a beat of silence before Harry snorted with laughter. "Spork? That's not a dragon name!"

"Is too!" Danny huffed.

"Spork the Dragon," Regulus said with mock seriousness. "A fearsome creature is known across the land for its...sporkiness."

Harry collapsed into giggles, and Danny clapped her hands in delight. Y/N just shook her head fondly. "You're encouraging her."

"Absolutely," Regulus said, reaching out to pull Y/N closer. "She gets her creativity from you."

Danny snuggled into Y/N's lap, thumb slipping into her mouth as the excitement wore off. Harry stretched and leaned against Regulus's shoulder.

"Family nap?" Y/N suggested.

"Family nap," Regulus agreed, flicking his wand to dim the sunlight.

Soon, tangled curls and messy hair were nestled together in a cozy, sleepy pile of warmth and love.

The snow had fallen thick and heavy overnight, blanketing the Black-Potter garden in a pristine, shimmering layer of white. From the warmth of the living room, three-year-old Danica Potter-Black pressed her nose against the frosted window, her wide gray eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Hazzy! Hazzy!" she squealed, spinning around and racing toward her brother. Her curls bounced wildly with each step. "Look! Snow! Lots and lots!"

Harry, now seven years old and quite proud of his 'big brother' status, looked up from the enchanted chessboard where his pieces were grumbling about his last move. He followed her pointing finger to the window and grinned. "You wanna go build a snowman?"

"Yes! Yes! Snowman!" Danny clapped her hands, hopping in place.

"Okay, okay! Let's get our coats."

The two of them bundled up under Y/N's watchful eye. Harry wriggled into his green scarf while Danny impatiently thrust her tiny arms into her puffy coat. Her mittens dangled from strings through the sleeves, and Harry helped her tug them on properly.

"Be careful out there, you two," Y/N called from the door. "And don't eat the snow unless you're sure it's clean!"

"Mama!" Danny giggled. "I'm not gonna eat snow!"

"We'll be careful!" Harry promised.

The garden was a winter wonderland. Their boots crunched on the fresh snow, and their breath clouded in the crisp air. Harry immediately started rolling a ball for the base of their snowman. Danny tried to mimic him, but her ball mostly crumbled.

"Hazzy," she pouted, "mine's not workin'."

"Here, like this." Harry knelt beside her, guiding her hands to press the snow gently and roll it across the ground. "See?"

"Ooooh! I do it!" Danny's face lit up as her snowball grew.

Together, they built a lopsided but proud snowman. Danny insisted he needed a 'silly face,' so Harry found sticks for the arms while she stuck stones into the snow in a haphazard grin. Harry placed his own scarf around its neck and stepped back. "What do you think?"

Danny squinted critically at their creation. "Hazzy, he's cold."

"Well...yeah," Harry said, puzzled. "He's a snowman."

"Needs a hat," she declared. "For warm!"

"Okay, let's get one."

The door opened before they reached the house. Regulus stood there, holding a knitted hat with a bemused expression. "I heard we have a cold snowman in need of a hat?"

"Baba!" Danny ran to him, wrapping her arms around his leg. "We made a snowman! Hazzy helped!"

"I saw," Regulus said, placing the hat on her head for a moment before transferring it to the snowman's icy head. "Looks like a very happy snowman."

Danny beamed and turned back to the snowman. "Now he's warm," she said with satisfaction.

Harry ruffled her hair. "Good job, Snow Queen."

Danny giggled, reaching for a handful of snow. Without warning, she flung it at Harry. It splattered against his coat.

"Oh, you're in for it now!" Harry scooped up snow in both hands.

Screaming with laughter, Danny tried to dodge but ended up flat on her back in the snow, her curls dusted white. "Hazzy! Noooo!"

Regulus shook his head with a smile, leaning against the doorframe as his children tumbled about in the snow. Y/N appeared beside him, slipping her hand into his.

"They're growing up so fast," she murmured.

"They are," Regulus agreed, squeezing her fingers. "But right now, they're exactly where they should be."

A snowball suddenly splattered against Regulus's chest. He looked down in shock to find Danny standing there, cheeks pink with cold and triumph.

"Baba!" she shrieked with glee.

Y/N burst into laughter as Regulus grabbed a handful of snow and raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you started it now, little star."

The snowy battle that followed became a memory they'd cherish for years to come.

FOUR-YEAR-OLD DANY AND EIGHT-YEAR-OLD HARRY

The Black-Potter household was quiet, the warm glow of the hearth casting faint shadows along the walls. Outside, the moon hung low in the sky, bathing the snowy ground in silver light. Inside, however, two little figures shuffled across the carpeted hallway, their steps careful and hushed.

"Shh, Danny," whispered eight-year-old Harry, glancing back at his sister. "You're being loud."

"I'm not!" Danny pouted, her black curls bouncing as she clutched her stuffed dragon tightly. "Hazzy, my feet are just squeaky."

Harry stifled a laugh. "Okay, just...less squeaky feet, alright?"

Danny nodded solemnly and adjusted her grip on her dragon. Together, they tiptoed toward the kitchen.

The kitchen door creaked as Harry slowly pushed it open. He froze, holding his breath. Danny copied him, her wide eyes fixed on his face. After a long moment of silence, they exchanged triumphant grins and slipped inside.

"Alright," Harry whispered, "the cookies should be in the blue tin."

Danny squinted at the counter. "That's really high," she said, voice heavy with skepticism.

"That's why we have teamwork," Harry declared, dragging a chair across the floor with a low screech. They both winced, then stared at the doorway. No footsteps. No Baba with his scary frown. No Mama with her disappointed head shake.

Harry climbed onto the chair, balancing with practiced ease. "Okay," he murmured, stretching toward the cookie tin. His fingers brushed the lid. "Almost...got it..."

Danny watched, her dragon tucked under her arm, her curls falling in her face. "Hazzy, careful!"

"I'm fine," Harry assured her. With a final stretch, he snagged the tin and pulled it toward him.

The tin wobbled. Harry's heart stopped. The container tilted and tumbled off the edge.

"No!" Danny gasped.

Harry lunged and caught it mid-air. "Ha! Got it!"

Danny clapped her hands silently. "You're the bestest," she whispered.

Harry hopped down and opened the tin. The rich scent of chocolate-chip cookies drifted into the air. "Okay, Danny, take one."

Danny's eyes lit up as she reached in and grabbed the biggest cookie she could find. Harry took one for himself, then replaced the lid and carefully slid the tin under the table.

They turned toward the door just as the kitchen light snapped on.

"And what do we have here?"

The siblings froze mid-chew.

Regulus Black stood in the doorway, arms crossed, dark hair mussed from sleep. His grey eyes were sharp, but his lips twitched at the corners.

Danny let out a muffled squeak and ducked behind Harry. "Uh-oh," she whispered.

"Uh-oh is right," Regulus said, stepping forward. "Midnight cookie thieves, I see."

"We're not thieves," Harry said quickly. "We're...we're taste testers."

"Yeah," Danny piped up, peeking around Harry. "Mama said cookies gotta be tasted."

Regulus arched a brow. "Did she?"

Harry gulped. "Well, not these cookies. But...cookies in general."

"Mmm." Regulus knelt down so he was eye-level with them. "Do taste testers usually sneak around in the dark?"

"Only when it's a secret mission," Danny whispered.

Regulus pressed his lips together, trying not to smile. "Well, in that case," he said softly, "I guess you'll need a lookout next time."

Harry's mouth fell open. "Wait...you're not mad?"

"Oh, I'm mad," Regulus said, though his voice lacked any bite. "But I'll let it slide this time. Now, off to bed, you two."

"Yes, Baba," they chorused.

As he herded them back to their rooms, Regulus glanced up and met Y/N's amused gaze from the top of the stairs.

"Told you they'd go for the cookies," she whispered.

"You set us up!" Harry exclaimed.

Danny gasped. "Mama!"

Y/N laughed softly. "What can I say? I know my little cookie monsters." She leaned down to kiss the tops of their heads. "Now, go to sleep. We'll discuss your sneaky skills in the morning."

As Harry and Danny shuffled into their rooms, Regulus smiled to himself. Nights like these made every sleep-deprived morning worth it.

FIVE-YEAR-OLD DANNY AND NINE-YEAR-OLD HARRY

The Black-Potter household was rarely quiet, especially with an energetic four-year-old like Danny and a lively eight-year-old like Harry running about. Laughter, footsteps racing down hallways, and the occasional magical mishap filled the air with a warmth that made Grimmauld Place feel more like home than it ever had before. But today, the usual harmony was broken by the sharp crack of a slammed door.

"You're mean, Hazzy!" Danny's tiny voice, thick with tears, echoed down the hall.

Harry stood frozen just outside his bedroom door, his chest tight with guilt. Moments ago, they'd been playing with his toy broomstick. Danny had begged for a turn, but Harry had refused, insisting she was too little and would just break it. When she'd tried to grab it anyway, he'd snapped at her.

"You're just a baby," he'd said. "You don't know how to fly right."

The words had hit harder than any hex. Danny's face had crumpled, her big gray eyes filling with tears. Then she'd run to her room and slammed the door, leaving Harry with the broomstick in his hands and regret in his heart.

From downstairs, Y/N heard the door slam and exchanged a knowing look with Regulus, who was levitating a stack of books onto a high shelf.

"Sounds like trouble," she said.

"Sounds like our children," Regulus replied, lowering the last book into place. "Shall I play the terrifying father figure?"

Y/N arched an eyebrow. "Terrifying? You?"

"I was once a Death Eater."

"Mm-hmm," she said, amused. "Why don't you try the compassionate father figure instead?"

"I'll give it my best shot," Regulus said, following her up the stairs.

They found Harry slumped against the wall outside Danny's door, twirling the toy broom in his hands. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his remorse.

"Rough day, kiddo?" Y/N asked gently as she crouched beside him.

Harry's bottom lip jutted out slightly, though he tried to hide it. "I made Danny cry."

Regulus sat down on Harry's other side. "Yeah, we heard," he said softly. "Want to tell us what happened?"

"She wanted to fly my broom," Harry mumbled. "I said no because she's little. And then she tried to take it anyway, and I... I said she was a baby."

Y/N winced. "Ah," she said. "Calling your sister a baby? That'll sting."

"She is a baby," Harry muttered, but even he didn't sound convinced.

"She doesn't see it that way," Regulus said. "She looks up to you, Harry. She wants to do what you do. Be like you. So when you said she was a baby, she probably felt like...you thought she wasn't good enough."

Harry's eyes widened. "I didn't mean that."

"I know," Regulus reassured him. "But sometimes, what we say doesn't match what we feel."

Y/N brushed Harry's hair back fondly. "Being a big brother is hard sometimes. You have to find a way to teach her without making her feel small."

"So...what do I do now?" Harry asked.

"Start with an apology," Y/N said.

Harry took a deep breath, then knocked on Danny's door. "Danny? Can I come in?"

There was a long silence. Then a muffled "Go 'way."

"Please?" Harry tried again. "I'm really sorry. I was mean, and I didn't mean to be."

The door creaked open an inch. One gray eye peeked through the gap.

"You called me a baby," Danny said, voice wobbly.

"I know," Harry said, his heart aching at the sight of her tear-streaked face. "I'm sorry. You're not a baby. You're my sister, and you're really brave and smart. I was just scared you'd fall and get hurt."

Danny opened the door a bit more. "You scared for me?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "'Cause I love you."

Danny's lips trembled. Then, with a tiny sniff, she launched herself at Harry, wrapping her arms around his waist. "I love you too, Hazzy," she mumbled into his shirt.

From their spot down the hall, Y/N and Regulus exchanged smiles.

"Think they'll remember this the next time they fight?" Y/N asked softly.

"Not a chance," Regulus replied with a chuckle. "But we'll be here to remind them."

And as Harry pulled Danny into his room to give her a broomstick-flying lesson, the warmth of family settled back into the house once more.

SIX-YEAR-OLD DANNY AND TEN-YEAR-OLD HARRY

The smell of buttery toast and sizzling bacon filled the cozy kitchen of the Black-Potter household. ten-year-old Harry sat at the table, munching on a piece of toast, while six-year-old Danica, her wild dark curls sticking in every direction, gleefully smashed her scrambled eggs with her spoon.

"Danny, you're supposed to eat that," Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

Danica grinned, her green eyes twinkling with mischief. "I am! But first, I have to make it flat. Flat eggs taste better."

Harry sighed dramatically but couldn't help smiling. His little sister always had a very particular way of doing things. "Whatever you say, munchkin."

As Danica resumed her egg-flattening mission, footsteps echoed from the hallway. Harry glanced up just in time to see his father, Regulus, stroll into the kitchen. His hair was slightly damp from a shower, and he wore his usual elegant but relaxed expression. Without a word, Regulus walked straight to where Y/N stood at the stove, flipping pancakes.

"Good morning, my love," Regulus murmured, slipping his arms around her waist from behind. He dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.

"Morning," Y/N replied with a smile, leaning into his embrace.

Regulus, however, wasn't content with just one kiss. He trailed a series of gentle kisses along her jawline, then down to the curve of her neck. Y/N giggled softly as he nuzzled the sensitive spot near her ear.

"Regulus Black," she scolded half-heartedly, "the kids are right there."

"Let them learn what true love looks like," Regulus replied with a smirk before pressing a kiss to her temple.

Across the table, Harry froze mid-chew. Danica stopped smashing her eggs. The siblings locked eyes, and without a word, both scrunched their noses and made loud, exaggerated gagging noises.

"Blech! Gross!"

"Ewwwww! Baba's kissing Mama!" Danica squealed, dropping her spoon and covering her eyes with sticky fingers. "Hazzy, make it stop!"

Harry clutched his chest dramatically. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he groaned, slumping over the table.

Regulus lifted his head and arched a single eyebrow at his children. "You two are impossible," he drawled, though amusement danced in his gray eyes.

Y/N laughed, turning to face him. "Told you," she teased.

"Kissing's gross!" Danica declared from behind her tiny hands.

"Yeah, Baba," Harry agreed, sitting back up with an exaggerated shudder. "Keep the mushy stuff private, will you?"

"Private?" Regulus echoed, feigning offense. "This is my home, my kitchen, and my wife. I can kiss her whenever I want."

"Not in front of us!" Danica insisted, peeking through her fingers.

Y/N leaned her head against Regulus's chest and laughed. "Maybe we should tone it down," she said.

"Hmm," Regulus hummed as if considering it. Then, with a devilish grin, he planted a loud, exaggerated kiss on Y/N's cheek.

"EWWWW!" Harry and Danica chorused.

Danica dramatically slid off her chair and collapsed onto the floor. "I've been poisoned!" she moaned, splaying her limbs across the tiles.

Harry followed suit, flopping onto the ground beside her. "We're doomed! Doomed by parental affection!"

Y/N pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter while Regulus smirked down at his children. "Ah, well," he said. "If you're both doomed, that means more pancakes for me and your mother."

Danica's eyes popped open. "Wait! I'm not doomed! I'm hungry!"

Harry sat up immediately. "Me too!"

"Mysterious recovery," Regulus mused as he helped them both back into their chairs.

Y/N plated the pancakes and set them on the table. As everyone dug in, Regulus reached for Y/N's hand under the table and squeezed it.

Harry saw the gesture but let it slide this time. Mostly because there were pancakes. And pancakes always came first.

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#timothée chalamet #marauders #harry potter #regulus black x reader #harry james potter #regulus black imagine #harry and danny #hazzy and danny #danica potter-black #timothée chalamet imagines #fluff

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healer-pop · 1 year ago

Text

blood on my shirt, roses in my hand.

‼️ summary: venture doesn’t know if you realize what seeing you in a fight does to them.

⛔️ warnings: 18+ content! scenes of violence and blood, afab!reader, and explicit sexual content.

🍒 word count: 4.6k

the rush was incomparable.

if this was what it was like all the time, you finally understood why your partner chose to join and stay with the recall.

the way your blood throbbed through your veins, tingling like electricity as it rushed up your arms and down your legs, burning like a stovetop where hands gripped onto you.

you felt the hot and cold all at once, your body sweating, but your insides like ice, struggling against the hard grasp of the person currently hugging you tightly against them, dragging your kicking feet further down the ancient paved streets, further away from safety, from Venture. their gun pressed into your side, a bruising pressure right into your ribs, dark threats mumbled into your ear from a raspy voice, something that was straight out of a horror movie.

they didn't get it wrong, though. you felt manic, tears pouring down your cheeks, pooling on the arm of your captor. that feeling of needing to live.

the ground suddenly shook, teetering them off balance, their arms loosening around you, and you tugged one hand free with a strength you didn't know you had in you, squirming around to face them.

you swung. your palm connecting with your target — the goons nose, crunching under your palm, the ski mask doing little to stop the blow. a wet feeling. a squishy one. blood dripping down your hand, seeping into their fabric mask.

the world beside you a blurry, inconsistent tangle of color, movement, and silence.

was that what drew you in? the quiet? the peace that came with violence? there wasn’t enough time to dwell on it.

talon’s operative staggered back, gun clattering to the floor as they clutched their nose, a yell of frustration erupting from their throat as their black eyes burned into your own. there was nothing. no thoughts, just pure instinct as you kicked the gun away. you brought your leg up. and they realized at the last second what you were about to do — tried to drop their hands from their face to block your foot, but came too short, allowing you free access to their stomach, dropping them to the ground with a quiet groan.

black spots popped in and out of your vision, leaving the area they appear in washed of color; the traveling ones leave white lines that slash your field of view into crystalline, fractured pieces.

it was addicting.

suddenly, an echo. like a voice resounding through a tunnel.

your name—

your name was being called.

you whip around, a bit too quickly for your untrained mind, which was currently dropping from its hyper focused space, making you step in place far too many times than was necessary for a simple turn.

“Venture…?”

this would never get boring.

Venture absolutely thrived on adrenaline. the reverb from the drill shook their hands, yet they themselves were rock-solid. it was the purest form of clarity they ever felt. dirt and rock flew past their face as the drilled into the ground, no doubt lacerating their face, but Venture felt nothing.

talon’s sentry was slow, slowed by the weight of their armor, too slow to turn around fast enough and defend themselves as Venture quickly reemerged from the ground, dashing forward with the drill angled perfectly at their abdomen, piercing metal and fabric and flesh. they stumbled backwards, into their partner, both of them tumbling to the ground, guns flying beyond their reach, shield tech flashing an alarming blue then white.

Venture stood above them, the dry wind of the desert whipping their coat around them, taking the moment to slide the button on their excavator backwards.

“next time… don’t interrupt my date.”

Venture clicked the button forward, the weapon giving off a satisfying shink! — as it informed its user that it was reloaded, the curved metal lighting up as Venture raised it above their head, a blossoming, blue vortex appearing, bright as a star, as its teeth opened.

two pairs of eyes widen, realizing what was about to come. they tried to scramble to their feet. not quick enough. Venture smirked.

“Excavation Initiation!”

the sands flew up around them from the cracks in the pavement as Venture slammed the drill down. Once. Twice. And a third, just for good measure.

their breath heaved. chest rising and falling in time with the dusty air, scanning for any sign of the enemies. nothing. nothing but red hot sand, melting from the laser hot electrical-plasma into small, weak crystals of glass. no… the sand was already cooled. It was stained red. a small puddle of blood was all that was left, mixing with the glowing crystals. it would make a nice keepsake. maybe they could make something out of it for you.

You.

where were you?

Three… there were three operatives that confronted the two of you. the tank and the two gun men. The tank and the rifleman was with them… that left…

It was a cold realization, sending chills down Venture’s spine, their arms sprouting with goosebumps as it contrasted the scorching air.

they yelled your name, spinning around helplessly as they looked for you. a grunt bounced off the ruins, somewhere in the distance and it shook their very being. Venture tossed the excavator to the ground, sprinting towards the sound, hoping that they were wrong. hoping you had managed to get out of range when they… how could they have been so careless!

another sound. pain. Venture could feel the burn in their legs as they pushed their body to go faster, their feet exploding with pain as they collided with the uneven stone beneath them.

a figure appeared in the foreground. another, splayed on the ground and for a second, Venture felt their heart stop. their feet followed with. the icy grasp of fear and panic, their mind exploded into an overwhelming static, ears ringing.

then the grief. the absolute worst thoughts coming to head as they felt their lungs begin to pound. every single worst scenario screaming in their head as they forced themselves forward, eyes wide in sheer terror.

I wasn’t quick enough!

What did Talon do to them?! When I get my hands on them...

What if… what if I…

but… but you hadn’t been wearing those shoes. Or those black military pants. and as Venture’s eyes raised on the down figure’s body, the glaring icon of Talon, stitched onto the upper thigh, yet again stopped all processing in their brain. it felt like an entire system reboot. Off. On. Rewind. Restart.

as they came to their senses, they turned their eyes to the other figure, less than a meter away. You. safe, but blood dripped down your fingertips. your perfect, beautiful, plush lips parted as weighted breaths escaped them. oh good. you were breathing. that was always good.

their voice trembled as they called for you, a weak whisper barely audible to even their own ears (or was that the tinnitus?). your face was unreadable, seemingly caught on the unconscious figure before you. Venture swallowed, throat burning as saliva traveled down. they ignored it. the pain didn’t matter. You did. Only you. they took a step forward and tried again. it came out much louder this time. and it snapped you out of whatever haze held you hostage. you stumbled as you looked around, and Venture was running towards you before either you knew what was going on.

“Venture…?”

they grabbed you, the sudden movement catching you off guard, and tugged you into their warm, sweaty embrace. you had no choice but to fall into them. “Oh, baby… Baby, baby, baby, I’m so sorry. I am so so so SO sorry- I didn’t realize- I didn’t mean to leave you alone.” their arms clutched you like a coffin, sized just for you, firm, yet so gentle and sweet. they stammered out more apologies, for what, you weren’t sure of, but you slowly raised your arms, as weak as they felt and held them back with all the might you could muster — which wasn’t much.

“— you with me? I mean, it’s ok if you aren’t, I know, I know it was a lot. I didn’t know — I mean, of course I didn’t. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I knew they were here, of all places. I just- I was so worried. Are you ok?” Their voice broke through your exhausted brain, you barely could catch all of what they were saying, but you managed a tired laugh, pulling back from their hug.

“Sloane, Sloane, I’m.. I’m ok. Better than ok, actually. I feel… good. Tired but… but clear.”

They smiled back, but it didn’t quite meet their eyes, and they kept glancing downwards to scan you over, but were trying not to be obvious about it. Your grin turned mischievous and you lifted a bloodied fist, drying blood flaking off the rest of you arm as your skin moved. It badly shook, but you relished how their eyes widened. Splaying your fingers, you then wiggling them, showing they were all fully functional.

“You should see the other guy.”

and it was that moment they realized that maybe they were a bit fucked in the head. the moment Venture realized how downright sexy you looked, all covered in dirt and someone else’s blood, the dazed look you still wore hooding your eyes like the ones you gave them in the bedroom, still grinning as you sent a playful, but sleepy, wink their way. and by all the gods in the world, they needed you under them. now.

despite your protests, Venture insisted on taking a heli-taxi back to the hotel. it wasn’t that far of a walk, but the moment you sat on the bouncy leather seat, you were more than thankful they did. your head immediately dropped back, eyes rolling the same way, in absolute bliss at the small comfort.

you missed the way the omnic taxi driver grimaced at your dirty state, but Venture wasted no time in shutting your door and bounding over to their side, quietly promising a good tip if they kept quiet about it and were discreet. a quick nod and Venture soon joined you in the back, but you were quick to tell that something was off.

Venture kept themselves pressed to the far side of the taxi, fidgeting in their seat, shifting this way and that. you wouldn’t have noticed, but the way the leather seats squeaked as they did was unmistakable. let alone they barely mumbled one word to you after making sure you were ok. that in itself was downright bizarre behavior for your usually chatty lover. as it crossed your mind, you tiredly opened one eye, watching their fingers play with each other as they seem to nervously watch the moving sites outside the window, purposely avoiding your side of the car.

“Sl-… Venture,” you called, and it made them jump.

“Mhm?”

“Everything alright?”

“Mhm! Yep! Everything’s fine over here!”

“Venture." You tilted your head to try and peer at their face. "You aren’t looking at me.”

their eyes dropped to the taxi’s floor, trailing over the carpet, then quickly jumped up at you, then back down. a nervous, toothy smile jumped onto their face, despite their avoidance, before they turned back to the window.

“Venture.” this time, they didn’t respond. You sat up fully and reached over to grasp one of their hands. “Venture, I’m not mad.”

“I- I know.”

“You know? Then what’s wrong?”

the speed at which they turned around almost alarmed you. you almost forgot that this person, your lover, was now an overwatch operative, with instincts and reactions far faster than yours ever could be, they trained them over and over, countlessly, every day of their life now. their eyes, deep and dark, burned as they caught yours; an endless void, furthered by their furrowed brow. Venture’s hands twisted yours around, so they now held your wrist, gently tugging you forward like a kid in grade school who wished to bestow upon you a great secret. noses nearly touching, you recognized the way your partner’s voice dropped, a husky whisper, a razor blade caressing the skin of your face, “the way you look right now… I want to fuck you so hard you can’t think of anything else but screaming my name.” their hot breath fanning your now overly sensitive lips. you feel your body heat up in response to their words. “if I keep my eyes on you for one more second…” they punctuated this by raking their heavy gaze over your body, “i’m gonna take you in this taxi without caring who’s watching.”

with that, they released you, but the flush on their cheeks was unmistakable, and they strained against their own instincts as they leaned back into their seat, firmly locking their gaze on the taxi driver’s headrest. you were frozen, still hunched over the center seat, hand frozen in midair, body unable to catch up with the sudden wave of arousal now coursing through your body like a tidal wave.

ah. now you got it. not only did the violence bring peace. but as your pulse quickened, all you could think about was how much fighting felt like this. a shot of pure ecstasy to the brain. you sat back. your eyes slide over to glance at Venture, who had closed theirs. they went to slide back but caught on the rearview mirror. the glowing light of six pin-point dots reflected back at you but then disappeared. you swallowed. fuck.

Sloane’s tongue felt like it was wrapped around yours. wet lips, smacking together as your back hit the door. it covered your teeth, and your own tongue pushed back, darting into their mouth and catching on their chipped tooth. for once, you didn’t care if it cut you. you welcomed it. you wanted to taste the iron in their mouth, wanted it to further slick the slide of your connected mouths.

one of your hands reached for the doorknob grasping at air as you tried to locate it. the other, the blood-covered one, was currently busy, tangling itself in Sloane’s hair. was it pushing them closer into you or away? neither of you were sure. Sloane was too busy groping at anything they could feel, your ass, your tits, your hips and you could feel the gears of your brain grind to a halt at their rough touch. both of their hands traveled around your body, the catch of the calluses you knew too well unmistakable, finding their way into your pants, squeezing your panty-covered ass. it was the moment they began to unbutton them that you tugged your face away, looking upwards to try and get a word in, but the moment you started, Sloane latched onto your neck, suckling what would be, no doubt, a deep bruise into your throat.

“Ssssslone. Sloane! I gotta- ah!- gotta get the keycard!”

stubbornly, they shook their head, digging their hands deeper into the flesh of your ass. a breathless laugh escaped you and they moaned. you could feel it vibrate against your collar as they popped off your skin, staring back at you with a love-drunk smile, lips bruised and wet from your earlier make-out session. their eyes traveled down, lip disappearing between their teeth, letting you catch of glimpse of a lusty twinkle as they pulled back slightly to take all of you in. before they could act on any of those desires, however, you twisted around to deny them the access to your body, but it didn’t quite work as planned, especially when they were on you in an instant, pushing their hips forward, into your ass, pinning you against the door. oh, yeah. they literally react for a living. how could you forget (again). you, unfortunately, did not, and as punishment, you had managed to get your hands trapped with you, between you and the hardwood.

"S-Sloane," you squeaked, in protest at the capture. but you knew it was a futile pled, no more than a selfish desire to hear their name fall off your lips.

“you’re so pretty like this, babe… need to see you in this position more often…” the slow grind of their hips they used to drive this in had you seeing stars. you felt drunk off their attention and changed your course of action, now using your hands as a base in which you leaned your weight against, rubbing your ass back, against Venture’s warm body. “yesssss… yes, just like that, baby. I’ll take care of you. take care of you so good. make you cum so hard.”

and suddenly, a beep.

you went flying forward as the door swung open, but Sloane was faster, catching you around the waist with one, strong arm. you glanced back, wondering what just happened. the other was lifted in the air, keycard to the hotel room slotted between two fingers. the smile they flashed you could be potentially described as, ‘shit-eating.’

“I told you, babe. I gotcha.”

“if I wasn’t so horny for you right now, I would hit you.”

“I like a little fight.”

you huffed at them, pulling yourself free, but that only lasted a second. you intended to make your way to the bed, yearning for its clean, linen smelling sheets, but Sloane redirected you to their shoulder with one easy lift, the door slamming shut behind them. “Uhn-uh. Has estado bastante lejos de mí, pajarito.”

“Sloane! Let me go already!” smacking their back with a open hand, you tried to at least act like you didn’t enjoy their man-handling. when truly, you marveled at their strength. the way they could toss you around like a pillow, yet they never managed to injure you. the self-control they had was a feat that didn’t seem to make it to their mouth. and you wanted to absolutely destroy it. watching them lose themself in you was your greatest weakness, winning over their touch by only a small amount.

Sloane plopped you down onto the bed with no effort, standing above you with the same loving smile as before. Their hand trailed down your cheek, lifting your chin to face them. “Hi, beautiful.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You sure you want me here?” the bed was one of those modern ones. low to the floor and had you at crotch level.

the smile they had dropped. slowly, a confused look took its place. “Why wouldn’t Iiiii- oh my god.”

they might have been quick on their feet on the battlefield, but the bedroom was your domain. in an instant, you had their pants and shorts on the floor, kissing the top of their cunt before they could even finish their sentence. you rested the top your chin on their groin, batting your eyes at the shocked look they handed down to you. “that’s why. now come here.” you tug them forward by their thighs, mouth open, tongue out, thirsting for a lick of their sweet juices.

“I- you weren’t supposed to—”

“Mmm?” you purred, tongue occupying itself with a long lick up their slit that left them gasping. “Wasn’t supposed to… what? I can have my own fun too.”

The noise they made was completely garbled. With a laugh, you went back to kitten-soft licks to their labia, only deepening them a couple of times, every so often, twirling their slick around with your tongue. they couldn’t seem to form a word with their sharp tongue, not with your silver one buried in them. as you started downward, you tapped their shaking calf, indicating them to shake the clothing off their leg and raise it onto the bed beside you, opening up their cunt to you — a sight that made your mouth water. their hole was leaking, drips that you caught with your mouth, leading with your tongue.

you plunged it into them, using your hands to open their legs even more and letting Sloane use them for balance as they rocked against your face, allowing you to penetrate them over and over again. they grasped the sides of your face, saccharine pet names now flowing from their lips as you fucked them on your tongue.

“cariño, my love, you’re so fucking good. beyond my wildest dreams — oh god, you’re so perfect. just incomparable. fuck, just- just- just keep- yes!”

with all the lubrication, it was easy to slide back and forth between their hole and their clit. you mimicked their move in the hallway, suckling on the nub with swift slurps, releasing it to trace their lips back down to their hole, diving in to remind them what it was like to be filled by you again.

“please- fuck! i’m so close! so, so close!” their voice raised in pitch as you continue your wet exploration of their cave, hands moving to grab at your hair, gripping it closer, shoving your nose into their cunt, you did the same to the back of their thighs, pulling them into your face, letting Sloane grind against you, and as you sucked in a shaky breath, all hot and musky scent, they keened, letting out the loudest moan you’ve ever pulled from their throat as they came, soaking your tongue, your mouth, your face in their juices.

“oh, oh—.” Sloane’s legs shook in your grasp, sighing out their held breath as they released themself, released your hair with trembling fingers. you pulled back, face shiny and wet with come, glistening on your lips as you stared up with them. they were so gorgeous like this, mouth parted, huffing out your name under their breath. you admired the sight, holding them as they shook with the aftershocks of their orgasm.

“You… you’re so gonna get it,” they breathed. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard.”

“All talk and no- mMPH-!” your mouth was covered by their own as they tackled you backwards, down onto the bed, licking off their own slick from you. they practically were devouring you, teeth clashing as they pressed their naked lower half into you. the heat never left Sloane’s eyes, you noticed, as they pulled away to reach under the bed for their suitcase. you attempted to sit up, but one hand pushed you back down, holding you in place on the bed as they rummaged around underneath.

“No. Stay there. My turn.” You recognized the black nylon straps they pulled out, buckles clinking as they fiddled with the orientation. Even with one hand, they were able to untangle the mess of rope, without ever letting you go. And god, why didn’t anyone mention how sexy it was to watch your partner put on their strap with one hand? Like they were sent just to do this to you? Like they knew every button to press just to get you indescribably horny?

the only time Sloane’s hand left you was to clasp the back of the contraption shut, but even then, you were held firm by their strong legs, squeezing your sides and arms together. you wouldn’t have even thought to break free, not with the rate your brain turned to mush. then their hands were back, under your thighs, hoisting them open and up onto their shoulders as they aligned themself with your entrance. but ever a tease, Sloane didn’t just push in. no, this was payback, wasn’t it? their fingers danced along your cunt, rough tips spread your most private area open as they watched. it was almost embarrassing, how much they liked to just look at your sopping wet cunt, toying with your hole, running their fingers along the rim.

“Sloane,” you pleaded, “please, please fuck me… it’s embarrassing.”

“nah… this is pretty. your little cunt wants me so bad! doesn’t it?” you bit your lip. they wanted to embarrass you. even with no one around, you felt like you should close your legs, to stop their gaze, but they refused to let you, holding your thigh open. “what’s wrong, baby? I thought you liked it when I complemented you?”

“not… not that way, Venture…. Sloane. please just fuck me…”

“well, when you ask so nicely…” and the stretch was almost instantaneous. you gasp, a mix of their name and air, flooding your lungs, your brain with utter pleasure at the entrance of the hard silicone. your hands, still filthy, clutched at anything you could reach; bed, sheets, shoulders. Sloane hums as you rake them down, somewhat regretful they haven’t shrugged off their coat, so that you could see the pink lines you leave all over their arms.

“so pretty under me… love when you’re so fucked out like this.” fucking Sloane Cameron was an all encompassing experience, so intimate and dirty all at once. they whispered to you about how good you felt wrapped around them, fucking into you with the strap at a pace only they could manage to keep up, all while brushing hair out of your face, leaning down to kiss the tears from your cheeks.

“such a warm, wet pussy, god, I love it. made for me and my cock. weren’t you? all mine. mi amor. por siempre mio. ah… you’re soaking the bed. you feel it? feel how wet you make my cock?”

their pace was punishing, right off the bat. pushing the air from your lungs with every thrust. was it the air denial that made your head spin? or was it just Sloane? the way they kissed you like they loved you, fucked you like they hated you. they knew you could take it. they loved to test your limits. tested you would be, as their hand dropped to your clit, flicking it with a gentle fingertip every time they pushed into you.

“Sloane! no more, no more! i can’t- can’t take it!”

“Yeah, you can. you got it, got me all wrapped up in your cunt. you can take it. come on, cariño, you can do it.”

you toss your head back, displaying your bruised neck to them, a black pearl necklace of Sloane’s own design, something that belonged straight in the finest museum in the world, in their opinion.

“can’t… I can’t! I- i’m gonna cum!”

they lean in. “yes, baby. that’s it. cum. cum on my cock. show me how good I make you feel.” the sound of their voice. the slap of their thighs on yours. the overstimulation had you trying to push their face away, but they grabbed them, shoving them over your head and burying themself as deep as they could in you. you could feel it push against your pummeled cervix, making you cry out. making you jolt as the hand on your clit moved faster, it was inescapable. it was intoxicating. it- it was making you cum. your fingers came down on the hand holding them, the only thing they could manage as all the muscles in your body tightened, your cunt squeezing the dildo inside you like a vise as you squirting around it, soaking Sloane’s legs, crying out their name as you came.

“h- holy shit…” they whispered to themself, watching you squirm on their cock. you came every where. all over the bed, over them. they wanted so badly to lean down and lick the droplets off your lower lips, but the way you shook made them decide you had had enough for the time being. your eyes still clenched shut, chest rising and falling as you came down.

it was only when you opened them, that they decided to speak.

“good enough for you, cariño?” your eyes, lidded with desire were enhanced tenfold by the grin you gave them.

“not even close. take me to the shower. i’ll show you something else you’ve never seen before.”

#sloane cameron #sloan cameron #sloane cameron x reader #venture overwatch #venture x reader #overwatch x reader #venture ow2 #overwatch venture #ow2 #overwatch #aaaaaa its finally done!!!! and early too!!!!!#enjoy my lovelies!

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jenscx · 10 months ago

Text

[11] DAYLIGHT — d-day

you stared unblinking at the webcam, your stream displaying the waiting animation sakura had created for you a couple years back. the moment karina accepted your friend request on discord, you started the stream.

“hello everyone,” you smile, “today’s stream is slightly special and i’ll explain in just a minute when our mystery guest joins.”

your mouse hovers over the call button as the chat floods with comments about the ‘mystery guest’. by now, everyone had sort of figured out who the mystery guest was. could it really be counted as a mystery?

karina finally joins the call and your party in overwatch.

“hello?”

the chat goes crazy. you inwardly grimace. there’s a wave of donations and tips coming in. you didn’t know of karina’s popularity until that moment.

“we have karina joining us today,” you cringe at your cheerful tone. you can only imagine karina making fun of you later. she replies, “hi everyone, i’m karina.”

seeing as your viewers had calmed down significantly, you start to explain, “so i’m sure some of you guys are wondering why we hosted this stream. well, karina and i matched in a game and became acquainted with one another after.” you leave out the part about how karina was the cause of your account being banned.

“acquainted? didn’t you say we weren’t friends?” karina teased. you already feel a headache coming.

you try to smile, knowing that most likely, she’s also watching your stream and reactions.

“let’s just play!”

karina lets out a boisterous laugh as you quickly start a 1v1 match.

“are there any rules?” you read from the chat, “nope, but respawn is not on and we can change heroes.”

your mouse flashes across the screen, and you see karina being locked in already. knowing her, the youtuber probably picked genji to prove you wrong. a chuckle escapes your lips and you pick symmetra. the game starts.

“i’m excited,” karina remarks.

“excited to lose?”

she merely laughs. the doors finally open and you’ve never been so focused in your life. the mere prospect of having yu karina do anything you want is already egging you on. you weren’t aware of her fanbase, but you were now. with the help of kim minju of course.

“are you hiding?” you ask incredously after scouring the map for a few minutes but with no karina in sight.

“of course not, stupid.” her silky yet raspy voice reverberates in your headphones. you can’t help your cheeks heating up.

a moment passes, and you hear quick footsteps behind you. your mouse swiftly turns. she isn’t there anymore.

“you’re so annoying,” you mutter. you can hear karina’s smirk in her voice when she replies, “you like me that way.”

“i don’t like you in any way.”

“yeah?” before you even get to answer, genji jumps out of nowhere and gets a couple hits on you. you instantly snap into action, symmetra placing down her sentry turrets, combating karina’s swift movements.

‘are they flirting or arguing with each other?’

‘this is very homoerotic.’

you ignore your chat.

her health depletes slightly before she manages to escape again. you grin, already knowing that her pride wouldn’t allow her to switch to another hero. and she was so predictable that you chose a hero that counters genji.

“stop hiding and running away, it’s defeating the purpose of a 1v1,” you say.

“only if you tell me nicely, darling.” the red in your cheeks return and your chat goes berserk.

you click your tongue, irritation at yourself boiling. you were so easily flustered.

“don’t call me that!”

the blurry image of karina smirking only sends another wave of heat to your face.

“whatever you say, darling.” you roll your eyes.

“okay, stop hiding. let’s settle this for real.” at that moment, karina chooses to strike. genji apparates out of nowhere again and deals massive amounts of damage. when you use your primary fire, karina can’t deflect it. you’re left with barely a quarter of full health. you assume karina has roughly the same.

“baby, just let me win.”

you don’t even hesitate to stop firing. karina giggles as she throws one last shuriken at you. symmetra groans and the screen goes into darkness. your chat pings continuously.

defeat, in large and bold letters, shows up on your screen. your jaw drops. you only gaze at the monitor in awe. in awe of how easy you were. just a simple command from karina and you were basically turned into a lapdog. how does someone so insufferable have such a effect on you?

“what. the. hell.”

‘choi yena gifted 5 subs; park yn, don’t tell me you just lost because you’re a simp?’ the robotic voice says. you continue gaping at the screen. the humiliation of your loss only eats you up, and there’s an overwhelming urge to just end the stream without saying goodbye. in your headphones, you hear karina laughing heartily. the chat is still being flooded with comments, mostly making fun of you. not only had you lost, you lost in front of 20k people watching your devastating defeat.

“uhm,” you mumble, “so, see you guys next time.”

“thanks for the game, yn! don’t forget about our bet,” karina laughs gleefully.

your entire face turns red at this point. with clumsy hands, you end the stream, vowing to never play overwatch ever again.

masterlist | next

TAGLIST ! @flolio @imahallucination11 @wallfl9wer @edamboon @seullovesme @twicesserafim @klvarchives @rinapomu @pandafuriosa60 @jisooftme @cwpiqwon @yoontoonwhs @limbforalimb @xen248 @r4cjh @dni-unavailable @yukianism @i3lia @ryujinsdimple @httpisaoki @haerinsloverr @masuowo @multiliker @edenzeepy @1luvkarina @yeetaberry127

#daylight ft. yjm #aespa smau #aespa x reader #karina x reader #karina smau #yu jimin smau #yu jimin x reader #jimin smau #jimin x reader

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torturedtypewritersdept · 1 day ago

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a fucked up sort of eden - pt. three - new beginnings aren't so bad

✯ pairing:

firefighter!rafe cameron x fem!reader

✯ summary:

Rafe Cameron was good on his own, steady and sure, despite his adrenaline based nature; he was good on his own. His sisters long line of blind dates on his behalf leads him to you and from the very moment you walk out on the dinner, he knows he will never be the same again.

✯ warnings:

mature themes, mentions of anxiety, nostalgia, heartbreak, domestic violence (not rafe), injury, ghosting, fluff and fear, firefighter!rafe, past abuse, awkward!rafe, firefighter lingo, smut, etc.

✯ a/n:

nothing!! please don't engage if you have a hard time with any of these topics <3 this first chapter was originally posted on my old blog @/illicitfixations, @/lovelornanonymity and i have rewritten + reshared it here and will finally be continuing the rest of the series :)

The scent of simmering garlic mingled with roasted tomato, curling softly through the corners of your apartment like a familiar hand resting against the curve of your back. The kitchen light hummed low, casting a golden glow across the counter where two plates sat waiting—nervous, like you. Your fingers lingered on the edge of the spoon, stirring slowly, rhythmically, trying to pretend you weren’t counting down the minutes to his arrival, wondering if he’d be like the rest and not show up at all. But the clock ticked loud anyway.

Jackson sat like a sentry on the windowsill, tail flicking, green eyes narrowed at the front door.

“You think he’s actually gonna show?” you whispered to the cat, voice barely above a breath.

Jackson blinked.

“Right. That makes two of us.”

You’d debated canceling at least five times, your finger hovering over the call button earlier that afternoon. But then you’d remembered the way Rafe had whispered sweet girl and then immediately apologized, remembered how quickly he’d made Topper disappear with a single look, how gentle his hands had been around Jackson. You remembered the soft shade of worry in his blue eyes when he’d said goodbye.

So you left the door unlocked.

And now, at exactly 6:58, a knock came. Soft. Careful. Like he knew.

You opened it slowly—and there he was.

Rafe stood on your doormat like he’d never stepped inside someone’s safe space before. Hair still damp from the station shower, his grey shirt clung to the curve of his chest, and his jeans—frayed slightly at the knee—held the scent of smoke and salt. A six-pack of blood orange sparkling lemonade dangled from his hand, and in the other—a humble bundle of wildflowers wrapped in butcher paper.

“I wasn’t sure if you liked wine,” he said, lifting the six-pack, “but I figured bubbles are bubbles.”

Your mouth quirked. “And the flowers?”

He glanced down at them, almost bashful. “Looked like the kind that survives in weird weather. Thought maybe you’d relate.”

That made you laugh—really laugh—for the first time in days.

You stepped back, motioning him inside, and as he passed, his arm brushed yours. Just lightly. Like a secret.

—

Dinner passed in slow, quiet waves. You both sat close, but not too close—two plates between you, elbows occasionally knocking. He complimented your pasta three separate times, eyes lighting up each time you refilled his glass. The conversation drifted from Topper’s failed Tinder dates to Sarah’s most ridiculous attempts at matchmaking, to books, to memories neither of you expected to share.

“I read The Lottery Rose when I was in the hospital,” you admitted, hands wrapped tightly around your glass. “It... helped. I don’t even know why. Just did.”

He nodded. “I’ve read East of Eden eight times. Keeps me sane. Adam Trask reminds me of what not to let the world steal.”

You tilted your head. “What’s that?”

“Softness,” he said simply.

The word sat heavy in your chest. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, just twirling the condensation on his glass with his thumb. The moment turned quiet. And you let it.

Later, after the dishes were stacked in the sink and Jackson had curled up on the corner of the couch between you, you both stayed. Not talking. Just existing in the same space. A string of soft amber lights lit the living room, flickering like they were breathing. The candle on the table had burned down to half its height. Rafe sat with one arm draped along the back of the couch, his fingers grazing a cushion absently. He wasn’t trying to close the distance between you—but he wasn’t running from it, either. His eyes flickered to you now and then, and when he thought you weren’t looking, they lingered.

But then they caught—on your scar.

It was faint now, but still there—curling just beneath the edge of your sweater collar, a pale crescent pressed into skin that once tore open like parchment. You noticed the flicker in his gaze, and your body tensed before you could help it. You waited for the question. They always asked.

But he didn’t. Not right away.

Instead, his voice came quiet. Gentle.

“Does it still hurt?”

You turned your head toward him, surprised. Most people asked what. He asked how.

“No,” you said, voice barely above the hum of the room. “Not really. Not the way it used to.”

He nodded, slow. Thoughtful.

You looked down, fingers tugging gently at the hem of your sleeve. “People usually ask how I got it.”

“I was going to,” he admitted. “But I figured if you wanted to tell me, you would.”

The air thickened. Your heart thudded.

“I was in the hospital for almost two months,” you said, swallowing. “Jaw fracture. Orbital fracture. Four broken ribs. Internal bleeding. Broken leg. They said I coded once... I don’t remember it.”

Rafe didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

You kept going.

“I don’t remember a lot about that night. Just... flashes. Sirens. The taste of blood in my mouth. Sarah’s scream. Then I woke up to this.” You touched the scar. “And a body I didn’t recognize.”

His hands flexed, knuckles white for just a second before relaxing again.

“I guess I should be grateful I forgot,” you murmured. “The doctors said it was the brain protecting itself. But it’s strange—having this scar and not knowing what happened. It’s like carrying someone else’s grief.”

Rafe leaned in slightly, elbows on his knees, voice low and steady.

“It’s still yours,” he said. “Even if the memory’s gone. The surviving... that’s yours.”

You met his eyes. There was something there. Something behind them that felt too tender to name.

“Have you ever had to survive something you couldn’t explain?” you asked.

His jaw tensed. The answer lived behind his teeth, but he didn’t let it spill.

Because he remembered.

He remembered you limp in his arms, covered in blood. He remembered running through the ER bay doors, shouting for help. He remembered your pulse flickering in his hands like a flame he couldn’t let go out. He remembered praying for a girl he’d never met, just because she meant something to his sister—and now, he couldn’t forget any of it.

“I have,” he said simply.

And that was enough.

You didn’t press. But you felt it. The shape of his pain mirrored your own. Different, but somehow familiar.

You reached for his hand, brushing his fingers with yours. He didn’t move. Just turned his palm up slowly, letting yours settle against it. Warmth spread up your arm like sun on stone.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what?”

“For not asking me to explain it.”

He looked at you—really looked at you.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “Not your story. Not your pain. Just your company. If you’ll keep giving it.”

Your chest ached. A good kind of ache.

“I think I will,” you whispered.

Rafe smiled softly. Then leaned back, his hand still loosely cradling yours. Jackson purred louder, and the candle flickered like it had finally exhaled.

And somewhere between silence and skin, something new began to bloom—quiet, careful, but very real.

Neither of you said the words, but both of you knew it:

This was the beginning of something neither of you had planned for.

Something worth surviving for.

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forsworned · 1 year ago

Text

SAVING SERGEANT MACTAVISH

Sypnosis: 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝖺��𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗅 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝖺 𝗈𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒'𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝖼𝖾𝖾𝖽?

Warning(s): 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽/𝗀𝗈𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍, 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗌.

Author's note: 𝖺𝗁𝗁𝗁𝗁𝗁𝗁𝗁𝗁 𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌!! 𝗂 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗌𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗆𝖾! 𝗂 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝖽𝗏𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒!!!!

𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗌: 𝖼𝗈𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝗎𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗒 𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾! ˑ༄

⤷ 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗐𝗈

CHAPTER ONE: KNOCKING AT DEATH'S DOOR

TUESDAY 23 NOVEMBER 2023

A surge of adrenaline kicked through your system as you navigated the labyrinthine train tunnels, flanked by your comrades, Johnny and Price. The thunderous rhythm of your heartbeat drowned out the distant whirring of passing trains. Your stomach still lurching at the sight of all the civilians dead on your way through the chunnel as you slid on the opposite side of where Johnny was crouched, reloading his gun. Anger brimmed against your tightened sternum as you were in hot pursuit of Makarov, shooting at Konni and hacking their sentry guns.

You couldn't help but inwardly scoff at the notion of an easy victory as you switched over to your pistol and shot at a soldier just a meter away. As if it weren't bad enough that Makarov was blowing up stadiums, stealing missiles, trapping women into prostitution rings, and gassing military bases, he was more than likely setting up another attack down here. The gravity of the situation was slowly setting heavily upon your burning chest, heightening your senses and sharpening your focus.

Locking eyes with Johnny behind the shelter of Jersey barriers that were getting plastered with ricocheting bullets, there was an unspoken reassurance passed between you—a silent nod in the form of a check-in in the face of danger. His swift action in engaging Konni soldiers echoed your own steadfastness, punctuated by the raid and sharp crack of gunfire.

In the heat of battle, your mind wandered in and out of throngs of memories over the course of months in light of your new diagnosis. You couldn't forget the way your teammates faces fell as they crowded the small doctor's office during your check up.

"But she's so young..." Price voice fell quiet as he stood beside you. Your feet swinging over the edge of the infirmary bed as you kept your gaze on the cold, white tiled floors.

"Hypertension is a common diagnosis amongst people in your field." The doctor took off his gloves, foot on the button of the trash to lift the lid as he tossed the latex into the bin. "I've had firefighters, cops, military personnel come by all the time being diagnosed with the same thing, usually asking for worker's comp." The doctor crossed his arms and peered over at the five of you.

Of course, they weren't going to just let you go to the doctor by yourself. It was practically an intervention at that point. After months of your complaints about the onset of severe headaches, blurred vision, chest pain, and the final straw—passing out on a mission. Price had had absolutely enough of it, nearly dragging you by the ear to come in and get a check up.

They all turned to you. Johnny was just so obviously dying to partake in the scolding fest you were soon going to endure from them, grinning from ear to ear with that mischevious glint in his eye. "Looks like we've gotta look after you, lassie."

It almost tickled you to see the soldier transitioning out of his silly, flirtatious persona who was always causing shenanigans and mishaps to one of a true, hardened sergeant who has more than earned his title. Your admiration and fondness for him had grown over the past few years of working along side him in the service. Feelings that you hadn't consciously prioritized, but rather somewhere in the backlog of your subconscious that was in the form of wet dreams, and the occasional rub out. Still, finding love on the battlefield wasn't ideal...

As cacophony erupted around you, and the world blurred momentarily, time became elusive as you found yourself sprawled upon the cold ground and a growing ache emerged to the bridge of your nose. Through the haze, Johnny's concerned figure materialized, disarming and jutting a knife coldly through your perpertator's throat before he urgently made his way to you. A lifeline in the midst of turmoil as the ringing in your ears turned deafening.

"...y'er okay!...[name], y'er alright." His voice, a calming anchor in the storm had penetrated the disorientation clouding your senses. With a gentle helping hand, he guided you back to coherence, his touch a binding force in the commotion.

"Y'r good, lass. C'mon, up ya go." Price's arrival is a welcomed sight, amongst the havoc where he remained an authoritative presence that presided over them. Together, they lifted you from the ground, steadying you; a common theme amongst you all in the 141. You shook your head to rid yourself out of your stupor, reality shifting once more.

"Yeah? Y'good, lassie?" Johnny patted your shoulder and a fleeting, wry grin graced your cracked lips.

"Atta girl." Price simpered at you, though there was a strained discomfort framed into his expression that he couldn't quite hide when he glanced over at you.

That's the thing about men, they couldn't conceal how they felt even if they tried. Stress was etched into their features in the form of crow's feet and silver whiskers weaved into their beards and the hair on their heads. And though he would never, ever admit it aloud, the fact of the matter was, you were the sole female on their squad and that left Price with a heightened sense of responsibility toward you, surpassing even that toward your male counterparts. The sentiment only deepened after your diagnosis, casting a shadow of concern over his every interaction with you.

But it didn't stop at him. Kyle, Simon and Johnny were constantly nagging, harking over it with meal plans and making sure you were taking your medication. Even going as far as not letting you come out of your room, so you could replenish your strength. It was obvious to you that it was for your best interest, but clearly at the cost of your own autonomy.

In the eerie silence punctuated only by the relentless rush of passing trains, the gravity of the situation becomes palpable once again. Fluorescent light reflecting off the shiny metal of the trains had bounced against your face, revealing the blood that trickled down your nose to your squadmates. A stark reminder of the perilous stakes at hand—a testament to the sacrifices demanded by duty.

"Here, lassie." Johnny shoved his hand in his pocket to fish out a wad of napkins and you couldn't help but snort a bit at his resourcefulness. He quickly dabbed at your nose, before taking your hand in his and holding it up to your nose and securing it place. "Chin up." His calloused fingertips under your chin quickened the pace of your heart, and small smile found the corners of his pink lips.

"SFO secure a perimeter!" Price's command sliced through the silence with unfaltering authority.

Johnny and Price exchanged a knowing glance, before the Scotsman left your side and scouted the area. He stopped in his tracks, and his cerculean eyes reamed at the sight of it.

"Captain, Konni's guardin' a bomb..." His words hang heavy in the air, the magnitude of the revelation sank in.

The looming threat of the undetonated vessel creeping back in to the imminent danger posed by Makarov's machinations—a threat that had be neutralized at any cost. The urgency snapped you from your reverie, a swift gesture of wiping away the blood from your nose with the back of your hand as you shoved the bloody napkin into your back pocket, and you're back in the fray.

Price doesn't waste any time, though a look of grit washed over his grim features. "Soap--Get on that bomb!"

Yet, Johnny is already at work, his expertise in demolition evident as he knelt beside the device. A skillset you sorely lacked, almost a little too grateful for the presence of Johnny and Price to avert disaster because let's face it, you'd be shit out of luck otherwise. "Two minutes, sir...!"

"All Bravo--Bomb located in crossover platform! I need cover here--NOW!" Price bellowed out over the comms. It felt like at any moment Konni soldier's were going to rush the group.

"Rog--Pushing your way!" Kyle's response is swift, the clatter of metal meeting concrete punctuated by the billowing smoke obscuring the enemy's advance.

"Contact!" A soldier's cry jolted you into action.

Price's molars mashed together at the sight. "Fuckin' hell--Get to work, Soap!"

"Six, bomb is a two man job...work with me...! Captain, I need you with me on the bomb now!" Johnny's voice resonated with haste as he beckoned to Price. You can only watch from the sidelines as the two of them delved into the intricate task of disarming the bomb.

Your gaze shifted frantically from one position to another, vigilant against any attempts by the enemy to flank you. And yet, even in the middle of a state of disorder, you maintained your composure, every shot calculated and precise. Each moment felt like an eternity as you stood your ground, ensuring the safety of your team while they work profusely.

"Price, be advised, Makarov is in the chunnel--He's headin' y'r way!" Ghost rasped over the comms and your heart is set into action once more. With every passing second, the peril of the situation crystallized, casting aside any illusions of safety or reprieve. Not even a moment to process the heaviness you were starting to feel in your eyes, nor the brewing, dull onset of the migraine you were to receive, itching at the back of your head.

There was a barter between Johnny and Price that fell on deaf ears, as you protected them from the onslaught of bullets. But despite your focused efforts to shield them, a chilling realization dawned upon you as Johnny's pained cry reverberated in your ears. You paused turning back to him but he seemingly continued his task despite blood gushing out of his gunshot wound.

There was an unpleasant dryness in your mouth as your jaw ticked, knowing you couldn't drop your position to help patch him up.

"It'll blow if I let go, Captain! [name]! Cover me!" Johnny called out over the noise. In one swift movement you're alongside Price in an effort to support Johnny from being injured any further to complete the job.

"Fuuuck...We need...NOW!" Price's voice was drowning in and out of your auditary pathways. Another exchange over the comms added to the disorientation, each word blending into a blur as panic threatened to overwhelm you. Fear was setting in...no, no, not fear. It was the fiery intensity of your intuition tottering you back in an effort to safeguard Johnny even at the cost of your life.

The two of you cleared the room out, before he's called back to Johnny's side to help him disarm the threat. Their voices going in and out.

"...red wire."

"Red wire...got it."

There was an impeding sense of doom that struck right through your heart before you let your weapon fall slightly to the side to reload it, your head instinctually whipping a mere nanosecond before the man of the hour emerged from the darkness of the tunnels with his men.

"Makarov!" You exclaimed, but you felt the oxygen withdrawing from your lungs and your vocal chords didn't seem to be functioning.

What the fuck...?

"Stay back. They're mine...!!" Makarov's chilling command made all the blood drain from your face.

Gunshots rang out behind you, but Johnny and Price were already down, blood staining the ground beneath them. Frozen in horror, you watched helplessly as Makarov asserted his dominance, his foot pressing down on Price's neck.

Your mind raced, neurons firing wildly as you struggled to react. Was it the blow from the AK-47 or a possible stroke that rendered you moored where you sat? You didn't know.

Without skipping a beat, the Scotsman is back up, a swift movement to stab Makarov to the arm.

No...

You saw it coming from a mile away. Not an ounce of hesitation in his eyes as the Russian lifted his gun to shoot Johnny point blank in the head.

"No!!" Price roared out, but it's too late. Johnny's lifeless body hit the ground and the world seemed to move in a familiar slow motion.

Your eyes never leaving Johnny's body. Blood trickled out of his gunshot wound and you were completely immobile. Enemy forces moved in and the echoing of voices continued, vibrating into your skull. Pain radiated from your neck, jaw, shoulders, arms and even to your back and you struggled to swallow the vomit that was starting to brim up your esophagus.

"...Captain!!"

"Price, Johnny!!"

The eardrum shattering noise of gunshot clattered loudly against your senses as you felt the air leaving your lungs. Simon and Kyle rushed in as the Konni soldiers and Makarov made a run for it. And just like that, he's gone once again, slipping right through your fingers. The whirring of the train was nothing but a fading memory, crushing the body of a Konni soldier that Makarov pawned.

Checkmate.

"Johnny!" Simon is knelt beside Johnny's corpse, extending his fingers to his pulse. But of course, he felt nothing. Just the warmth leaving his deceased body as Kyle and Price work meticulously to disarm the bomb. Your vision blurred as you felt a pang hitting deep in your chest and suddenly you heard yourself heaving, clawing at your chest for any ounce of oxygen.

The sound of the beeping stopped. "Disarmed...disarmed...we're clear." Kyle announced as he and Price rose from their kneeling positions to turn back to Simon and Johnny, too preoccupied with the horrific sight in front of them to see that you were gasping for air.

"All stations, this is Bravo in the blind. Threat neutralized. Bomb is safe...KIA..."

KIA...

You felt your body lose control of all its senses as the room began to spin and your vision was doubling.

"[name]." Price's head snapped in your direction. The recognizable dread alerting his senses as he took one look at your form before it dropped to the floor. "...[name]...! [name]! ....stay with me!"

Several voices were calling out to you, but they were slowly inundating. A soothing warmth enveloped you, cocooning you in a comforting embrace. Sensations of weightlessness engulfed you, as if you were suspended in the void, detached from the world around you.

Was this death?

It seemed plausible. After all, you had lived a life of righteousness, fighting tirelessly for what you believed in. At least, that's what your comrades and therapist had assured you. When was your last therapy session? A week ago? Or was it your psych eval?

You couldn't recall. It felt nice. This was nice.

In the haze of uncertainty, the image of Johnny's warm, reassuring smile materialized before you, tugging at your heartstrings with an overwhelming surge of emotion.

"I failed you." You whispered, the weight of regret heavy in your words.

"No, ye didn't. There's still time." His thick, Scottish accent echoed in your mind, a plea tinged with desperation. His image beginning to dissipate, fading into a bright white light as you attempted to grab him but you were met with nothing.

"Johnny, wait...!"

And in that moment, you jolted awake, gasping for air, the remnants of the dream clinging to your consciousness like a lingering shadow. Cold sweat clung to your clothes and the baby hairs on your forehead, as you felt your pulse going wild at the sight of your room. Sunlight filtered through your blinds as you drank in the familiar scenery. Like you had lived this day before.

How long had you been out?

Your fitbit beeping loudly on your wrist, hoisting you back into your "reality" and the rapping on your door jostled you awake.

"[Name], are ye alright?"

What...

Your body went rigid at the voice. That rich, Scottish accent that you adored was undeniable. It couldn't be.

Slowly, but surely you peeled off your sheets making a stride for the door.

More rapping. "[name]." He sighed. "Need t'know yer alright, lassie."

You simply had to be dreaming at this point. Right. It was a dream. Nothing more. You were just reliving one of your memories with him, a flash of your life right before your very eyes as you passed away, moving gently into the light. But still. Something about the way everything was exactly as it should have been was uncanny.

The decor on your walls, the crooked framed photo of you and your squadmates clinking beer glasses together, even down right to the idiotic bobblehead of Price that Johnny gifted you for your birthday as a gag gift. It was all there.

Or maybe you just had a detail-oriented mind that had the ability to recall everything as it was. You wouldn't put it past you.

"Ya know maybe, 'll jus' eat the banana choco chip pancakes I made for ye." He teased, behind the door as your shaky hand gripped the knob. You felt your lip quiver for a moment. Emotions were starting to overwhelm you. Damned it all to hell if it were a dream. You'd give anything to see him alive again.

"C'mon, open up!"

He laughed, but there was a pause as he heard the slight jingle of the knob as you touched it. Your dry lips were flaky under the quick swipe of your tongue as your hand trembled, grappling with the reality of the situation. With a deep breath, you summoned the courage to twist the knob, your heart pounding in your chest as anticipation mingled with disbelief.

As the door creaked open, revealing the figure on the other side, your breath caught in your throat. There he stood, unmistakably Johnny, his familiar grin lighting up his face as he met your gaze with warmth and affection.

"Ah, there ye are, lassie," he exclaimed, his voice a comforting melody that washed over you like a gentle wave. "Ye had me worried fer a moment there."

The sight of him standing before you, so vivid and real, defied all logic and reason. Was this truly happening, or were you still ensnared in the clutches of a dream?

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