#taking the office rat out for a crisp air walk

[thedawner]

Combined 2 current interests: Skyrim and Too Human.

Here's Heimdall's (mis)adventures in another viking-themed world. Considering how Too Human's cyberspace/virtual reality lore works, this might as well be canon.

[dingleshartbeaufoy]

— 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞

[masterlist]

henri clément x augustin lambert

tags - reverse au, religious undertones, graphic depictions of violence, angst + fluff

rated m - 6.3k words

warnings - suicidal ideation, graphic depictions of violence, major character death

— augustin has trapped the beast in administration, and the road to freedom becomes considerably more obscured.

(Pls rb + read on ao3 if possible 🫀)

[banner by reveriesources]

The steady scratching at the door doesn’t cease until the first flush of morning.

Is man awarded his identifier as human only while he exists in his human state? Is it torn away from him should he devolve, should he revert to something more primal? If consciousness separates man from beast, then what is he who toes the line between real and symbolic?

The meager window of daylight above the compact rubble is all that allows Augustin to hazard a guess at the time; it gets colder at night, and if he wants to, he can bask in the sunlight when he’s afforded it. It should be near four in the morning when the desperate scraping and distressed roars from the other side of the wall slow and then are silenced. Augustin hears nothing. Not a claw raking against the stone, not a wardrobe or empty fuel canister being clumsily knocked over. Nothing, and he’s not brave enough to shine his flashlight under the door, or poke his head through the window beside it.

If he were a better man, a better husband, a better friend, he would be able to muster up an oddment of sympathy and extend it to his friend. But he cannot, and the sun is rising, and he’s exhausted beyond measure, and he’s left his bandages and medlars stowed in the storage box to make room for routine trips from the arsenal to the generator. Fuel was scarce. Darkness was a death sentence. Who could blame him?

He wonders, briefly, as he trudges down the stairs and into mission storage if Adam and Eve felt such melancholy at their eviction. If they felt sick as they tried and failed to claw their way back into paradise. If the bile rose in their throat, and if they swallowed it back down.

Augustin bangs helplessly against Henri’s locker. The beast does not stir, the lights do not flicker, and the rats do not skitter about in the walls and ceiling or around his sore feet. The world is taking a moment of silence for him. He pounds his fists into the firm metal door again and again before he collapses against it, as if, should he try hard enough, Henri may walk right out. As if he had been entombed in an iron prison the entire time.

He feels closer to this cold, dented locker than to the gnarled remnant of his friend several hundred feet away from him.

───

Henri never did like the harsh overhead lights of the bunker, or of any place, for that matter. They cursed him with throbbing migraines and for the rest of the day he would be nothing short of irritable.

Augustin sits beside him on the mushy loam just outside the entrance, watching Henri pack his cigarettes before he fishes one out with trembling, nervous hands. Long fingers, defined tendons. The air is crisp and smells of rain, moonlight acting as Henri’s spotlight. He looks angelic. Godless. Augustin compels himself to avert his eyes and suddenly becomes very interested in the ground.

His hair is slicked back today after he nabbed a tin of hair pomade from Sergeant Reynard, both for his own devices and as a jab at the officer. It’s refined, but stray hairs curl up in places. Very abruptly does Augustin feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, begging to be let out, to bleed onto the mud. He swallows subconsciously, watching Henri’s lips open and close around his cigarette. It’s frigid. Augustin’s skin burns despite.

“Chilly,” Henri remarks as if he read Augustin’s mind. Augustin hopes that he can, so that it would save him the words. God forgive him. A small smile spreads across Henri’s mouth. God have mercy. He had visited the priest enough times this week. “Think my balls might freeze off.”

Augustin laughs a little bit too loudly, and his courage curls up in his lap and stays there. Henri casts him a sidelong glance, shadows sharpening his features yet he retains his softness. His expression is suspicious and knowing. Augustin clenches and unclenches his hands into fists.

Henri’s eyes drift down to Augustin’s hand, resting on the ground between them. A gold band welded to the base of his finger twinkles in the moonlight. “You miss her, don’t you?”

Augustin’s breath hitches. “Yeah. A lot.”

Henri’s hand inches towards Augustin’s and rests comfortably upon it, fingers curling around his palm. He lets the flat of his thumb run over the bumps and ridges of Augustin’s knuckles, his skin equally scarred but paler, more flushed. Henri always compared him to Rudolph, his red nose, cheeks, lips. Henri, planted in the same spot, leans toward Augustin. Half-lidded eyes fixed on their hands joined amidst the mud and dirt and worms. They are not so different from the beasts of the Earth.

His world is ending. This is as close as he’s ever gotten, close as he’ll ever be– Henri leans closer still. Henri, his best friend, brother in arms. If he had known him sooner, he probably would have asked him to be his best man at his wedding. Would he accept? Would he laugh and wrap his arm around his shoulder, and they'd ignore anything else that could have been? Would it die there? Would they meet one another in dark rooms shrouded in shadow, illuminated only by the light seeping through the stained glass window? Would they rack up their sins far beyond the threshold within an evening?

Henri leans closer, and Augustin feels his breath against his face, warm and wet and smelling of tobacco. When their lips lock, Augustin’s reality crumbles and he wakes in Delisle’s blood-soaked cot. He can bear to remember no more, not if it won’t bring him back.

───

It’s nearly comforting to leave fate in the hands of a higher, more capable power. He understands how the Catholics feel a little bit more deeply. He repeats the same mantra as he wraps his makeshift bandages around a deep laceration in his calf: it will not get infected, it will not get infected, it will not get infected.

He tightens the tourniquet and ties it into a knot. He could see the pale tan of his under-flesh, the bumpy red of muscle. A plague of rats watch him from the mouth of a hole as if waiting for something that will never come. Augustin is waiting, too. He has always waited.

Walking is wobbly and labored for a few feet before he regains his control and can dig his nails into his palm to deal with the pain. There’s no time to rest, and even less to heal. He dreads the pillbox, dreads the chapel. Not for the danger lurking, of which there is no longer any, but for the knowledge that once his business is done in these places, he can never return. Eternally unable to reconcile. He retrieves the key from the reverend and one of Henri’s journal entries from the confessional. He ignores the altar. He must ignore the altar.

When he exits, he boards the door shut, freely slamming his hammer against the nails without caution for the racket he’s creating. He hopes to hear the growls of yore, the bell that tolls for him.

It never comes.

───

Horror. Hell, an eternity spent. Is this his punishment? Is this why he was spared? While he languished in a peaceful slumber, albeit plagued by visions of an ancient, endless desert, while his compatriots were slaughtered?

Idly, he holds his helmet up for the German sniper to shoot, retrieves it from across the room, holds it up again. It’s what Henri would have done, Augustin thinks. If that beast were Boisrond, the poor bastard, or Toussaint, and they were traversing this inferno together. If Henri could have been his Virgil, he would have offered they have some teasing fun, suggested they decorate administration for the holidays, despite it being July. Just to see him smile, just to help him relax. Henri generates morale. He always has.

Now, though, he only generates dust falling from the ceilings, and an impending sense of hopelessness.

───

It’s a while before Augustin timidly raps his knuckle against the door.

What did he expect? A response? What feared he more, the echo or the answer?

Nothing. Augustin kicks against the door in diligent ignorance of the shooting pain gripping his leg. He screams, wails, curses, shoots the lock with his last two revolver bullets. Not so much as a huff, a grumble, the dragging of loose skin against the raw ground.

Nothing. Always nothing, nothing at all, leaving him drowning in a sea of non-existence. Augustin feels he might die. It would serve him right.

───

No place to go but forward, for no salvation lies in waiting.

He’s still as the grave as he descends the stairs and into the prison. In life, he was never permitted to enter, none of the low-ranking soldats were. But that restriction wouldn’t stop the prisoners from begging for mercy, screaming in agony as their secrets were tortured out of them. They, the soldiers, were not fools. They knew that the army had ways of making somebody talk. Rumors roused despite, bored rumors, and they’d sit in the mess hall and convince one another the screams were vengeful Roman ghosts from the tunnels. It was the only explanation their fragile psyches would be able to accept.

Augustin wonders what Henri was up to while he was comatose. Selfishly, he wonders if anybody but him cared to worry on his behalf, or if they were only ever focused on watching their flanks, which would be justified. He vaguely remembers a strange, warm presence a few inches away, but never close enough to latch onto. Was Henri tortured like the others? Was Henri a saboteur at all? A mutineer?

“Hallo?” Calls the prisoner into the darkness when Augustin carefully removes the metal grate to the warden’s office from its bolts. The moment he sets it down on the floor, the prisoner howls, begging in a language Augustin cannot understand. He’s safe now, the beast cannot harm him. Why is he crying?

“I’ve trapped the monster in administration,” Augustin calls back, as if the German knows what administration is, as if he even speaks French. The prisoner falls silent for a moment. Augustin slips into the office and stares down the cell block hall, palms pressed against the control panel.

“…Monster?” The prisoner calls back timidly.

“Fuck— Ja, monster. Monster… nein. Monster ist nein.”

Henri would have cackled in Augustin’s face. Would have doubled over in his laughter. Whenever he’d hear them, he’d commit to learning and memorizing the meanings of any German word or phrase. That way, if ever he was in a sticky situation for which there was no salvation, he’d be in better shape. He taught Augustin a handful of simple verbs and articles and plenty of swears.

Augustin scoffs. Learning German would not have pulled him out of that crater. The prisoner is silent when he retrieves the bolt cutters from beside him and silent as he ambles back to administration. Perhaps he knows, too, and he’s salvaging the last of his fraying dignity.

He may not be an officer, he may not be a criminal, but he is a perpetrator of this conflict. He can die here like the rest of them.

───

Augustin curls up in front of the door, coat draped over himself. A bitter chill has seeped into the bunker, blanketing the very marrow of his bones. Maybe Henri is back. Maybe he’s transformed from whatever that thing is back into his usual self. Maybe he’s tired from exertion. Maybe something killed him. There’s always a bigger fish.

Augustin feels abandoned. Constantly hunted, never truly safe, at least he wasn’t alone— at least he had company. Now, the only person watching him is God in Heaven. Who would have him now? Not his wife, after what he’d seen, not his son, who would not be able to bear the sight of his disheveled, hollow father. Augustin is not the same man he was when he was conscripted and he never would be that man again. What came of the officers who left? Do they feel guilt, does it gnaw at them every waking hour?

They should. They should, for what they’ve done to him, to the garrison, to Henri. Augustin cannot handle not being seen.

───

“I brought you food,” he speaks against the metal, cheek pressed against the door. “You’re hungry, aren’t you? What have you been eating all this time? Rats? Corpses?”

Augustin chuckles weakly. “I wish you would eat some corpses. Or some rats. Or both. Would help me out a lot. Those bastards don’t bite shallow.”

Silence. Augustin has no audience. He holds a cut of rancid meat in his hand, and with all of his dwindling bravery, chucks it inside through the window, hanging on by its hinge. Hears it thud and then roll across the floor. He feels like he’s torn out his own heart and left it at the mercy of the beast.

Finally— God, finally— as relieving as when he found Henri in the depths of that crater, the beast scuffles, and then a grotesque imitation of digestion ensues. Tongue smacking, wet, grunting, hot breath wracking his body, and then a hard swallow. A heavy exhale.

Augustin draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “Are you cold?” He asks. “I could bring you a blanket. Are you thirsty? I could bring you some water. Some real water. Not that hell-broth in the spring.”

This is better, almost. Speaking as if the beast can hear him, and as if the beast is, in fact, Henri. Better for him to imagine things are calmer than they really are.

“If the meat is not enough, I’ll bring you a corpse. I’ll stuff it through the window for you. You liked brisket, didn’t you? I’ll manage you a brisket. Won’t be very nutritious, but…”

But what? What loyalty has Augustin to this monster, who slaughtered his unit? Then again, what dials or instruments can measure loyalty? What can weigh a heart?

“You can be close to them again,” Augustin says. “Eat your fallen victims, make them part of you. Isn’t that a fulfilling sentiment? Slice you open, fill you with soil. Give them a chance to make something better of themselves.”

Augustin weeps until he falls asleep. He feels as though the beast does, too. This all feels like they’re living out a metaphor. Men like them do not become angels. Men like them kill and kill and kill and it never gets easier.

Perhaps they were always beasts.

───

Plenty of animals would wander onto the battlefield, in dire search of better lands. Deer, rabbits. If they could, they’d catch them and then would have a marvelous dinner. If not, they’d be caught in the crossfire and die unceremoniously.

Sometimes stray dogs from the enemy K-9 unit would lose their masters, rendered untamable, and stumble into French trenches. But never, as a bottom line, would anything feline appear. That’s why the soldiers were so taken aback when they heard faint mewling coming from above the bunker, loud enough to wake a few of them. These walls were not thick.

“Lambert,” Henri grumbles tiredly, nearly rolling right off his bunk. “‘S tha’ you?”

“What the fuck?” Augustin murmurs, brows knitting. “Why would that be me?”

“Mm,” he mumbles noncommittally, and waves him away. “You hear that?”

They round up a few of their countrymen— Noyer, Toussaint, Cazal— to investigate, and they all shuffle out of the bunker, rifles in hand. The culprit of the disturbance is small enough to fit in your hands and gray with thick fur, knelt against the ground. The soldiers laugh among themselves. When the cat meows at them, they share chuckles and meow back in unison.

An ensuing song of call and response is enough to temporarily raise their spirits. All crouched down, repeating every noise the animal made. They all laugh at Toussaint, whose impression is especially accurate.

Henri looks at Augustin, a newfound light in his eyes. “Seems there’s hope yet,” he says, and Augustin feels rejuvenated.

───

Augustin might not know Henri’s birthplace or his mother’s name, but he knows his favorite food.

The officers— viz. Joubert— granted them a special opportunity: on a board in the mess hall was a tally. Good behavior would rack them up points, which could be spent on more novelty rations. It was small, but it served as something to work towards besides just surviving long enough to see the sunrise. Since Henri was the main contributor to this count, he often had the largest say in what they’d get.

Always, he decided on frozen fruit.

Raspberries, plums, mangoes, strawberries, cherries. He didn’t even wait for them to thaw, just dealt with the chill and the ache in his teeth. They were cheap on account of not being fresh, so he was the only one to indulge in them, while others requested tobacco or different grades of wine.

Every time, without fail, he’d share with Augustin. And Augustin does not like fruit, but he ate them anyway.

They’d sit on either Henri’s bunk or Augustin’s, chipped ceramic bowl in between them, usually with a tarp laid over the top bunk like children at a sleepover. Henri had a way of making something ridiculous out of a serious situation. They’d trade stories of war and fantasy, of family back home. How good things would be when this all ended. How much Henri would love Augustin’s wife, his son. How dearly Henri misses the bustling streets of Paris.

Henri’s favorite fruit was cherries. Augustin always saved them for him. If Henri fell asleep before he could finish them, Augustin would sneak all the way back to the pantry and re-freeze them, and then sneak all the way back, often dutifully accepting reprimands from the officers.

He preferred to be caught by Joubert. In a way, Joubert understood, even if Augustin didn’t, the confession Augustin would not dare to utter.

He walks through the soldiers’ quarters, not bothering to burn the corpses, shooting the lock off the door to the utility room. When Joubert finishes reading off the arsenal code, Augustin slams the radio against a wall. So easily, not unlike this machine, can trust be shattered. So easily can an enemy be made out of a friend.

He walks through the barracks, and they’re thick with the scent of cherries.

───

The garrison as a unit was prone to nightmares, it came with the war in a specialty package. Glossed over eyes, palpitating hearts. They all chose to ignore it, or weep in dark corners. When Augustin was victim to these terrors, the paralyzing, petrifying terror he’d feel when facing the reality of the lives he’d taken, he’d find Henri crawling into his bunk, lighting a cigarette as he stretches out and Augustin scoots away to accommodate him. Curled up into a ball, he’s silent. Internally, he can’t hear himself think.

“Hey, remember what you told me?” Henri whispers, voice so low, only audible to Augustin’s ears.

“I’ve told you a lot of things,” he replies with a grunt, “and I remember few of them.”

“Have you now?” Henri’s tone is heavy with fondness. “About that bakery in Marseille, the one you hold in such high esteem. Always so costly, right?”

He awaits a response. Augustin nods. The only distinct sound is his hair rubbing against his bare pillow.

“Right. Well, I heard from the grapevine that they’re going to compensate many of the French soldiers after this, on account of the shell-shock. Me and you, we’re going to go there.”

The statement is a matter of fact. No room for negotiation, for anything to stand in the way. Augustin’s brows furrow in that involuntary telltale manner, his lips pull themselves thin, face reddening and he’s grateful that tears make no sound. “Yeah?” He says shakily.

“Absolutely. You’re going to introduce me to the menu and we’ll make ourselves sick from coffee and bread and pastries.”

“…Okay,” Augustin breathes after a lapse in thought. “That sounds good.”

“Doesn’t it? So I need you to be strong, okay? We’ll be out of here. You’ll be with your wife and son, and we’ll go to that bakery, alright?”

Augustin hums in affirmation, and just as Henri makes to leave, he sits upright and seizes his friend by the wrist. Henri looks over his shoulder.

“Can you stay here?” He asks. “It’s— well—”

“You don’t need to explain yourself, you fool,” Henri snickers, and crawls back into their bunk. Wraps his arms around Augustin’s midsection, and buries his head into his shoulder. “Sleep well.”

For a long time thereafter, the terrors were quelled. Curled up outside of administration, Augustin clutches the remnants of a tattered uniform to his chest. The numbers 33 are embroidered onto the collar.

───

The metal keypad is pristine from lack of use. Henri never did touch his locker, only to stow or retrieve bullets or to stash away letters and photos. It’s cool against Augustin’s sweating flesh, and he leans against the door for a moment to gather himself.

He remembers the day the photo was taken, the one pinned to the back wall of the locker, half hidden away as if shameful. It was before they boarded the train to Ypres, en route to the Western Front. A fellow conscript had taken the photo. A soldier whose name Augustin cannot recall, who would not be documented in any record or index.

Augustin does not want to, but he stains the ink with tears. If he places his thumb right over Henri’s face, he can pretend that he never existed, that he is alone in his Hell, that he mourns nothing, for he will be with his family soon. But a piece of his soul has been stolen from him, right from the center and he rots from the inside out. Maggots infest his organs and tear away at the tissue.

He tucks the photo into his collar. He cannot go back. He can never go back.

───

He gags at the enucleated eyes on the table, who appear to stare at him as if still attached to a socket. Notes and photos and overwhelming words and thoughts are strewn about, but there is a lantern, and he is grateful for the lantern, and he must be grateful even when he doesn’t want to be.

Ridiculous. This place was always such a point of interest to Noyer and Toussaint, whereas Augustin and the rest of the brutes viewed it only as a vessel for ambush. Those two viewed it for what it was; a scrap of history, a gleaming light.

This is what Augustin gets, what he deserves, the weight of all of man’s original sin heavy against his back. Wage shitty wars, win shitty prizes. If he scrubbed hard enough, could he be pure again? Could his family look less like shells to him and more like people?

The eerie blue glow displaces him as he begins his descent into the tunnels, and the sights that would have baffled him several days ago are now unsurprising. He has seen worse. He has seen man have their humanity revoked as if it were a privilege and stared into the hollow chassis that resulted. He has looked death in the eyes, and whatever lay beyond death which would make a sane man go mad.

Death is the least of it. Death, and petty wars.

Pebbles suspended in the air and a language Augustin knows not to be Latin. He hears chanting in his mind, distant, like from the other side of a locked door. He hears the wind, and through a square barred window, he sees the detonator handle.

Has he served his compatriots well?

───

He recognizes that voice.

It’s worn and scratchy and cuts out at times from overuse. Otherwise, it’s deep, booming. A time ago, it was not so. It’s a whirlwind of emotions as it sings the poem that had been recited to Augustin many a moon ago, and he had found it insightful, found it clever. Now it is like a death rattle, the horn that sounds before Ragnarok.

His heart beats in his throat. Monsters are frightening. Horrifying is the man who is not a monster, but is driven mad by information he was not meant to have access to.

Augustin jumps at the sudden firing of a shotgun as the bullet is buried in the tender flesh of a rat-beast. He’s sandwiched between a stack of boxes and an explosive barrel. He wouldn’t have to be hit directly to be eviscerated.

He cannot kill him. Even if he has to, he cannot. It would be better to die here. His wife is beautiful, she can marry again and provide the boy with a father. The beast who is not Henri could starve and die like God intended. He cannot kill Beaufoy.

Instinct trumps thought. A clean shot to the head renders this room eternally silent and Augustin is stumbling through the broken door, shoving the handle into his pocket bag, and clearing away the rubble from a tunnel— is this his freedom? Is this his solstice?

He emerges from the tunnel. He feels he wants to vomit, and vomit he does.

───

“What is to be done about this, my friend?” Augustin laughs, his voice raspy. “We are at a stalemate, no? I could leave here so easily. The detonator is hooked up to the dynamite. There is nothing left for me. I could leave now, right now.”

No response. “Do you think I would be believed? Do you think they’d think me a murderer? Would I be executed?”

A light stirring of indignation, but nothing more. “Would my wife have me? I could write a note. Would—”

He buries his head in his hands, covered in filth and soiled bandages.

“Henri. Oh, Henri. You know what it is I truly want.”

A click sounds from behind him. His heart stills, replaced with a revolving vortex of dread and terror. With his weight pressed against the door, it would not open lest the beast come plowing through. He does not, and Augustin is frozen.

Trembling, he stands. At death’s limen, faced with the wicked possibilities of a foregone world. Would he shy in fear? Would he face the reality of Henri’s eternity without a shred of empathy?

He pushes the door open. It’s dark, but not dark enough. An undefined mass of shadow lies in the furthest corner. Like an animal exposes its stomach, Augustin shuts the door behind him.

───

There is a word Augustin knows. He cannot say it, cannot think it, but he knows that Henri knows it too.

“For you.” Henri extends his hand and caged within his fingers is a stuffed toy rabbit.

Augustin snorts. “For me? Wow, I’ve always wanted this, you shouldn’t have, so on and so forth.” He waves his hand.

Augustin is always trying to draw a laugh out of his friend, and it always works, and it always warms Augustin when he’s cold. “I thought he looked like you. With the blue coat, and all. For your son, perhaps, because he thinks he’s so fast.”

Augustin accepts it and turns it over in his hand. It may be the cleanest thing he’s ever received during his time at war. His son does look like him. Round and rosy and sweet. Augustin promised to bring him something back.

It fell from his pocket in the crater when he slung Henri over his shoulder, and when he retrieved it from the crater after he emerged from the tunnels, he was filled with a profound sense of dread.

───

Cowardice prevails. Augustin screws his eyes shut as he lights the hanging lamp. Deep, dissatisfied grumbling echoes about the room, flesh chafing uncomfortably against flesh, a gnarled mess of limbs. Distantly, the all too familiar twang of a tripwire being triggered echoes through the halls, followed by an uproar of flame. Augustin feels as though the world is crumbling around him.

A confession is punched out of him. “I dream of death, you know.”

He feels the beast slither across the floor before its breath is upon his face, acrid and hot like gas.

Augustin takes a deep breath. “I dream… I dream that in my sleep, I’ll be granted mercy. That we will all die here. Me, you, and… and that thing in the tunnels. Already a third of the way there, right?”

Augustin forgets that the beast cannot understand him. That it knows only to stalk, hunt, kill. Perhaps it is not his fault. Perhaps he is only acting on instinct. Perhaps he knows no better.

Whenever has that been a sufficient justification?

The beast draws up what Augustin can only assume to be a claw, and wipes away a spot of blood on his cheek. Gently, cautiously. An unprecedented tenderness— what changed in the last few days? Was the beast, trapped in his prison, forced to listen? To understand? Did he hear the trumpets, too?

They’re loud. Deafening.

“Isn’t that funny?” Augustin laughs as if the beast had told a joke. “Isn’t that funny? All this work, all I have to live for, and selfishly I deny it.”

Augustin’s arms are glued to his side, posture uncomfortably straight. “Haven’t I always been selfish?” He reaches up to grab the claw before it can be pulled away. The sharp edges dig into his skin and draw more blood, slicing through the bandages. “Henri? Haven’t I?”

───

“Ah!” Henri exclaims. “Seems I’m fortune’s fool.”

He pushes out his chair and stands, collecting his rifle leaned against the wall. He throws his cards against the table in defeat. “Guess I’m on patrol, then. C’est la vie.”

He shrugs on his coat, and with a salute, he departs, and Augustin sleeps comfortably in his bunk after a round of drinks with his comrades. A lantern flickering dimly beside him. He never did like the dark.

───

A fuel canister clambers at his feet, the beast looming above him. He dares not look at his face. His teeth, his claws, are already too much. He hesitantly retrieves it; it’s heavy, filled to the brim.

“More fuel,” he observes. “You hate the light.”

The beast grunts in acknowledgment and saunters away, shoving his body into a tunnel, and scurrying away through the ceiling above. Why he didn’t take that route before, Augustin doesn’t know. It makes him wonder if he was ever trapped. If he was ever safe.

Augustin breathes a sigh of relief when he empties the canister into the nozzle and the lights come alive. Distantly, the beast groans.

He thinks about his visit at the Louvre with his family. He was particularly drawn to the exhibition dedicated to a rendition of a feudalist Japanese setting, shrines and cuisine and all different types of architecture and traditions. The samurai had a ritualistic execution called seppuku, where one would be disemboweled and then decapitated.

Augustin sits in the chair at the desk across the generator. He has already decided. He decided a long, long time ago.

───

The engineers who built the bunker knew what they were risking when they installed the daisy-chained lights. Henri kneels inside the utility room, undershirt discarded in favor of his coat, gloved hands working at the wires.

“So he fancies himself a handyman,” Joubert remarks, leaning against the wall, overseeing his work. A cigarette between his knuckles. “Aren’t we a talented bunch?”

Augustin snorts. “I wouldn’t call being able to piss completely silently a talent, Joubert.”

“Then you don’t understand talent, my friend. Here, go stand beside him,” he says and pulls out his camera. “A memory, for the monoliths soon to be erected in our honor.”

The photos of Augustin and Henri surmount quickly. Henri’s hand grasping his shoulder, a fond smile on his face. Best friends forever scribbled on the back in red ink, and blood staining the front.

───

The beast sleeps. In the chapel, folded next to the altar. Bodies strung up in prayer to a false Goddess of blood, a Goddess Henri was forced to worship. Augustin cannot ignore reality any longer. His friend, his dear friend. Who could do this to him?

He feels indignity boil his blood. No matter. He must act quickly.

He kneels beside the beast. Large, mangled. There is a beauty about him, if not just by association with who he was before. He was once human, and some part of him is human yet.

There is a darkness in his eyes, one so unlike Henri’s, but a reluctant one. He is only acting on inclination, which is all he knows. Augustin cannot blame him. He hopes that Henri will not blame him, either. He hopes that Joubert will tell his family lies about what came of him, that he died in honor. He hopes they will find the note he left.

Toussaint’s limp, cold body is propped up in a chair outside the infirmary. They will find him first. He carved Boisrond’s name into the wall behind his final resting place. They will find him second, and third, the prisoner who starved to death. He’s left all the doors unlocked and all traps disarmed, returned dog tags to their owners. This empress of darkness and blood will not have her execution, will not have her honor. That belongs to the soldiers, who are people before they are mercenaries.

He cradles the beast’s sleeping face, too large for his hand. He is not truly such a beast. Batesian mimicry, he thinks, how clever. He could have held Henri like this if he had more time. They could have gone to the bakery together.

German shells rain outside. He grabs the beast’s paw and it stirs, before falling still. It’s tired. They’re both tired.

One claw is longer than his entire forearm. He’s removed his coat and draped it over his friend so that he may be warm in the drafty chapel. He grips the appendage by the base. All the Gods, all the Heavens, all the Hells are within him.

His honor. His.

He plunges the claw into his stomach. Immediately, he retches as his organs are pierced. He splutters blood onto the floor, and blood seeps into his undershirt, and blood spills onto his hands, onto the beast’s one natural weapon. Perhaps Augustin was never at the advantage. The job isn’t finished. He grips the claw tighter and it tears himself open in a diagonal slide, from top to bottom, stomach acid coming loose and burning his lap. An unholy tincture of blood and other bodily fluids.

Traditionally, a shorter blade was used. He frowns, his muscles growing weak already. Henri valued tradition. He never would have had him, and Augustin was foolish to entertain thoughts opposing that.

He sees nothing, hears nothing except for panicked noises from the beast as the Earth tremors and shakes him into wakefulness, wrapping Augustin’s coat around the wound, but it does nothing, nothing, and he’s too big and awkward and Augustin was a dead man walking the second he entered the chapel.

The beast clutches him close to his chest, squeezing him, snapping his bones, releasing a mournful wail.

Augustin’s eyes drift close. It’s all he’s ever wanted. All he’s ever wanted.

───

I write this not as a resignation and not as a suicide letter, but rather as a victim impact statement, and more, a cautionary tale.

Several weeks ago, excavation began in this very bunker of a network of tunnels presumed to be of Roman origin: I tell you this now and I will tell you this once, and I urge you to listen to me, lest you meet my fate, lest we cross paths in the eternal void and I rip you apart. They are not Roman. They are something greater, more meaningful than any organized religion you could ever hope to erect. They are something I do not understand, and nor will you.

Following this, an estimated six men were involved in a mutiny to end the onslaught of nightmares and hallucinations caused by the tunnels. The mutineers were abandoned in pits and left to starve. This description is a blasphemy. We were betrayed and fed to the wolves, the lot of us.

I cannot trace the events back to an exact date or a catalyst which set this off, but at one point a beast did emerge from the fray to pick us off and offer our cadavers to its God of sadism and blood. This beast, once, was a man named Henri Clément, who lived in Paris, and was better than us all.

In the league of soldiers you will find Toussaint Beaufoy in the infirmary, driven mad for not heeding the warning they were too ignorant to give in the first place. Boisrond’s final resting place is in the pantry. A German prisoner is dead in the prison ward.

I offer you no consolation, nor forgiveness. But I offer you this— remove any salvageable corpses and return them to their families. I am in the chapel with the beast. I have rigged both the chapel and the surrounding area starting from the arsenal. You, with all of your men, could not get through, and even if you managed, this beast would kill you too. Tell my family what you will and pass all my earthly belongings unto my son.

There is nothing for you here. None of us will be remembered. When you’ve removed the corpses, blow this amended circle of Hell to bits.

— A. Lam

[neonponders]

I’ve never written Murder Boyfriends before, but @cuepickle ‘s art is just so lovely and powerful.

Based on this and this 💗 💜 🖤 (impending smut ahoy)

• • • • • • •

I just want to help, he’d said.

I just want to make things right, he’d said.

Steve said a lot of things. But he moaned incoherent words and exclaimed sounds he didn’t want anyone else to hear when Billy Hargrove steamrolled into his life, his feelings, and his goddamn morals.

Billy Hargrove wasn’t...right. He was twelve different shades of wrong, punctuated by Caribbean blue eyes and decorated with bronzed waves and curls. Steve knew he had a superiority complex, but he hadn’t known it was this bad.

Thing is, if he’d known, Steve couldn’t guarantee whether he’d change anything. Because knowing Billy Hargrove is a murderer would also mean Steve knew what his lips tasted like, and their softness against his neck.

All Steve had known was that Sheriff Hopper was missing, and his parents, being the upstanding white people that they are, deferred nearly every inconvenience to the police. And the police answered, because fat wallets keep their lights on, like everyone else.

But the Sheriff’s phones kept ringing. And maybe Steve had his own complex after so much time with Nancy, because he parked out front and strolled right into the Sheriff’s office.

The secretary wasn’t there.

Neither were the two deputies.

Steve tucked himself between the desks to pry apart the window blinds. Their cars were still here -

Steve’s head rotated at a sound he knew. He knew it in the way a memory piqued but he couldn’t place where or why. He followed it into the chief’s office...where Billy Hargrove sat at the desk - Hopper’s own chair - and ate a crisp apple from the strange pile in the waste paper basket.

“Billy?”

“Hi, Steve,” he smiled. Ankles crossed on the desk. A perfect, violet crescent framed the side of his eye. An indigo shadow rested in the inner corner of the other one. Either way, Steve’s first red flag was that he ached with concern more than itched for the nailed bat in his trunk.

“What happened to you?”

Steve thought the guy might choke, the way he tipped his head back to laugh while chunks of apple sat in his mouth. Naturally, it took him some time to chew and swallow before he said, “I finally stopped being afraid. And I started being responsible. Not the way he planned, though.”

“Hopper?” Steve frowned.

Billy did not answer immediately. He licked the apple like it might drip juice and beckoned, “Why don’t you sit down? I want to see you.”

The only lights on were in the main room where Steve stood. Ghoulish, fluorescent bulbs while Billy sat in shadow and vague, evening light hatching through the Chief’s window blinds. There was some kind of irony there: Steve in the fake, green-tinged light, and Billy in the natural...honest darkness.

Steve peeked behind him, surveying the room but finding no warnings apart from the negative space where people should be.

He stepped into the office -

“I’ve always liked looking at you.”

Steve paused on the carpet. Billy had said it loud enough to hear, but with enough air in it that Steve couldn’t tell if he was drunk or hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Then he tried to sit in one of the chairs -

“Over here. Sit on the desk.”

“What?” Steve blinked at him, suddenly very aware that the light gave Billy full view of his face but Steve only got the glow in that dark blond hair.

A strong leg pushed Billy away from the desk. The apple tumbled onto its pile of brothers, discarded as he pat the desk. “Sit right here.”

Steve shook his head all at once, beginning to backpedal out of the room. “This is weird.”

“No shit. This whole town’s weird. I’ve been reading some personal files in this room. I guess the Chief thought he was being smart, but...I’ve been hiding my whole life. I know where people hide things. A lot of things make sense in this place, now. The rat pack Max hangs out with. And you. A lot of things makes sense about you, Steve.”

Steve shrugged and his hands clapped against his thighs. “Okay? You’re not special for seeing my report cards.”

Billy’s features froze, but only for a moment, and then laughter burst out of him. “Steve, please sit down. God, I wanna touch you.”

Steve Harrington is a simple person. He’d officially been single for far too long, struck out every time he faced a woman - and a couple guys who were too scared or oblivious to do anything - and he just...

He wanted.

He wanted to be touched and if Billy was offering - Hot Stuff Hargrove, Baby Doll Eyes Billy - then Steve couldn’t help but take. He’d been so patient with everyone. He waited for Nancy to be ready. He accepted defeat when everyone walked away from him with rolling eyes or obligatory smiles.

Billy...talked. He talked and talked. He’d always been a talker; on the basketball court, barking orders as a lifeguard. Always talking, or letting his radio talk for him.

But Steve sat on Hopper’s desk and felt the warmth of Billy’s palms seep through his jeans. He held onto Steve’s calves as he talked. Talked about terrible things. Broken plates and abandoned things. Being the abandoned thing. Being the broken thing. He talked for hours before finally fucking Steve on that desk.

He’d started slow. Just unbuttoning the jeans and then leaving them alone. It would be another half hour before he took off Steve’s shoes. Every time Steve looked behind him - as if asking for someone to come in, to interrupt, to break this dark dream Billy wove around him - Billy said, “Look at me.”

“I’ve been looking at you, Billy.”

A small smile twitched on his lips. “Good.”

It would be another hour before he said, “I think my dad killed my mom.”

Less than a minute before he added, “He had it coming. Feel bad for my step-mom, though. But she was a screamer. So was the tall deputy. Things can finally be quiet now.”

Steve sat very still as arms circled around his pelvis and Billy just...hugged him. Pressed his face against Steve’s soft belly and inhaled his scent. Warm laundry and Steve Steve Steve.

He couldn’t be sure how things evolved into sex. Steve was already trapped in Billy’s web, so all he had to do was decide, to give the web a pluck and Steve felt the vibrations.

He planted his hands on the desk, lifting his ass for Billy to wrench the jeans and underwear off in one go. They got stuck on Steve’s feet, bunched up so Steve had to figure it out himself as Billy pressed himself over top of him.

The green desk lamp fell with an ominous clank.

Steve finally got a leg free and wrapped it around Billy’s ass the same time teeth found his neck. The warning bells that had been ringing since he got here felt far away; church bells too high over the town to actually make a difference in the goings-on.

Billy marked him up like he had paperwork to sign. Steve’s deed was his, and Billy moaned and grunted with every sigh he wrung out of Steve. Every squeeze to his waist made him moan, and he outright whimpered when Billy licked up his neck. For how much Billy gripped, bit, and sucked, he moved surprisingly gently below the belt.

“Gonna get lube later,” he said in that way again, traveling down Steve’s body as his thoughts escaped into the air. “I’m going to have your ass every which way, Harrington.”

Steve could only gasp as his tongue shoved inside him with no preamble. “I-I-I didn’t shower - ”

A guttural, breathy hum ricocheted from Billy’s throat and into Steve’s chest, knocking Steve’s head back like a rock on the way there. Billy’s stubble and gross wetness made Steve feel filthy in the best way. His cock lay heavily on his abdomen, spurting precum every time Billy’s hands squeezed the backs of his thighs.

Steve came like he’d never been touched in his life. His breathing picked up and he rutted against Billy’s face twice before making a mess of his shirt.

Billy took his slowly fading erection into his mouth, jerking himself off almost violently in a matter of seconds.

When Steve stepped outside, the air smelled like the sunrise even though only the faintest bit of blue had begun to dilute the darkness. And as the sun rose, Steve had never felt worse. It was like seeing a demogorgon for the first time, but instead of minutes, it stretched into hours.

People were dead.

Presumably Chief Hopper too.

Billy, he...he...

He showed up to Steve’s house with a smile and freshly laundered clothes. Steve had showered but looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. Billy only tipped his head back toward his car. “I’ve got two bank accounts freshly inherited. Let me buy you lunch.”

Steve wondered if Dustin’s comic book villains drove Camaros.

Billy bought him lunch. Bought him a chocolate milkshake too. Steve didn’t want to think about his ability to swallow those down so easily. Or how he interacted with the waitress like he wasn’t covered in red and brown love bites delivered directly atop Chief Hopper’s desk. He didn’t want to think what having all of Billy Hargrove’s attention on him did to his squirming...pleased...insides.

He didn’t want to think as Billy fingered him in the backseat.

They didn’t even fit back there but Billy moved with what felt like the strength of three men. It was arousing, being manhandled like that; any fear Steve ought to have held in his gut tapped its disapproving toe outside of the vehicle. The way Billy sucked behind his ear, gripped his hips so he could slot himself right in between Steve’s legs and rut his dark pink erection against Steve’s...

The way he bought Steve more milkshakes.

And a fresh tire rotation because his car veered to the left.

And filled him up in the darkness of Steve’s bedroom, making Steve bounce on his cock as he licked the taste of him off his lubed up fingers - 

“You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

It just...came out.

The husky lust cleared from Billy’s eyes when Steve said that. Terror must have filled Steve’s eyes because Billy gently cradled the side of his head.

This is it. This is how I die. Wanting a freaking kiss from a psycho -

“I thought you’d be the one to do that.”

Steve blinked vacantly at him. He could feel Billy’s heartbeat inside his ass and the guy just smiled -

“King Steve. Never thought you were shy - mmph.”

Billy’s bravado melted against Steve’s mouth. He hummed as he felt Steve’s precum on his belly, soaking them both with what he did to him, did to Steve and all of his flawed moral systems.

Steve pushed Billy onto his back with his kiss, tongue desperately tasting and exploring his mouth as his fingers laced behind Billy’s neck.

Until Billy reached up and pulled Steve’s hands apart, just enough for the bases of his palms to sit on both pulse points.

Billy did it himself: made his cheeks go pink and his chest flush red. But Steve made his ass slap against Billy’s thighs. Made Billy’s jaw go slack and his orgasm slow. Made his eyes water and his chest heave when he could breathe again.

Maybe that was his chance. His chance to make things right.

But with an empty Sheriff’s office down the road, and still no one the wiser, Hawkins wasn’t living by any sort of right anymore. The only right that Steve knew, was Billy’s hands making him feel powerful and precious.

[moregaythanyourealized]

First Impressions

Otto Octavius x reader

Working with others wasn’t your strong suit. People think you’re vulgar and rude. You like to call yourself brutally honest. This job wasn’t an exception. A science company that needed engineers, mechanics, and strong minds like your own. You had only been working here for a few months when gossip about a new super project was being passed around. No one bothered to tell you, of course. You just overheard it on your coffee break. Apparently some great scientist was coming in and taking over the entire lab.

Usually you’d be excited for an advancement in the world of fusion. But this new rich snobby scientist meant that for however long this project took you’d have; No office, Less working hours (meaning less pay), and worst of all....small talk

It was the day the new scientist was supposed to come in, you now knew his name was Otto Octavius. Your desk and your co workers desks were moved out of the lab and into a much smaller space. Cramping you all together like rats. You wore your usual attire and annoyed look as you entered the building. Although today you dawned some stylish eyeliner. Not for him of course, everybody was working extra hard to look presentable and professional. You passed by a co-worker who you didn’t really hate as much,

“Yo, Kathleen, is that guy here yet? Or do you think he’s too busy getting the windows on his lamborghini re-tinted?” You snorted at your own joke waiting for her response,

“Uh, he’s upstairs I think...in the lab.” You thanked her and walked up the steps. You pushed through nerds and geeks trying to reach your desk. A folder of your ideas carefully sealed with colorful clips sat in your drawer.

“L/n!” Turning around your boss was at the end of the hall stomping his feet,

“You were supposed to be in the lab by 7:30!” You glanced at the clock on the wall, 7:46,

“My apologies sir. I didn’t realize everyone would have a stick up their ass this morning. Besides traffic on the way here is always shitty.” You absentmindedly looked through your folder and took one page out pinning it to your cork board, until your boss grabbed your wrist and turned you towards him. His breath was heinous,

“Listen L/n, on a normal day I’d let you get away with being like this. But this is too important for you to fuck up.” glaring at you he released your arm,

“Get your shit together.” He spat. Waiting until he rounded the corner you groaned and tugged at your hair. Today just wasn’t your day. Taking a deep breath you smoothed out your shirt and walked to the lab pushing the door open and continuing inside. The colder air made you relax a bit. Hoping you’d be able to get some work done you sat down on a metal table in the corner. Crossing your legs and looking over blueprints for the next big thing in New York. The above ground bullet train. Sleek design and smooth riding on the rails...you hoped.

Kathleen walked in and shyly rapped your shoulder,

“Did you meet Mr Octavius?”

“He hasn’t come in yet.” You replied glancing her way, admiring how nice she looked even when she wasn’t trying,

“He’s right over there.” She points to a hunched over man in a red sweater. You got off the table and stared,

“That’s him? I thought he was like a janitor or some shit.” The man looked up raising a brow.

Fuck...probably said that too loud.

Waving awkwardly you grabbed Kathleen’s arm and dragged her over to the main table with you,

“Hello, I’m Dr Octavius. I believe we’ll be working together for the next few weeks.” He smiled sweetly and stuck out his hand which Kathleen accepted greatly,

“Actually Dr,” You chimed,

“You’ll be working with people from the east wing. They’re just letting you invade our entire office.” Kathleen stamped down on your foot lightly before turning back to the doctor,

“Y/n was just going to get me some coffee, do you want any Dr?” He nodded and you walked out making sure to slam the door. Stupid jerk, wearing a cute fucking sweater, trying to act all innocent. Trying to play god and mess with whatever sanity I have left. Pouring two cups of coffee you sighed, watching the steam spiral from the cup in a calming manner. Putting milk and sugar into one and nothing into the other.

Re-entering the lab Kathleen was no longer there. A disturbing silence made you want to turn on your radio. Octavius was still leaning over the desk writing things down. You held the drink infront of him,

“Oh, thank you sweetheart.” Your eye twitched. That was the final straw. You yanked the coffee back spilling it a bit,

“My name is Y/n L/n, I may not have your money or title but I expect the same respect you’d give any man on this team. Do you understand me?” He stood up quickly. You didn’t realize he was so tall,

“Now wait a moment Y/n, just a few minutes ago you were cursing and accusing me. Respect is about the last thing on my mind when I think of you.” Ah shit, he was kinda right. You weren’t mad at him. You were just mad at the world. Still you had bad energy in your system,

“But I apologize for calling you sweetheart. It was a crude mistake.” You set both coffees down gently and folded your arms looking at your boots. Saying sorry was the right thing to do, even if it sucked,

“I’m sorry for the way I acted Dr, I guess I’m just a little upset with the pay cuts.” He paused,

“They’re cutting your pay?” You nodded and sat down in one of the metal chairs,

“Everyone here who doesn’t work 24/7 alongside you for the next month gets their pay cut in half until you’re out of here.”

“But you didn’t choose to work less, that doesn’t seem right.” You sighed and rested your head on the table,

“Tell me about it.” While enjoying the feeling of cool table on your cheek you noticed one of his papers. You grabbed it and a pencil before erasing some of his math. You could feel him focused on you,

“Staring is rude.” You said not taking your eyes off the equations,

“You seem to be as well.” Chuckling a bit he sat down and tapped your hand drawing your attention to his soft features,

“I think I know what’s bothering you.”

“I already told you what’s bothering me.” He shook his head and clicked his tongue,

“No, not that. When you left for coffee, Kathleen and I had a small talk about your behavior” Jesus, he sounds like a high school principal,

“She told me that you act like this a lot around other people. And it’s my personal hypothesis that you are intimidated by others who you believe to be smarter or better. You’re afraid of losing your job and not being able to prove yourself. I’m assuming that started in your childhood, either with an absent father figure or bullies at school.” You sat in disbelief. No one had ever really laid out your problems and made them seem so simple. Your face heated up and you clenched your hands. Why did this make you feel so stupid? Why did he think he knew more about your feelings than you did?

Standing up you turned away. Once a demanding and harsh voice was now quiet and small failing to hide your distraught,

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

————————————————

The rest of the day was slow. Your desk felt like a prison where time never moved forward. Rethinking what he said. The repeated movie in your brain of him lecturing you, All of it slowly morphed into him not making noise at all. His mouth moved but no sound, it was wonderful. You just imagined him, dark eyes, large stature looming over you, soft hands....

“Y/n?”

“Fuck!” You hit your head against the wall and turned to see Kathleen. She leaned in to make sure you’re okay, her perfume hit your nose and you tried not to seem like you were enjoying the moment too much,

“What do you need Kathy?”

“Dr Octavius asked me to give this to you.” She handed you an envelope and hastily exited the room. The crisp paper unfolded in your hands. Reading the letter was like fiery kisses to your skin. Words pouring out like water from a faucet.

Y/n,

We obviously got off on the wrong foot. I do not think of you as a subordinate and I certainly hope you do not think of me as a threat. We both overstepped personal and professional boundaries today. I apologize sincerely for making you uncomfortable. What is science if not testing the waters though? To show my attitude towards a better future working together I invite you to lunch tomorrow downtown. I will pick you up outside at 12:30

All the best,

Dr Otto Octavius

Pinning the letter up next to your project on the cork board you admired it smiling. Perhaps second impressions will set you both straight.

[dottielovegood]

ASMR - Chapter 5

Elriel fanfiction

About this fic:

Azriel can’t sleep Elain has an ASMR channel Match made in heaven (or you know, on youtube..)

_______________________________________

You can find chapter 1 here, chapter 2 here, chapter 3 here and chapter 4 here

Read this fic on AO3

_______________________________________

Elain Beautiful!

Elain’s message made Azriel blush. He even blushed the next day whenever he thought about it.

He had never been called “beautiful” before. Handsome? Yes. Sexy and hot? A few times

But beautiful? Never

He couldn’t stop thinking about the message. Nor could he stop thinking about the fact that she lived in Velaris. Had they ever passed each other on the street? Had he stood behind her in the line at the grocery store?

Had they breathed the same air without knowing it?

Azriel couldn’t help but think back to Rhys and Feyre’s wedding. She had been there, hadn’t she? That same day when he was sitting with Rhys in a suite before the ceremony, she had delivered flowers downstairs. If he had just left the room before the ceremony, he might have met her that day. He was certain that they hadn’t met, even though Nesta was certain that they must have at least seen each other. He knew in his heart that he could never have forgotten her face if he had seen it. He couldn’t stop thinking about her now, and he had only seen her on his screen.

Azriel imagined that she must be even more beautiful in real life.

And now, he could actually find out if that was the case.

He told himself that he didn’t change his usual morning route because he wanted to see her. He told himself that he was tired of running in the park and that a run along the river Sidra would be a nice change of pace. He told himself that he didn’t even think about the fact that Elain’s flower shop was located on River Street, looking out over the Sidra.

He told himself all these things, but deep down, he knew that he was lying. It felt stupid and idiotic to lie to yourself, but it made him feel a bit better. It made him feel a little less like a creep as he ran along the river.

It was a nice day out. You could tell that summer was turning into fall because of the crisp morning air and the changing colors of the leaves. Velaris was probably the most beautiful during fall, at least according to Azriel. He had always loved fall and always hated summer. He didn’t like the heat. His friend, Cassian, hated summer too because of his allergies. That’s why he and Nesta had opted for a fall wedding.

The city was quiet this early in the morning. Azriel enjoyed the quiet; he always had. He never worked out with music and he couldn’t understand why people wanted to blast stressful tunes in their ears while working out. For Azriel, running was a form of meditation. He was completely alone with his thought and he often felt as if he had his best ideas during his morning runs. Music would have bothered him.

He had mapped out a route along the Sidra that was approximately 5 kilometers long (he always ran 5 km in the morning). It just so happened that Elain’s store could be seen from this route. What a coincidence, he thought, as it came into view.

In between the lies he had told himself, he had also told himself that she would probably not be there this early. He just wanted to see the place where she worked, but she would most likely not even be there. It was less creepy if she wasn’t there, which is why he hadn’t walked by in the middle of the day. He didn’t want her to think that he was a stalker. He remembered what Nesta had said about her taste in men, and he was pretty sure that she would never look at him again if she thought that he was stalking her.

As he was nearing her shop, he felt his palms sweat and his heart race. Totally normal reactions to a workout, he told himself. And all of a sudden, he found himself across the street from her little shop. It was situated between a small café and a bookshop. The sign above the door was light pink, and swirly green letters read “WALLFLOWER”. That was an interesting name for a flower shop, Azriel thought. Then, he noticed that the lights were on and the door was slightly ajar. Azriel held his breath as he slowed his pace and looked through the window. At first, there was no sign of anyone in there. Then, a door in the back opened, and there she was. She had her hair down today, and she was wearing a dark blue dress over a white t-shirt. Her face was covered by the big bunch of flowers she was carrying. Azriel knew nothing about flowers, but he knew he hated these white and pink things for covering her face. Azriel pulled up his hood, hoping that she wouldn’t see him as he lingered on the other side of the street, hoping for just one look.

She bent over and put the flowers down just by the door. Her hair fell in front of her face and…

That’s when Azriel’s phone rang.

And for once in his life, the sound was on. He had no idea when he had un-muted it, but he could see Elain shift. Shit, she had heard his phone. The door was slightly open and there was no traffic right now which obviously meant that anyone within a 100-meter radius could hear it. And it did not help that someone, probably Cassian, had changed his ringtone to fucking Barbie Girl by Aqua.

Azriel quickly turned away from the shop and started running again. He didn’t even see where he was going as he fumbled in his pocket for his phone. “Fuck,” he let out as the female voice in his pocket sang about how fantastic it was to be plastic.

“What?” he answered, ready to rip apart the person that had called him.

“What has your knickers in a twist?” Rhys asked in a fake British accent.

“I’m running.”

“Yeah, I know. You always run at this time of the day. Creature of habit and all that.” Rhys sounded chipper. Who the fuck was this happy in the morning?

“What do you want? Didn’t you say that the meeting started at nine today?”

“Yes, Azriel. The meeting starts at nine, but I need you and Cassian to come in earlier. Like now. Where are you?”

“I’m by the Sidra, so it’ll probably take me ten minutes to reach the office if I run,” Azriel answered. “Is this urgent, or can I go home and change?”

“Why are you by the Sidra? You always run in the park?”

“Trying to get out of my comfort zone,” Azriel mumbled, hoping that Rhys would just let it go.

“Well, good for you. And yes, it’s urgent. You can shower here and I know that you keep extra clothes in your desk drawer. See you in ten minutes!”

Azriel groaned. He did not want an emergency meeting right now. He wanted to go home and drown in his shower from the sheer mortification he was feeling.

“Oh, Azriel!” Rhys almost shouted before Azriel could hang up. “Bring coffee.”

Azriel snorted. “I didn’t think you were allowed coffee.”

Azriel could hear the smile in his brother’s voice as he said, “just bring the fucking coffee, Az.”

20 minutes later, Azriel walked into the office with three cups of coffee and a few croissants.

“What’s the emergency?” Azriel asked as soon as he walked through the doors to Rhys’ office.

Cassian was already there, and Rhys had the biggest grin on his face. It made Azriel uncomfortable. Why was he grinning at half-past seven in the morning?

Azriel handed one cup each to Rhys and Cassian while taking one for himself. He didn’t take a seat. He just waited for Rhys to tell him why the hell he was here.

Cass took a sip from his cup and made a disgusted face.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked.

“De-caf, vanilla latte with extra foam.”

“Why? You know that I drink my coffee black.”

“Barbie girl,” was all Azriel said, and from the way Cassian’s face lit up, he could tell that it was, indeed, Cassian who had changed his ringtone.

“Oh, yeah,” Cassian grinned. “great song!”

Azriel rolled his eyes.

Rhys leaned against his desk and took a swig from his own cup. Azriel had not made a funny order for him, but he kind of wish he had. The stupid smile seemed to be permanently etched onto his face. Rhys let out a sound that sounded eerily like a moan.

“God, this tastes like heaven,” he sighed. Azriel liked his coffee as much as any other person, and he guessed that it would taste even better if you had gone without any caffeine for months, but this was still weird.

“Better than your wife?” Cass joked and wiggled his eyebrows.

Rhys shot him a death glare. “Don’t you dare speak about the mother of my future child like that!”

Azriel felt his jaw drop. Did he just say what Azriel thought he said?

He didn’t have time to ask before Rhys lit up again. “Feyre’s pregnant!” he basically shouted.

For a beat, Azriel and Cassian stared at him dumbfounded. Then, Cassian jumped from his chair, embracing Rhys.

“Damn! Finally! Congratulations, man,” he said and patted him hard on the back.

Azriel wasn’t much of a hugger, but even he embraced his brother. “Congrats!”

“How did you find out?” Cassian asked.

“Well, it was all very romantic. I made her breakfast this morning, and she looked at me as if I had put rat-poison in her porridge. Then she threw up. Actually, the first sign was definitely that her boobs got bigger, but she told me to shut up every time I mentioned it.”

“Didn’t need to know that,” Azriel muttered.

Rhys ignored him. “So she took a test, and there were definitely two little pink lines there.”

His entire face was a big smile now, and Azriel couldn’t help but smile too. He was so happy for Rhys and Feyre. They were going to be great parents.

“So, I wanted to tell you that you’re going to be uncles,” he announced.

Azriel and Cassian looked at each other. If Azriel wasn’t mistaken, he could see Cassian tear up.

“I’ll be the fun uncle,” Cass exclaimed as if anyone would ever question that.

Azriel took a seat next to Cassian as they continued talking for a while. Az couldn’t help but notice that Rhys seemed almost equally happy about the fact that he was now allowed to eat meat and drink coffee again.

“So, Rhys, just to be clear. You only called us in here this early to tell us that you were going to be a father? That couldn’t wait?”

“Obviously, it couldn’t wait,” Rhys answered matter of factly. “But no, that wasn’t the only reason. There’s a problem with the online subscriptions that I need you to look at.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I have no idea. That’s why I hired you.”

Azriel spent the entire morning sorting out the problem. When he was finally done, it was time for lunch. Since he hadn’t been able to go home and bring the lunch he had prepared, he had to venture out for food. He decided to go to one of his favorite places in town; a small Vietnamese place within walking distance to the office. He ordered Phở and decided to eat his lunch there since he was a bit tired of staring into his computer screen. He took a seat in the corner next to the windows looking out over the street and started a podcast on his phone as he dug into his noodle soup. It was delicious, as always, and he didn’t really pay attention to anything but the food and the podcast. This is why he didn’t notice that someone had sat down at his table until a female voice started speaking to him. He had just shoved some noodles into his mouth as he looked up to see who was talking to him, and his heart almost stopped.

It was her. Flower Girl ASMR. Elain.

Azriel had noodles hanging out of his mouth and his brain couldn’t decide if he should just push all of it into his mouth, or take a bite and let the rest fall into his bowl, so he just sat there; looking and feeling like a fool.

“Azriel,” Elain greeted him when his eyes met hers. His brain couldn’t comprehend that she was here, at one of his favorite restaurants, while he was listening to a true-crime podcast. Azriel quickly swallowed what was in his mouth and removed his headphones. He could feel himself blush.

“Elain,” he breathed, feeling warm and sweaty all of a sudden. “What are you doing here?”

She laughed. She had a lovely laugh. “Nice to see you too. Is it good?”

“What?”

“The food,” she gestured to the bowl, “is it good?”

“Yes, very.” Azriel didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected to see her here. He had actually not expected to ever hear from her again if she had seen him outside of her store this morning.

Elain looked around. “This place is really cute. I’ve never been here before, but my employees recommended it.”

That explained why she was there.

“Yeah, it’s the best Vietnamese food in town.”

“I’ll take your word for it. You seemed to really enjoy it.” She smiled at him, and he was suddenly very aware of the fact that she had seen him eat. He had no idea what he looked like when he ate, but he felt very self-conscious all of a sudden.

“So, you live in Velaris?” Azriel asked after a short stretch of silence.

She nodded. “Mhm. I moved here a few years ago and opened my shop. Speaking of, did I see you this morning?” She was eyeing him suspiciously.

Azriel felt himself go completely still. Fuck. She had seen him. His life was over. Mentally, he started to prepare to move away from Velaris. Maybe he should just move to Australia? Or maybe Siberia? Anywhere far, far away.

He felt himself shake his head in answer, hoping that she believed him.

She raised an eyebrow “Really?”

She looked down at her lap and he could hear her tap on her phone, and then Azriel’s phone, which was conveniently sitting on the table, was ringing.

Fucking Barbie Girl.

He had forgotten to put it on silent again. He was going to murder Cassian.

The screen lit up with her name, and he knew he was busted.

He expected her to tell him to never contact her again. He expected her to kick him under the table and call him a creep. And god, did he deserve it. But, to his surprise, she laughed.

“Interesting music choice. I wouldn’t have pegged as a 90’s euro-pop lover.”

“I’m not,” he muttered under his breath. “This is my friend’s idea of humor. I am going to kill him as soon as I get back to the office.”

“Please don’t. You’re too pretty to go to jail,” Elain joked, and Azriel felt himself blush - again.

He took a deep breath and decided to try to explain the situation. “About this morning... I was just doing my morning workout. I promise I was not stalking you.”

“I didn’t think you were stalking me. I mean, did you even know I lived in Velaris?”

Azriel was just about to answer when Elain’s name was called. She got up and picked up her food from the girl behind the register. She walked back to his table and held up the brown paper bag, “Well, I have to go. My employees need fuel.”

“It was really nice meeting you in real life, Elain. Sorry if I was weird,” Azriel apologized.

“Don’t apologize. I get it. I hate when people interrupt me when I eat. But when I saw you, I just felt like I had to say hi.”

Azriel smiled at her. “It was a welcome interruption. Enjoy your lunch!”

With a quick goodbye, she turned around and started to walk to the door. Azriel cursed himself. Why was he such a weirdo? Couldn’t he have been cool and mysterious? Why did he have to be some kind of awkward noodle-eating monster?

He was just about to drown himself in the remaining food in front of him when he saw Elain turn around and head for his table again.

“Would you like to do this again?” she asked, the question coming out quickly.

Azriel stared at her. “Do what?”

“See each other in real life.”

“Yes,” Azriel blurted out. “I would really like that.”

She gave him the sweetest smile and he felt like he was looking at the sun.

“Great! Are you free this Friday?”

Azriel didn’t tell her that he would make sure to be free any night she wanted to spend time with him.

Instead, he just said, “Yes, I’m free.”

“Good. I’ll text you.”

And with that, Elain exited the restaurant. Azriel was staring at his bowl of cold noodles, not feeling very hungry anymore. She had asked him out.

Elain, the prettiest girl alive, had asked him out.

If he had been a comic book character, he was certain that there would be small, pink hearts flying around his head.

She texted him later that night.

Elain It was lovely running into you today :) But damn that ringtone of yours! I’ve been singing Barbie Girl all day, haha!

Azriel Thank you for interrupting my lunch! Don’t tell anyone this, but I haven’t been able to get that stupid song out of my head either. But don’t worry, I was able to get my hands on my friend’s phone this afternoon and return the favor.

Elain Oooh! Which song did you pick?

Azriel Jizz in my pants by the Lonely Island.

Elain You’re evil! I love it!

Azriel So, for Friday. Would you be up for drinks?

Azriel wanted to suggest dinner, but drinks felt safer. If she thought that he was dull or weird, it would be easier for her to leave.

Elain Yes! That would be great. There is this new place that I’ve been dying to go to. It’s called Rita’s.

Azriel Rita’s it is! Shall we say at 8?

Elain It's a date! I’m really looking forward to it :)

Azriel Me too!

Azriel felt giddy. He felt like a teenager that had just been asked out by his crush. Or at least, he thought that this was the same feeling. He hadn’t really been asked out in High School. Elain had probably been popular, but he had been the emo-guy in the corner, listening to music nobody had ever heard.

However, the more he thought about Friday, the more nervous he became. What if he couldn’t find something interesting to talk about? What if she found him boring?

And worst of all; what the hell should he wear?

[thisisthehardestthing]

тоска, Tanaka x Reader, 18+

Written for The Smut Pile Server Collab: Mafia AU | MASTERLIST HERE.

тоска tus-ka: Russian, noun It is a dull ache of the soul, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases, it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, lovesickness.

Russian Mafia AU: Tanaka Ryu x A Reader OC Rating: E for explicit Warnings: Violence, Blood, Death, Oral sex, Public Sex, Grinding, Cheating, Denied Orgasm, Manipulation, YEARNING Word count: 11,752 Part 1 | Part 2

GLOSSARY

This is my baby. I have spent so much time writing this. I won’t give too big of an intro. Please enjoy.

Special thanks to: @joyousandverywarlike​​​ for being my ride-or-die beta,  @pleasantanathema​​​ , @present-mel​​​​ and @linestrider​​​ for hosting this collab, and everyone in the server for being amazing friends. I would not have been able to write this without any of you, and I truly mean that.

1.2

Part 1 - Valentina

The room is all rich browns and leather, an oiled hardwood floor, mahogany furniture and taxidermied bears. Against the wall, watching over everything with a bored expression is Daichi "The Bulldog" Sawamurov, Mafia Boss of the Bashkortoskaya. His brown eyes inspect his nails as another grunt echoes in the room. Beside him, you, Valentina Sawamurova, stand tall, a well-manicured hand hooked onto his bicep. In a neat line with arms clasped behind their backs stand six bratji, 'brothers', the hitmen of the Security team. They all watch as a shaved-haired man beats the shit out of a pariah.

Tanaka "Khazak" Ryunoslav wipes his tattooed knuckles, alternating X and O’s, onto a white handkerchief pulled from his neatly pressed slacks, staining the fabric red with blood. It is not his. In a simple chair at the centre of the room, a man -no, he doesn't deserve to be called a man- a boy slumps forward. His head hangs low as blood seeps from his brow, nose, mouth. A tooth lays in his drenched lap. Shivers run down Tanaka's spine as he takes in the defeated form of one of his boyevika.

"Huh? Nothing to say for yourself, predatel?" he questions, bruised knuckles tugging the fallen head of his ex-comrade up to peer into their eyes, almost swollen shut.

"I did not betray the Bratva, I swear on my babu-" 

"You only swear on God and the Pakhan, traitor." Tanaka interrupts, releasing his grip so that the boy’s head falls back down in a large swing before lifting up with a painful groan. The Bulldog sighs, checks the time on a glinting gold Rolex. Your fingers slip from the bulging bicep to cross in front of your chest. He nods to you, keep watching, and you smile back, wide, catty, red lipstick violent against white teeth.

"Tanaka, enough. Finish him and dispose of the body. I am tired of his crying. Like a baby. Ha!"

"Da, Boss."

"Make sure his friends are sent a message, also."

"Of course."

Tanaka doesn't take his eyes off the trembling informant but acknowledges the Boss's departure with a casual wave. Most people wouldn't have the audacity to be so lax to the Head, but he isn't just anyone. He's the most trusted. More than you.

"Nyet, nyet, nyet, nyet!" the rat cries, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and splashing onto the floor as he struggles against the bonds. Filthy. Fuck, how Tanaka loves it. He holds his hand out and a more competent, loyal, brat hands him a gun. His fingers curl around the weighted metal of the handle with a sigh, cocking it, and without hesitation, pulls the trigger.

.

.

.

There are only a few seconds of silence after the bang, just enough for Tanaka to relish in the feeling of complete calm after the storm. The hole between the eyes spits blood onto his crisp white shirt, before the lifeless body is untied by his boyevika in the room and dragged out to be 'made an example of'. One by one, the men clean up. A mop, bleach, breaking down the chair for firewood later. No loose ends, including The Khazak's shirt as he unbuttons it to be burnt with the chair. All the while, you watch from the sidelines, against the wall, as the wife of the Boss should.

Your toes tap rhythmically against the floor, the clackclackclack of your stilettoes a steady beat for the men to work to, but your eyes are on Tanaka's back. So muscular, so supple, still shivering from the endorphins of taking a life. The twin pistols tattooed on either shoulder blade seem armed, willing to fire again. 

You watch as he drops down fluidly with crossed legs to sit on the floor in the very spot he killed the predatel with no remorse, taking deep lungfuls of air to relish in the feeling. He can feel your eyes on him, a smile threatening to spread across his lips as he turns his head over his shoulder to peer at your scrutinising gaze -which is very careful not to let your lust show. But he knows it's there. He can taste it on his heavy tongue.

One by one, the men walk from the room, leaving only the two of you in your husband's office. The oak door shuts.

"Tell me, Gadyuka, how was I?" Tanaka enquires, eyes closed and head straight so that you can see the back of his scalp move as he speaks. The shorn hair shimmies and waves with his words, washing over you in the vast expanse of the room. Your pseudonym, 'viper', poison in your veins.

"Same as always: bloody," you hum, pushing off the wall and walking in front of him to lean against the broad desk. "You enjoy making a mess, don't you, Ryu?" you use your nickname for him, not his name, or his pseudonym, but something more intimate. He barks out a laugh, chest shaking as he examines the backs of his knuckles with gleaming eyes.

"Blyat, you know damn well that I do."

Like a gunshot has just echoed once again, the silence in the room is deafening. Your gazes lock, his ocean-grey ones with your cat-like stare. From his position on the floor, he looks up at you. Your stocking-clad legs are inviting his hands to stroke up them, and he's lucky enough to see the hint of the garter strap under your short skirt. He licks his lips. You tap the desk behind you impatiently, nails clacking against the glossy hardwood.

"My husband is going away on business in a week."

"I know, I arranged security."

"You're not going with him?" you ask, eyebrow quirking, no longer tapping the table. Tanaka shakes his head, a coy smile pulling at the corner of his lips, dried blood cracking on his sharp jaw.

"Then where will you be, Khazak?"

The grin almost splits his face in half with his reply, "in your bed, Gadyuka."

His bluntness never fails to shock you, to send heat pooling between your thighs and your heart spasming beneath your ribs. You almost want to have him right there, on top of the ledgers and documents of the many businesses Daichi is in charge of. Tanaka places his strong hands on the floor, easily dragging his body to your feet where he sits once more, staring up with eyes cloudy like the spray of a hurricane. A palm wraps behind your right leg to pull it close to his lips, kissing the lycra, the apex of your kneecap. His touch ripples through your skin so that your chin tilts up, breaking the gravity of his eye contact.

"Careful, Ryunoslav, not here."

His teeth nip at the fabric.

"I can not wait a week to taste you, Val."

"The cameras-"

"Are off because of the interrogation. Only I have the code to enable them for this room."

Calloused palms drag up the backs of your thighs, the stocking tugging slightly as it catches, until they pass the band where they wrap around your thighs, secured with a garter. You almost beg him to feel higher, to grab the fold of your ass, instead, you bite your lip between your teeth in thought.

"Then we must be quick, get under the desk." 

You don't tell him how unusual it would be if you were found to sit in your husband's chair, but with lust swimming from your thighs to drown your mind, it's not important. 

Tanaka is always rowdier after a kill, high off adrenaline, energy flowing in his veins that wants to devour everything in its path. He prefers to devour you. To savour your taste with his head between your supple thighs, to feel you come undone around his quick-witted tongue. With you balancing so precariously on the edge of the leather office chair, he can barely contain his onslaught of touch, desperate to hear you moan in the sound-proofed room. He's tucked so tightly between your knees, his broad yet lean shoulders spreading you so that he sees the dampened lace beneath your skirt.

It never takes much to arouse you. He likes to think it's only him that can pull forth your wetness from your folds like the moon coaxing the tides. He doesn't waste time, doesn't stop to watch the string of slick connecting the fabric to your cunt as his thumbs pull it to the side. He licks a long stripe up your slit and moans into the taste like a man starved. It's times like these when you wish he had hair for you to grab on to, so you settle on gripping the edge of the mahogany desk until your knuckles pale and forearms burn.

His tongue dances between your folds, lapping up each new wave of wetness that touches the shore of the muscle, only nudging the bundle of nerves at the top with a slight jostle.

"Don't tease me, Ryu, not in here," you breathe out at him between his licks, to which he chuckles, head turning to muffle the laughter against your inner thigh.

"Prosti," he apologises, the grey in his eyes glimmering with childish glee, "I can't help it sometimes." 

But he doesn't give you a chance to reply before his lips attach once more to your throbbing skin, wrapping around your swollen clit to suck greedily. Finally, he hears you moan, the sound kissing his sensitive ears like cool ocean spray. It's not loud, more constricted, but it's for him, because of him.

You feel how he sucks you into him, swallowing your heat and lust and desire with his mouth, having it all flow back into your body to stir at the whirlpool between your legs and behind your eyelids. It's torrential, dizzying, you're dragged beneath the waves, chest heaving as if you're drowning, 

but then it stops 

and the sea dies down, leaving your battered body behind.

Tanaka pulls away, silently. His palms close your legs, knees knocking together, his thumbs teasing circles against the bone. You're aching from your denied orgasm, the pained moan in your throat cutting off as a knock sounds in the room.

"Come in," you clear your throat, repeating the command.

One of Daichi's body guard's strides into the room, a look of shock on his face at your seat before he masks it quickly. His long brown hair is tied up neatly into a bun, a slight stubble on his chin tells you he hasn't slept properly in a few days. You can feel the heat radiating from your cheeks, feel the static in your hair that you smooth down. Tanaka keeps tracing shapes into your thighs, keeping the fire in your gut from extinguishing.

"Yes?" you thank Saint Mary that your voice doesn't tremble, "what is it?"

"Mrs. Sawamurova," he nods a greeting, "The Boss says he will take you out for dinner tonight and has sent me to escort you back to the main estate in preparations."

"Of course, I look forward to it."

You kick away Tanaka's hands, standing at the same time to walk around the table and follow the guard you know as Alexei Asahi from your husband's office. It means leaving The Khazak under the desk, along with a piece of your dignity.

***

Dinner is the kind with clinking glasses and soft chatter. The lighting is dim, intimate, with a soft glow that bounces off the crystal and silverware. As usual, the two of you are seated in the middle of the restaurant, the surrounding tables strategically blocking the view of you and Daichi from all the windows and doors, as well as the bodies seated in them. You can never be too careful, even if your husband owns the restaurant -or the entire town. To your left, behind Daichi and closest to the door, sits Tanaka.

"You look beautiful tonight, darling," Daichi says, taking a bite of his steak.

You do. The black silk dress lays flat against your chest, the deep v tailored perfectly. The tie behind your neck falls softly to your waist. Against your skin is a gold pendant, a coin pressed with the Sawamarov crest. Sleeveless and backless, the dress shows your beautiful viper tattoo curling down your right arm as though protecting you. It’s jaw opens near your wrist to bite anyone you may touch. You hold your glass of wine, swirling it before you sip.

"Thank you, my love. You bought me this dress for our first date."

"And that engagement ring on our second."

You swallow down your guilt, thighs clenching together, the silk fabric teasingly softly against your still-ignited skin. You give him a pointed stare, leaning forward ever so slightly to whisper over the table.

"I wouldn't call that a second date. We never left each other after the first."

Daichi laughs heartily, waves for another bottle of wine, eyes shining with the memory of the very active week in a skiing lodge. He hopes he can recreate some of it tonight, knowing he's been neglecting you, ignoring your needs. He glances down at the subtle curve of the fabric around your slight breast, the hint of the peony tattoo peeking under the edge of your neckline, low on your sternum; it’s the only delicate thing about you.

Daichi watches as you excuse yourself to use the restroom, the way your hips sway beneath the silk as though you have a secret. He frowns when the door closes, checking his watch for the time and pouring a shot of vodka to swallow down. You do have a secret. The waiter takes away the plates, bringing a simple dessert to share with the wine, and when you sit back down with a happy sigh, The Bulldog tries to sniff it out. He taps the table with two fingers and the nearest bodyguards turn slightly away to give you both privacy.

“I was told you were seated at my desk.”

A bite of mousse passes between your red lips with a small smile, eyes penetrating his gaze and not faltering. 

“Can a wife not sit in her husband’s chair?”

“Nyet, you know this. Why?”

“Calm down, my love.”

He fixes his cuff links, leaning back in his chair so that the gold chain around his neck glints in the light. His strong brow shadows his darkening eyes, lips pressing into a thin line, and, true to his nickname, it seems as though his muscles inflate. It makes you melt to see him hard, pectorals and biceps wanting to burst through the fabric of his Armani shirt. The spoon clinks against the plate and you reach across the table, viper stretching to grab his hand and bring it to your lips with a soft kiss, red lipstick on his jewelled knuckles. As much as you want to flicker your gaze to the man behind your husband, you hold firm.

“It’s embarrassing, but I’ll tell you. Come closer so I can whisper,” you usher him in, and Daichi grunts but follows your suggestion. He has no reason to doubt you, yet his gut is telling him you were doing more than just resting your heeled feet. He watches your pink tongue lick your bottom lip, teeth cracking between them with a coy smile.

“As you know, it has been quite some time since we’ve, how should I put this, made love.”

“I know.”

“Had I known we were going to dine tonight, fuck tonight, I would not have.”

“Your point, Gadyuka.”

Your whisper turns into a low hum, right hand squeezing his and your left hand toying with the coin pendant around your neck. Butterflies swirl in your gut, but you kill them swiftly with venom. He can sniff out any insecurity.

“I was masturbating.”

“What?”

“I was masturbating. Touching myself. In your chair, by your desk, thinking of you. I was almost finished but then Alexei had knocked on the door and stopped it.”

The look on Daichi’s face can only be described as speechless, which he is not often. His mouth opens, eyes stormy as he pictures your flushed face. He remembers that glassy look your eyes adopt when you're close, far away in bliss. Your delicate palm touches his clean-shaven cheek, drawing his attention back to the restaurant, to you.

“How about we go home and finish what I started, huh?”

Daichi didn’t need to be told twice. Standing fluidly, everyone around him follows his movement. Your fur coat is draped over your shoulders, thick and warm, a crisp white. His hand is on the small of your back, leading you out of the restaurant with the haste of a man collecting a prize. The air is cold, snow shovelled aside as you climb into the car to feel heated lips pressing to your neck instantly. You laugh, locking your wrists behind his neck to capture his mouth with your own. Men are so easily convinced.

Part 2 - Tanaka

The frame rattles as Tanaka slams the door closed behind him. He tracks melting sludge onto the thin, rust-coloured welcome mat, the tip of his nose red with more than the kiss from the windchill. The heater of the cabin is turned on, the warmth a welcome refuge from the thick snow outside as he shrugs off his coat.

Tanaka doesn’t hide his thoughts and feelings. He’s the kind of guy that wears them on his sleeve, bares it all out there for everyone to see. When he’s angry, you can see the tips of his ears burn. When he’s thrilled, that shark-tooth grin spreads so wide across his face, his eyes close. And when he’s murderous, nothing and no one can stand in his way.

“Cyka blyat!” he shouts, punching the wall of his residence, missing the mirror by mere centimetres, his already bruised knuckles stinging with his rage. A slew of curse words tumbles from his lips, both from searing pain and soaring anger. The eyes on the back of his hands stare at him, judging.

Seeing Valentina out at dinner, looking so delectable, so sinful, Ryunoslav felt ravenous for just a taste of her skin. It was bad enough that he never got to feel her convulse on his tongue earlier, he had to watch her flirt with her husband. He knows the deal, that nothing can ever really happen between the two of them outside of sex, and if they were both to get caught, it would be his end. He understands, yet he can’t help his rising natural anger. The buzzing in his pants pocket pulls him from his internal struggle, and he relaxes his hands, feeling the half-moon indents in his palms hiss in relief.

“Da?" a pause, "I’m on my way.”

Daichi wants to see him; did they finish their ‘love-making’ so quickly? Tanaka catches his reflection in the mirror, massaging the centre of his furrowed brows to try dissipate some of his frustrations before grabbing his thick coat and making the five-minute trek to the main estate. He’s frozen to the bone by the time he arrives at the large mahogany doors, but his anger keeps his blood warm. He needs to be careful, to calm down.

***

The Boss is waiting for Tanaka in his oversized office, the door open ajar, letting a soft yellow light stream into the hallway. This one is different from where the interrogation took place that afternoon, yet it is decorated almost identically. A shiver runs down Ryunoslav’s neck as he remembers Valentina’s sumptuous taste, the supple skin of her thighs brushing against his jaw and the way her lips sighed his name. Fuck, he takes a deep breath, pacifying his licentious thoughts before rapping on the door with his knuckles. Daichi’s deep voice tells him to enter.

He sits there, behind the desk, the white shirt he wore to dinner wrinkled, half unbuttoned to show a burly chest. A gold chain with a coin and two wedding bands glints from the curled chest hair.

“Vodka?” Daichi asks, doe brown eyes glancing up, already pouring both him and his head of security a shot of the clear liquid.

“Spasiba,” Tanaka’s voice is a grumble, deep in his chest as he tries to warm his body but cool his temper.

The Bulldog leans back. They toast, downing the drink with a casual swallow. As per usual, Tanaka automatically refills the next round for the both of them, but it remains untouched. Instead, Daichi opens a ledger, fingers curling up the pages as he flips through the numbers and accounts.

“Sergei has told me we were underpaid last month.”

“Mm, I will talk with Yuuri to find out who.”

“Make sure you show them the repercussions.”

“Always.”

Tanaka cracks his knuckles, excited to teach yet another lesson in punctuality. Daichi eyes his most trusted brother, the way that cocky smirk appears at the thought of fists colliding with skin, but there’s something else underneath.

“Khazak, you’re angry,” Daichi concludes, reaching across the table for the vodka, motioning Ryunoslav to sit down across from him. The shorn-haired man shrugs, slinking into the leather seat, removing his black beenie to run his hand through the trimmed hair. He can’t lie to the Boss, but he can’t tell him the truth either.

“I am… frustrated.”

The pair cheers, the glasses clinking before thudding onto the leather ingrained into the top of the desk.

“Why?”

"Ha! Please, I do not know, Boss.”

Daichi lets out a hum, shifting forward in his chair so that the wheels creak beneath his weight.

“I think I know.”

Tanaka stays silent, keeping his stare level and curious with the Bulldog’s.

“You need a woman!” Daichi barks out, smacking the desk with a flat palm, laughing deeply so that it echoes in the quiet room and probably through the manor. Tanaka can’t help but join in with the infectious laughter, the vodka soothing his nerves, relaxing the tension in his jaw.

“You’re right. It’s been too long,” since I fucked your wife.

They pour another shot, the buzz of the first two beginning to hum pleasantly through their bodies.

“Next week I go to Georgia to see the business there. While I’m gone, bring a whore to your bed. You have my permission.”

“Thank you, Boss.” Tanaka says, his cock twitching at the thought of Valentina in his residence. She’s never been there longer than a few minutes, and never without Daichi in the ten years Ryunoslav has been working for the Sawamurov family, and the two he’s been fucking her. He can't help but fantasize about it.

They catch up in light-hearted talk, about the state of Russia and the business, that they don’t see her peer around the corner of the heavy door, black silk nightgown wrapped loosely around her frame to show the lace of lingerie beneath.

“Daichi, are you coming to bed?” Tanaka hears her say, Valentina’s voice caressing his sensitive ears, but it’s not for him. He turns around, both men shocked into sobriety when they see her leaning against the now open door. 

“Ah yes! Sorry, my love! We lost track of time.” Daichi says, pushing up from his seat. Tanaka swallows, watches as her gaze floats from her husband’s to his own. He can see the pale blue of new bruises around the column of her throat, where Daichi probably sucked into the skin. Tanaka can’t help his smirk. She always did like it rough, and it means he can leave his own over those later.

“Khazak,” she greets with a curt nod, fixing the dropped shoulder of the gown to make herself more modest. “Don’t keep him too late, okay?”

“Mrs. Sawamurova, as you wish.”

Daichi chuckles from behind the desk, walking around to clap Tanaka on the shoulder.

“I may be the Pakhan, but Gadyuka here always has the last say, huh? Good night, Ryunoslav. Don’t forget to talk to Yuuri. And don’t forget what I said you can do.”

“Da, spakoyne noche, Boss.”

With a two-finger wave, Daichi walks out of the room, his hand travelling to the small of Valentina’s back as he leads her back to the bedroom. Tanaka takes one final shot, pulling his hat low over his ears as he prepares to walk back to his house.

***

“He said what?” Nishinoya Yuuri exclaims, cackling inside Tanaka’s small living room. His shorter counterpart smacks the armrest of the chair, the sound against the leather cracking like a whip.

“I can entertain a whore this weekend.”

Yuuri can’t believe his ears, face red with laughter, the file of the business owner coming up with short change forgotten on his lap. His bleached bangs hang in his eyes and he pushes it up, wiping tears with a deep breath. 

Together, Ryunoslav and Yuuri make up the Elite Group within the Bashkortoskaya, Daichi’s most trusted men. Each one runs their own Brigade: Nishinoya the Support Group and, by default, oversees the entire Workforce, while Tanaka is head of Security and keeps everything running smoothly.

The Khazak’s sharp jaw pulses, cheeks red to resemble a heart as it beats in humility. He clenches and unclenches his jaw.

“In the years I’ve known you, you’ve never had a prostitute.”

"I've never needed one," Tanaka shrugs, stealing the manila folder to flip through the details. Simple enough. His men were already bringing the tinted black SUVs around for them to make a ‘house call’ to Ukai Keishin. He shrugs on his thick coat, the kind that’s easy to clean, and black leather gloves onto his hands, slipping knuckle dusters into his pocket. Just in case. He doubts he’ll need them. He waves Yuuri a goodbye as he hears the tyres crunch over the sleet of snow.

“Remember to pick up condoms while you’re out!” He hears his brother call out to him as the door closes and ice invades each inhale.

Tanaka grumbles under his breath, fiddling with the direction of the hot air coming through the car’s vents. Just what he needs is word getting around that he would be fucking someone while the Boss is gone. These kinds of things never stay quiet, and he knows it will reach Valentina’s ears within the day. He shivers to think how she will lash out at him if he actually invites one of Daichi’s prostitutes back to his bed. The girls at those establishments can’t even hold a candle to her beauty or skill.

Prostitution is a lucrative business and one of the main sources of income, other than drug smuggling and the many (legal and illegal) casinos and tech companies owned by the Sawamurov’s. Ukai's particular business—and why The Boss is so invested in it—is a front for a prostitution call-centre. According to performance, they should've made a profit for the month past. Usually, Tanaka wouldn't make an appearance personally, delegating the task to his experienced team members, who might even give the order to the security brigades that they run. However, he is glad to get out of the estate grounds and think of something other than Val’s voluptuous lips and the swell of her breasts from beneath that black lingerie last night.

***

The Sawamurov's reach controlled all of Bashkortostan, a republic within Russia nestled between the picturesque Ural mountain range and the Volga river. Tanaka watches as the trees surrounding the estate give way to highway and grassland before the small town of Belebey comes into view. It's all Daichi's, and in turn, all Val’s.

The town is quiet, the late morning sky a dark grey with clouds that make the winter more formidable. Tanaka wouldn't have it any other way. They pull up to the slightly rundown storefront, graffiti against the wall with crude swear words act as a greeting. He snorts, watching as the glossy black SUV's reflect in the windows as though looking into a parallel world. Inside he can see movement, a tall man in a white apron walking around the counter to open the door. Confident. 

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Ukai shouts out, arms crossed over his chest to protect his fingers from the stinging cold. Tanaka doesn't answer, tucking his chin into his scarf as he observes the man. He's older, bleached blonde with honey eyes that seem more solid, hardened. On his forearms are scars, his flannel shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal a tattoo of a web with a downwards facing spider: recovered drug addict.

"We've come to collect," one of the lackeys says in his boss's place.

Ukai steps aside to let them in, sighing deeply, flicking a cigarette to the moist ground, and leading them to a back room where there's a round table with a few wooden chairs. Papers litter the room, boxes of unpacked stock are piled in a corner. The place is a shithole.

"Can I get you anything? Vodka, cigarette?"

"Sit, Ukai." Tanaka speaks, gesturing to the nearest chair, unbuttoning his coat to drop it onto the table, his beanie and scarf piling on top of it. "We're here for business."

Ukai collapses down, slouching casually as he stares at the leader of the men. Ryunoslav drags a chair in front of the debtor, spinning it on a single leg so that he leans against the backrest as he sits with his legs spread out on either side. A sliver of gold chain catches the fluorescent lighting under his simple suit shirt, matching the multiple piercings in Ukai's right ear.

"You did not pay the full amount of February."

"Correct."

"Why?"

"I couldn't."

The man's blunt lie is shocking to Tanaka, refreshing from the usual quivering imbeciles, and he feels the need to suppress a smile that threatens to reveal itself. Instead, he keeps his tone cynical.

"Was the month not profitable, Ukai? Men get lonely in February, their beds cold."

Ukai shrugs, smoothing out the wrinkles in his apron, eyeing the handsome shaved hair man with intrigue. Tanaka feels a ripple down his spine. "For the whores? Yes, it was profitable. But my business was not."

"So you used the money for the Bashkortoskaya to save your ass from bills?" Tanaka begins to laugh, his wide mouth swallowing the sky as his chin tilts up. He stares straight at the man once more, "you should've paid us first."

"Ah, but then I wouldn't have had the pleasure of your visit. I am touched an Avtoritet will come to see me personally. You are better looking than I thought you would be, younger."

Tanaka raises an eyebrow at the flirtatious comment, a very open individual. He sees some of his subordinates shift uncomfortably in his peripheral, unsure of how to proceed. He drums his fingers on the back of the chair, the beat steady like his heart.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, I'm not one of your kind."

"And what kind is that?"

"Gay."

Ukai chuckles, pulling a packet of cigarettes from his apron pocket, offering one to Ryunoslav who instead takes the full box, holding it up for someone to confiscate. He stands, walking to inspect the stacked boxes around the room. Ukai swallows; he knows not to push his luck too far.

"Are you going to kill me if I don't pay?"

"Hm, nyet, not yet. Are these fresh?" Tanaka holds up a dozen eggs, the green carton sickly. He doesn't wait for the reply, tearing it open and tossing one to the ground with a resounding crunch, the yolk bleeding into the tile grates.

"Listen, Ukai," splat, "you will pay the balance," splat, "by the end of this week," Tanaka walks closer with each drop of the egg until he's next to the grocery store owner. Ukai sits upright, a cool gaze on Tanaka's tattooed hands as they stroke the shell of the brown eggs. The crosses and circles are targets, his hands the weapons.  

"Or your head, will look like these eggs." Tanaka drops the entire carton on the ground, the bright yellow spilling out and pooling beneath Tanaka's black boots. "Vy ponimayete?"

"Da, understood."

"Good. I hope I will not need to see you again."

On his way out of the store, Tanaka picks up a box of condoms from the aisle.

Part 3 - Valentina

Friday cannot come fast enough... so that you can throttle your lover. 

The double-pane french doors to the balcony shine with frost, the sky beyond dark and unforgiving, much like the irritation boiling inside you. It’s the last night; Daichi leaves on the first flight to Georgia tomorrow morning to meet with the Vashadze, your father and owners of half the Casinos under your combined empire. Your marriage three years ago was the biggest news since the raid on the Uhaluba club in Prague, 1995. Together, your families control prositution, drug smuggling, money laundering, the list goes on. Behind the scenes, of course. 

Up front, Daichi is a wealthy investor of tech: Facebook, Tesla, oil companies in the Middle East and Serbia, whereas your father is a top Politician and Minister in Georgia, maintaining his position with dirt he’s collected on those with darker tastes and kinks in the underworld.

“Supply snakes with a meal, and you’ll have them all by the fangs,” your father regularly told you over dinners since you were thirteen, when he began to show you the truth behind his wealth, once your mother passed away.

It’s how you got your nickname. It was the first thing you said to Daichi, before he took you out, before he became The Boss . You were eighteen when you laid eyes upon that hulking mass of muscle. He asked how you could be so beautiful, and you parroted your father’s words. He knew from that moment on that you were dangerous, poisonous, and he had to have you.

When you were twenty-one, you met Daichi again, this time in an underground gambling soiree. You were the host, of course. The felt green betting mats stood out in stark contrast against the white dress code and the dark wooden tables. You wore black. Translucent red dice swirled between your fingers expertly before you rolled snake eyes.

“Bad luck,” Daichi commented over your shoulder, spiced wood and tobacco tickling your nose. You sipped a vodka martini with a twist. There was always a twist with you.

“It’ll be fine, I own the club,” you shrugged, cashing out with the chips you owed and strolling back to the bar where another drink awaited you. Even now, you could remember Tanaka Ryunoslav hovering behind Daichi, drinking in the sight of your curves, the red of your lipstick and the wit of your tongue. A lot less subtle then than now. 

If you closed your eyes, you could very easily conjure the tapping of his heels, the eager look in the Young Khazak’s eyes at being surrounded by some of the most powerful men in Eastern Europe. You could even taste the vodka on his tongue that you sucked down your throat in a supply room all those years ago.

Back then, that bout of casual sex meant nothing. You married Daichi four years later, when your paths crossed once more at twenty-five, the turf wars between neighbouring families becoming too much to bear for Eastern Europe. You were lucky Daichi was--is so exceedingly handsome. Interesting. Smart. Powerful. However, so is your father. And you never wanted to marry your father.

“Darling?” Daichi’s voice calls you out of your pacing when he walks into the room, the silk of your dressing gown swooping around your feet as you stand still. “Everything alright?”

“Da, sorry, you know I get nervous when you fly,” you lie quickly, easily, turning your back on him to close the curtain and shut out the irritation of outside, the faint golden glow of Tanaka’s cabin sealed away. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Mm, yes, I know. Relax a little. When I am back we have that gala. Is your dress finished?”

You give him a pointed glance, turning down the bedsheets and unravelling the delicate bow of the robe to climb under the covers with bare skin.

“Weeks ago, Daichi. You were at the final fitting.”

He nods as if he remembers, but you know his mind is elsewhere, much like your body would rather be.

“Are you coming to bed early tonight?”

For several days, weeks, months, Daichi has been sneaking into your bed too late in the evening. Or early in the morning. The business is doing fine, there’s no cause for him to spend some nights not even at home. Some part of you--a small, small part--misses his thick muscles wrapped around your body.

“Later, there is something I have to do first.”

You merely hum, settling yourself down and dimming the lamp beside the bed until the room bathes in a soft glow. With your eyes closed, you don’t see him leave, the door clicking shut. Instead, you picture red, your empty bed, and across the snow, a cocky smile letting a too thin, sallow-skinned blank face past their threshold. He will have to have a hooker, Daichi will ask him all about it. Motherfucker. You turn the light off.

***

The Bulldog kisses your forehead when he wakes, sleeping behind you for a total of an hour. You’d woken up slightly when he clambered into the bed, smelling freshly of his cologne from a recent shower, at three in the morning.

“I’ll be back soon,” he whispers into your ear, not staying to hear your ‘be safe’ in response, still mumbling from a fitful night’s sleep. 

However, you don’t drift off again, eyes suddenly open and staring into your nightstand where a cool glass of water rests. It’s still, silent and calm. You turn over to the right, seeing the empty space where Daichi’s body barely left a mark, his lamp still buzzing. It isn’t until you hear cars pull away in the driveway that you sit up, wiping the remnants of sleep delicately from your eyes to sigh. It’s going to be a long day.

Dumdumdum, three quick taps echo in the quiet, the door creaking open as a curious head peeks around the side. Ryunoslav smiles when he sees you perched in bed. His eyes drift from your face, down your neck and to your breasts, the skin pricking up under his sharp gaze. You could strike a match and it would erupt into flames.

“What are you doing here, Ryu?” you ask. It comes out more accusatory than you would’ve liked but he just grins, teeth ready to bite any jab you throw.

“I told you I’d come, didn’t I?”

For a raucous man, Tanaka moves stealthily across your floor, kicking off his boots before planting two large hands onto the edge of the mattress. You can feel it dip with his weight as he crawls, veiny forearms caging in your legs, trapping you. He sways side to side, spine rolling like a panther about to pounce. You kick his left hand out so he falls, crashing and rolling to the spot where Daichi laid with a laugh, peering up at you with fervent energy.

“His bed isn’t even cold yet.”

“Ha! He barely slept here, Val.”

“And you will?” Skepticism laces your words, the irritation of last night seeping into your thoughts once more. His smile finally drops.

“Nyet, of course not. You know that.” Tanaka twists around so that he’s cross-legged, facing you fully, eyes searching your own. “I’ll just fuck you.” You scoff.

His hands plant themselves on your thighs, the eyes tattooed on the back staring at the ceiling, observing the heavens. They travel gradually up to where the sheet lays scrunched around your waist, fingers pinching the edges.

“Give you more pleasure than he does before going back to my lonely bed. Without you.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’ll be lonely for much longer, Ryunoslav.”

Tanaka chuckles under his breath, shaking his head as he pulls the duvet down to unveil you before him. His chest rises and falls so fluidly with his deep breaths, a movement so calm, yet he freezes when his eyes rake over your luscious figure.

“How the Boss does not have you under lock and key astounds me.”

Your hand slaps across his face, a fire burning from your palm down to your groin.

“I will not be someone’s pet.”

Lust overcomes Tanaka’s pupils, his lips curling up in ecstasy at your stern tone, his cheek pounding along with his heart.

“No, you will not.”

Then, his mouth captures yours. 

Hot, hungry, the spring in his spine expands so that his chest presses against yours, jaws stretching up. Desperate hands clutch at your neck, the fold of your hips, anything to pull himself tight to your body, anchored to your skin and bed. It’s sinful, even whores refuse to do something so intimate. You feel that heavy tongue drag against your bottom lip, asking your permission to enter. You welcome it, savoring the taste of Ryu’s desire, his burning passion. His hands drift to tug at the firm muscle of your ass, hauling you to kneel over his lap, supporting and kneading it to a rhythm that you’ve come to know so well.

Your fingers clumsily unbutton his pants, slipping under the fabric to feel your undoing. Tanaka moans into your mouth, growing harder, fiercer in his touch with each stroke up the length of his cock. He wastes no time, patience not his strongest virtue. You detach from the kiss with a heavy sigh, forehead pressing to his as you melt over his fingers. Both your hands press into his shoulders, stabilising your vibrating body from how he rolls your clit between his fingers. He’s too clothed, not enough of his skin available for you to stroke and scratch and bite. You claw at the back of his long-sleeved shirt, he rips it off.

With the shirt discarded over his boots, Ryu’s warm hands wrap around your waist, tilting you back until you lay open for him. His pants come off next, flung haphazardly to the floor so that he kneels before you shamelessly, eyes raking down your naked body. By now, he’s committed every curve, every artwork on your skin to memory that he can draw you with his eyes closed. The peony tattoo at the base of your sternum a siren’s call for his mouth to taste. The heat of his body is a furnace, flames licking your skin as he kisses down your chest, inhaling your intoxicating scent.

“Why don’t I finish what I started, huh?” he parrots the words you whispered to Daichi a week ago. Your gut clenches, your cunt tightening to know he heard that. You almost want to beg him to devour you, but that’s not who you are. Your hand strokes over his shorn hair, his eyes closing as your nails rake against his scalp. Savagely, you squeeze his jaw, fingers pursing his lips, the viper tattooed near your wrist ready to strike.

“So snarky. I can think of more important uses for your tongue, Ryunoslav.”

He grins, the round of his cheeks tensing in your clutches before he turns his head to nibble at your thumb, sucking it down.

“As you wish, Valentina.”

Tanaka kisses down your stomach to the apex of your mound, squirming until he nestles between your outstretched legs and his arms wrap themselves under your thighs, an iron grip on your hips. You brace yourself to feel that vacuum, that eternally deep suction that clings onto your soul and merges it with his, but all you can feel are soft exhales. He stares up at you, an indiscernible look on his face.

“Ryu?” you come onto your elbows. The very sight of the man between your legs is enough to make you shiver. He plants a kiss to your thigh.

“You know I will do anything for us, for you.”

“I know.”

“Even fuck a whore once if it means I get to stay with you for just another more day.”

You grit your teeth, knowing it’s true, and although he shouldn’t be saying such intimate things—that you can never truly be together—it’s what you needed to hear. You remain silent, watching him as he lowers his mouth to your seeping skin, licking languidly to taste you on his entire tongue. It’s flat, wet, heavy, pressing into you so solidly you fall back down, eyes closing as you capsize. Tanaka demands whimpers, his name, with his touch. He’s insatiable, greedy to feel you come undone completely, this time with no interruption.

Two fingers test your waters, slipping between the waves of your folds while his tongue drags you under. You know his ocean-grey eyes never stop watching as you writhe under his ministrations. You can barely move, clenching around his skilled hand as though keeping him anchored in place. You want him, need him. The first pulse of your walls spurs him on, stirring the storm in your groin, until you can barely contain your moans for him. Your orgasm batters against the shores of your body, powerful waves washing over you and dissolving all your stress and irritation, leaving you gasping and heavy, weighted down and sluggish.

“Fuck, baby,” Tanaka swears against your skin, still pumping his fingers against sopping skin to feel how you contract around him. The stimulation almost has you in tears and you grab his wrist to pull him away, closer to your lips. You swallow down your tang, the kiss passionate yet lazy as he ruts against your tingling clit, hands wrapped around your head to almost cradle you against him.

“You were very loud,” he chides, but you know he loves it, the danger. “You are lucky no one is in the house tonight.”

“Do you want me to keep quiet, Ryu?” you moan into his mouth, biting his lip against a particularly rough thrust.

“Never,” he grins, sitting back so that he can observe your glassy look, you pout at the sudden chill. There’s a moment of protest, his body too far away, before your eyes roll back and you’re stretched out, overflowing with the feeling of him, your vision black.

Part 4 - Tanaka

Ryunoslav wishes he could lay behind Valentina eternally, watch as she wakes and stretches, but he knows he can’t. He unfurls his lithe chest from her back, and stands to dress before sneaking back to his cabin. The cold air nips at his cheeks, but it would take a snowstorm and him being naked to freeze over the warmth radiating from inside his chest. Under the cover of dark, even at 6:00 am, Tanaka makes it back without being seen, like he always does.

He winces as he shrugs off his coat and scarf, the scrapes on his back from her nails stinging beautifully. His thoughts drift: what she must think when she wakes up in the mornings to find the bed empty, either without him or Daichi, and whether he’ll ever see her under his own covers, laughing while sipping a coffee on a summer morning. Ryu shakes his head to absolve those thoughts, it’s dangerous to linger on dreams for too long.

The box of condoms on his dining table stand out like a sore thumb, and he shoves it into the closest drawer, the eyes on his hands giving him a mocking stare. ‘What would your mother say?’ it blinks at him, pulling his mouth into a scowl. Turning the kettle on, he pulls up Sergei’s number on his phone.

“Khazak, it’s early.” Sergei’s morning gruff is thick, coughing lightly as he clears his throat.

“Dobre utra, Sergei, sorry, I know.”

“What is it you need?” Tanaka can almost picture the cool gaze, the pinched brows beneath silver hair that the bookkeeper has on whenever speaking to the head of security.

“Ukai, has all been fixed?”

“Uka– Ryunoslav, could this not wait until a more reasonable hour? Yes, it’s resolved. The guy wired the remaining amount last night. God knows where he got it from but I don’t care.”

Tanaka opens his mouth to speak, but Sergei cuts him off.

“I swear, call me this early again and I’ll hang you from your ears.”

The Khazak laughs, wishing the old ‘friend’ a good day as he hangs up. That clears up most of Tanaka’s schedule, and he falls onto his bed, groaning when the whistle of the kettle rings loud in the room. It’s too similar to the alarm bells in his mind when he thinks about the call he has to make later.

***

Ryunoslav shivers, peeling off the used condom to tie a knot in it. It wasn’t too bad. With the prostitute's ass in the air, he could almost picture it was her. He watches as she pulls up stockings and a dress, her only layers beneath a thick coat and hat. The prostitute looks over her shoulder with her hand resting on the door, appreciating the view. Tanaka sits on the edge of the bed, naked and bored.

“This was fun. Call me anytime,” she purrs with a wink, pleasantly fucked, before leaving. He grumbles, falling backwards so that air whooshes past his ears as the mattress creaks under his body.

She’s going to kill me, he thinks, picturing Val’s face with the disapproving glare that always seems to rile him up. A part of him wonders if he went through with it purely to piss her off, make her mad with jealousy, just like he can be.

***

Tanaka must’ve dozed off because he wakes to the sound of his front door being pounded, the clock next to it showing quarter to midnight. He swears, scrambling to toss the condom he left on his thigh into the open basket bin and pull on the nearest pair of pants. He has just finished tying the drawstring when the door swings open and Valentina strides in, arms crossed in front of her chest, white flakes of snow on the Hermès scarf wrapped around her hair.

He’s frozen, a deer in headlights, silent at seeing her standing in his doorway, both beautiful and deadly. He watches as analytical eyes scan the single-roomed cabin, finally taking it all in. For some reason, he feels shy, a blush creeping up his neck. He has always wanted her in here, but now that she is, he feels like it’s not good enough.

Tanaka follows her gaze: sweeping from the small kitchen, to the two person table and chair, in the corner are the leather armrests and a coffee table. Directly by Val’s right is a mirror and coat hook, the wooden-heated walls sparsely decorated with a map of old USSR and new Russia, along with a single lily in a simple frame. He sees her stare past him, to the arch that separates his bedroom, analysing the unmade bed. Tendrils of cold sweep by him from the still-open door. She does not move a muscle.

Valentina opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes it, walking to the kitchen counter where a half-finished bottle of vodka sits. Tanaka’s door shuts with a click, and when he turns, she has already pulled out a shot glass. 

Has she been drinking? he thinks, rubbing the goosebumps up his arms, the callouses scraping some still-healing scabs. He gets his answer when she barely winces her swallow.

“Do you want to sit down?” Tanaka asks, approaching carefully, gesturing to the sofa; she’s a cornered viper. Val turnz, leaning against the marble top, coat still wrapped tightly around her body. Her lips purse, and he stills, knowing she’s either trying to put together a sentence or hold back uttering one. But Ryunoslav doesn’t know her to hold back often.

“Did you do it?” 

He didn’t expect the question to flow from her lips so calmly, hushed and smooth like an expert interrogator; the way he would speak. There’s no point in lying.

“Da,” Tanaka steps closer, reaching past Val’s head for a second shot glass. She makes no effort to hand him the bottle. “It’s just sex.” 

He almost recoils from the daggers in her stare, pupils shrinking into slits that can cut through him. I should not have said that, but if he lied, he wonders if she’d be just as furious. Valentina looks down and spots the discarded condom, sighing while twisting open the cap of the bottle to drink straight from the lip, past the point of using a glass.

“I thought of you.”

A faint flicker of relief, but then she laughs, curt and cold.

“I’m so flattered, Ryunoslav, thank you.”

He feels his heart tighten, forehead pounding, with more than guilt.

“Blyat, what the fuck else was I supposed to do?” he snorts, storm brewing in his eyes, fists clenching. His face is so close to hers, he can smell the alcohol on her breath. He can see her searching for answers within his own.

“I don’t know, but,” her eyes close, the small wrinkle between her brow dissolving with an inhale. The exhale has them open, blank, her lips in a neutral line. Somehow, this scares Ryunoslav even more. He feels his heart hammer beneath his ribs, either trying to escape or to jump into her palms. The bottle is no longer in them, but the belt of her coat, pulling it loose so that it unfurls from her chest. He see’s skin, a clavicle, ripe mounds of breasts. The flower tattoo peaks out from the shadow until it disappears and the top of underwear wraps around her waist. She’s not wearing the Family pendant. When the coat drops off her shoulders--the wool scrunching into a thick pile at her feet--he notices she is still wearing boots, but legs bare; she used the underground passage to get to his cabin.

“If you prefer to fuck a shlyukha, you just had to say so.” Valentina says, fingers trailing up the skin of her waist while keeping his gaze. Tanaka can’t respond, doesn’t want to, anything he says is fuel to her wildfire. “I can be a whore.”

She’s raging, the very air around her too thick for Tanaka to breathe easily, and when she takes a step forward, he imitates backward. He’s controlled by her until he collapses into his leather armchair and she towers over him, bare-breasted and deadly.

Valentina’s fingers tug at the knot of the scarf, slipping the silk through her fingers as she regards the man before her, twisting it into a tight coil until ready to spring, like her.

It’s those eyes, she realises. Stormy, grey, like a tumultuous ocean swallowing her body whole, ravaging and cleansing her all at once. She can’t stand to see them now. Tanaka doesn’t protest when she leans over him, unfurling the scarf to tie it around his head, blindfolding him. Ostensibly for control. She knows otherwise that his eyes will make her crumble down, dissolve into their depths.

Tanaka’s heart thumps, pressing against his ribcage furiously enough to shake his chest. Any argument cut off in his throat when he feels Valentina’s lips against it. His body begins to cover in a cold sweat, confused with the hurdling emotions inside: panic, guilt, anger, and underneath it all, arousal.

“Have you even showered yet,” she whispers against his skin, “or is this taste hers?” A hot tongue drags up the side of his neck until it touches the puff of his earlobe, teeth nipping. If Tanaka looks down past the tip of his nose, he can see her palms gripping the arms of the chair, the plush leather folding in. He can see the curve of her shoulder and the tail of the snake as she leans into him. And he can feel the warmth of her skin when she straddles him.

It’s not tight, her ass seated on the edge of his knees, but he feels heat anyway. It rolls off Valentina’s body in waves, washing over him so that he begins to pant. Nails rake up his chest, goosebumps pricking on his forearms which he keeps still, away from reaching out to wrap around her and bring their bodies together.

“Did she touch you like this?” Valentina’s hand wraps around his throat, the other drifting to the tent in Tanaka’s sweatpants. When she stops moving, he realises she expects a response.

“Nyet,” he grunts out, erection twitching beneath her palm, the vein in his neck swelling. 

A brisk exhale fans over his face, then he smells the peppercorn and vanilla of her skin as she lifts from his knees. She must be close, the static between his lips and her stomach electric. He bites his tongue to stop from tasting her skin. When she falls, her hand had shifted his erection from the loose constraints of his pants, free and standing to attention. There’s fire and rain, and Tanaka peers down to make out the black of Valentina’s underwear clinging to her slick folds, nestled against his groin. It provides slight relief, knowing she is aroused like him. 

She begins to roll her hips. On instinct, Tanaka shifts down into a slouch to bring her higher, to feel more friction. His fingers jump where they rest on the chair, fighting not to grab at her, palms sweating. For Valentina, this is easy. Men are so responsive, so easy to lead and dissuade, and fuck. They treat sex as though it is nothing.

It’s sex, Ryunoslav’s words echo in her hazy mind, her hands flying to his shoulders as though to bring her back to her actions. Focus on the movement, it tells her, and she grinds down onto him. She feels as he pants against her neck, her breasts moving to press against his chest so that he can feel all of her at once, reminded of what he missed. The jealousy in her heart pains her, knowing that it’s irrational to feel ownership over a man that is not truly her’s. But she feels it regardless. She wants him completely.

His neck is thick beneath her palm, veins beating steadily in time with the grinding of her hips. The line of her folds wrap around him, dragging up and down his length that when she looks down, she sees it weep. The tightening of his gut tells her even more and she grins almost wickedly.

“Does it feel good, Ryu?” she whispers against him, lips hovering teasingly above his own. Tanaka tries to close the gap. She’s near, yet so far away, unreachable in her anger.

“No, you don’t get to kiss me. Not when I’m your whore.”

He moans then, shamefully turned on by the hard edge of her voice and the soft skin wrapped around him, coaxing something out from within. 

“Val,” he utters her name under his breath, the fog in his mind not clearing as it builds higher, tighter. She can feel the storm brewing. His shoulders tense, forearms hovering as though-

“Do you want to touch me?” she bites at his ear, one of his most sensitive features. It takes Tanaka everything to hold back, his hips thrusting up desperately.

“Yes. God, yes.”

“What’s stopping you?”

Valentina watches as the gold, browns and pinks of her scarf wrinkle with his frown.

“You never said I could.”

She falters for a moment, taken aback by the worship and strain in his voice. This is why she covered his eyes, she never knew she had to gag him as well. Some of the ice in her heart begins to melt, dripping down her chest like the sweat on Ryunoslav’s forehead.

“Touch me.”

His hands are on her instantly. With her back under his calloused palms, he can feel every movement of her waist, her hips. He strokes up, her body memerised so thoroughly he can paint a replica of her in his mind. With the eyes tattooed on the back of his hands, he sees her. It was the last push he needed, the rain clouds in his mind bursting as he spills a storm over his abdomen, finding clarity. 

It’s wet, warm and cold simultaneously. He feels Valentina’s forehead fall to his shoulder, her spine shaking. There’s a sniff, the smallest of tears leaking into the dips of his muscled shoulders. With one hand, he presses her tightly, his ejaculation spreading messily between their bodies, the other rips the scarf from his eyes so he can drink in the sight of her, his nose nuzzled into her hair.

“Val...” he mumbles against her skin, fingers combing through the hair at her nape, lips finding contact with her neck, then temple. “Look at me, pazolvste.”

And when she does, the world stops. He tries to read the swirl of emotions in her eyes. Is it exhaustion? Arousal? Defeat? All three? Tanaka brushes sweaty strands from her neck, forehead, smoothing down the hair. Valentina glances at his lips, or her eyes drop, either way, with the next inhale, their lips meet.

Part 5 - Valentina

Tanaka tastes different. Tangy and bitter, the kind that makes you want to tear away, only to constantly come back for another sip, addicted. You’re sticky, the sweat from his chest and the spill of his seed spreading against your stomach, screaming at you to separate from him. Everything is telling you to stop.

But you can’t

And you never want to. His tongue swipes across the seam of your lips, and you happily oblige, too weary from the rollercoaster of emotions that had ripped through you to fight for dominance. Tanaka, however, doesn’t seem to mind, your tongues intertwining so seamlessly, you briefly wonder if you’ll ever separate them again.

He pulls apart to breathe, chest still heaving from his orgasm and your mind games. Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, you realise what you’ve done, how full of blind rage and hurt you were. Tanaka registers the panic in your eyes, the way your mouth opens to say,

“I’m sorry.”

You’re suddenly smaller, eyes downcast to stare at his chest, tracing the outline of the Georgian cross tattooed over his heart, the eight point star on each shoulder beneath his collarbones, reminding you that you’re in a world of thieves. That you yourself are one, and you crossed a boundary tonight that you’ve never crossed before. In his residence. He lifts your chin with a steady finger, forcing you to stare into still, open waters.

“It’s okay.”

But it’s not, you’re not okay. Tanaka must’ve sensed the growing unease as you shift on his lap, knees still pressed tightly to his hips, his softened dick lazing against your groin.

“I would’ve stopped you if I didn’t want it,” his voice is a hushed whisper, washing over you.

“I should not have come here tonight.”

“I’m happy you did, Gadyuka.”

For some reason, you believe him, the tides in his eyes pulling you closer so that once again your lips melt into his and your heart drums in your throat. Ryunoslav unzips your boots, letting them drop unceremoniously to the floor. His hands find purchase beneath your rear, and he stands, lifting you so easily as he carries you through a small door and into the bathroom.

It smells like him: salty, humid, yet crisp, like cold mist when the seasons change. You reluctantly break apart when your feet touch the cool tile, and you look around while Ryu draws a bath. There’s no mirror over the sink--instead on the tiled wall opposite the shower--just a shelf with his electric razor, toothbrush and some creams. The thought that you’d like to shave his head flits across your mind, but you shake it out, turning to watch him fill a simple wooden bathtub with steaming water.

“Are you going to wash me like a child?” you ask, eyebrows raising to show your amusement. He chuckles, his eyes matching your teasing tone, the tension of before dissolving with the mist in the air.

“Nyet, unless you want me to,” he muses, eyes drifting across the splattered cotton against your skin. “You are dirty.”

You lick your teeth, taking in how he’s seated on the edge, sweatpants still haphazardly down his legs to show a hint of the tattoos and scars on the tops of his thighs, “so are you.”

He holds his arms out and you move to stand between his knees, warm hands trailing up your hamstrings, over the cups of your cheeks and peeling down your soiled black thong. You feel… calm, the rage and guilt subsiding to leave an empty stillness in its place, in your gut, where he rests his forehead and your fingers scrape his scalp.

You bathe first, Tanaka’s rough hands scraping away grime, before you switch and run your hands over his corded muscles. The moment is too intimate to speak, both of you barely even breathing as he wraps a towel around his waist and pulls a too long t-shirt over your head. It’s only when you’re out of the confines of the bathroom that he breaks the silence. 

“You’ll have to destroy the shirt when you leave,” Ryu observes, tugging at the shoulder seam so that the neckline centers on your body instead of dropping over one shoulder.

“Do you want me to leave?” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest, fingers drumming in a quick beat against your forearms.

“Never.”

Shrugging, you turn on your heel and stride to the messy bed, ignoring the way your stomach flips as it remembers who was the last woman to touch it--that it wasn’t you--and climb onto the mattress. For the first time, you see Tanaka completely taken by surprise. He’s close to asking you ‘why?’ but thinks against it, hurtling after you to pull you into his arms, against his chest.

This is unchartered waters, the bed a dinghy and in his room are endless possibilities. But that’s where it starts and ends. You drag your fingers lazily up his forearm, over a few scars, tracing the bouquet of lilies drawn in thick black lines that stand off his skin; prison tattoos seldom heal flat.

“What does this mean?” you stare up at him, curious as you’ve never had much time to talk with him before, to delve deeper past your lust for each other. Ryunoslav clears his throat.

“It’s for my home,” he mumbles, nose moving to your hair, his eyes clouding over as he watches your fingers. “And my mother.”

The way he explains the beauty of the wild lilies in his home village of Kazakhstan, the bouquet his mother would pluck and keep on their table, sends shivers down your spine. Why would he ever have run away? You learn he has a sister, Saeko, who left with him and fell into the life of the thieves before him, and instead, he went to prison.

In this little bubble, you feel inexplicably warm, cosy, like the world has fallen away. You tell him about your own mother, how her eyes were incredibly warm and the colour of amber, but she never smiled. About how you grew up in Georgia surrounded by powerful men and strived to be just as important one day. Ryunoslav smiled at that, kissing your wrist where the fangs of the snake bit into.

He tells you about the years he spent in and out of juvenile prison in Moscow, unfurling the duvet to explain that each cathedral dome tattooed upon his leg meant time served. He had four. The rose on his left bicep meant he turned 18 in prison.

“The Boss found me a month after,” he recalls, eyes far away, “I’m forever thankful. I was very sick from the tattoo and I would have died if he didn’t take me away.”

Daichi, a part of you whispers. With the thought of your husband, you tense up, shifting until you’re sitting with your hand pressed to Tanaka’s beating heart.

“Ryunoslav,” you call, looking past his head and into the grain of the wood. “What are we going to do?”

“Mm?”

Your eyes snap to his, a cold sweat tickling your spine. You’ve crossed lines tonight, and not by a little. You’ve run so far past it, you can’t even see it if you turn back.

“He’ll know.”

Tanaka straightens up too, attentive to your words but eyes calm with a lazy smile.

“He won’t.”

“He will. Ryunoslav, I can’t keep this a secret now.”

Beneath your palm, you can feel his heartbeat, slow, while your own pounds in your ears.

“You have to. He’ll kill us.”

You stay silent, mulling over the sincerity in Tanaka’s statement. He says it nonchalantly, like it’s the only fact that matters. You want to tell him that you love him. You don’t. Instead, you lay your head back to his chest to listen to that steady, strong drum beneath his ribs. After a few seconds, you inhale deeply.

“I think Daichi is having an affair.”

“I don’t want to talk about him.” Tanaka says instantly, arms wrapping so tightly around you, as if you’ll vanish if he can’t feel you.

“Ryu-”

“Valentina, please. God knows we never get to be alone like this.” That brash, harsh tone you’re used to finally edges it’s way back into his voice. It should scare you, instead you huddle closer to him while he continues. “Even if he’s having an affair, aren’t we doing the same? Let us just be in this moment.”

Tanaka tucks you beneath his chin, the heartbeat in his jaw syncing with yours against his chest. You murmur a ‘fine’, mind still reeling from the evening's events and the intoxication of his lips.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep, but you know he didn’t at all. Ryunoslav shakes you awake, whispering that you have to go, that Daichi gets back in the late afternoon. When the coat is wrapped around you and your fingers hover over the door, you look at him as he frowns at you.

“We should not see each other for a few days,” he states. Although his voice is calm, his chest vibrates with nerves. You know it’s the last thing he wants. You agree anyway, with a slight nod of your head.

***

NEXT CHAPTER

Thank you for reading.

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[jamaiskookie]

meet me in your memories (knj)

✂︎ pairing: memory traveller namjoon x gender neutral reader

✂︎ wc: 11.8k

✂︎ TW// car crash, mentions of death, crying, mental health, mental breakdowns, spoilers for frozen 1?? um, vomiting, mentions of PTSD, three seconds of family drama, memory loss

✂︎ notes: a little gift from me for being away so long <3 luv yall also ignore how short and shitty this is!!! ignore it!!!!! 

✂︎ synopsis: namjoon is a memory traveller - he is thrusted back and forth into his world and the world of his memories, forced to re-enact his past experiences. but he doesn’t recognise you, who keeps showing up in his memories. why doesn’t he remember you? why can’t he recall any of these scenes if they’re supposed to be his memories? and why does it always feel like he’s forgetting something? 

he comes to find out that he would choose you over and over again, in whatever lifetime or world he’s in. because he always returns to you. 

✂︎ fic tunes: "eight"- iu (prod. & feat. suga) but you're at your favorite secret spot after a long day by neptjoon

masterlist asks

The road is slippery and Namjoon cranes his head out to look at the window. Rain splattering everywhere, he notes worriedly. He hopes that nobody crashes. The bus driver sitting about three meters in front of him is humming a melody to a song he doesn’t know nor recognise. While listening to the poor man hum the off beat tune, Namjoon sits in silence, wondering how sad it must be to drive a bus with no passengers but himself. 

Suddenly, his stomach drops and his head spins, and this time Namjoon is certain it’s not from the rain or the driver’s subpar driving. He lurches forward, watching as the rain knocks against the window and falls in thick ribbons. 

Click. 

In an instant, Namjoon’s world collapses around him and he is thrown into his mind. 

Seoul is sweltering hot - hot like he’s never felt before. Namjoon reaches up to clutch his head, which is still spinning, and finds himself standing in a pair of light washed baggy jeans and a sleeveless tee shirt, unlike the padding coat and thick boots he had on just a moment ago. 

“Namjoon!” Someone squeals behind him and his heart jumps. He jumps around, facing you and the view of hot street food stalls and tall buildings behind you. Suddenly, his hand is reaching out to grab onto yours and you smile softly. 

He hears his own voice ring out, clear as day: “Don’t run. I was looking for you.” 

“Psh.” You wave off his concern, handing him a shiny golden hotteok. You hold an identical one in your fist, so he accepts it and murmurs his thanks, tearing apart the pancake and stuffing it into his mouth. Sweet, hot honey and small pieces of walnut flood into his mouth, and Namjoon is momentarily surprised. Science states that you cannot taste or physically feel anything in your dreams. 

But Namjoon already proved that wrong long ago. 

He takes you by hand and drags you over to a shelter, for some rest, apparently uninterested in your cries of wanting more tteokbokki or some Chinese food. He flings you over to his side and places his hand over your shoulder, while you both silently devour your hotteoks. 

“This was a nice date.” You mumble tentatively, and oh. That’s what this is? A date? He wants to turn around and ask you for your name. Where are you from? Why am I here again? He wants to scream it out until his lungs hurt and he gets an answer that makes sense, but no matter how much he tries, his throat will not allow those words to tumble out of his lips.  

Why don’t I remember you?

Instead, he replies: “Yeah, it was. This was fun.” He tilts his head down to smile at you and Namjoon finds himself nervous. Nervous enough that his hands are shaking against his will, but he tells himself that the sweat and the nervousness are all side effects of the swampy heat this summer. 

You beam at him and Namjoon thinks you’re an angel. You lean up onto his chest to place a soft kiss onto his lips and Namjoon thinks about when he’s going to be thrown back out of his head. 

“Wanna go home?” He asks, nudging at the sky, which is already filled up with first streaks of the sunset. Purple hues and pinks and blues that all blend together nicely. You watch the sky for a moment.

“Never.” You offer no explanation after that and Namjoon doesn’t pry. He feels like he understands you, which is scarier than any other encounter he’s faced, in real life and in here. You stare up at him more intensely, and a shudder of fear runs down Namjoon’s back. “I just want to stay here forever,” You enunciate, like you want him to remember this. “Just Y/N and Namjoon.” 

Something tugs in his chest and Namjoon screams in his head, no. Longer. Not now. He slips away, gone, disappeared from the world before he can even tell you how pretty your name is. And he awakens back at the bus, where the driver is shaking him and yelling at him to get out. 

Namjoon walks home in the rain, yelling out your name in happiness until his neighbours come over politely asking him to shut the fuck up. 

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N… Y/N?” He keeps repeating the name over and over again, enough to make Seokjin annoyed, who has moved away from Namjoon’s desk to the sofa in his office just to escape the random spiel that Namjoon is hurriedly rushing through. 

“I can’t find a single Y/N in here!” Namjoon cries frustratingly, and the corners of Seokjin’s eyes soften in something that is either pity or empathy. He discards his non-fiction novel about drag queens and wigs to come over and clap a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder. 

“My friend, my crazy, idiotic, slightly insane friend.” Seokjin bends down. “You’ve checked all your yearbooks, social media, archives, newspapers… Have you perhaps considered that this person wasn’t that important? Just a passing stranger?”

“No.” Namjoon shoots down stubbornly. “They appear far too often for them not to be important.” So Seokjin shrugs, leaving Namjoon to, once again, search through the Facebook friends of a friend of a friend of a friend. 

But no Y/N’s pop up, and he’s wondering if Y/N was just a nickname. Was it even your real name? With a sigh and one single (rather impressive) agitated brow wave, he lets go and spills. He tells Seokjin about how he finally learned your name, about the places you’ve been together and how much you adore street food. 

He appreciates Seokjin for being a good friend, for sitting there and not interrupting to call him a crazy person, even if he is most certainly thinking about it in his head. Because Seokjin, at least, knows about a miniscule part of Namjoon’s tragic life. He doesn’t understand, but he gets it, and that’s all Namjoon needs in a friend. 

He doesn’t tell Seokjin about how soft and pillowy your lips feel against his, he doesn’t tell you how much he longs to do unspeakable things to you when you show up in those blue short shorts. He definitely doesn’t tell him how much he loves your name. 

Seokjin suggests a number of things. That perhaps you are a character from long ago, or maybe a passing stranger Namjoon once had a summer fling with. You may be someone long forgotten like a mutual friend in high school or college. He also suggests a psychiatric hospital to screw his head back on (as a joke, Namjoon’s pretty sure.) 

But none of those seem right. Namjoon does his best to explain, he really does. For an award winning journalist and aspiring writer, he does just about a terrible job of trying to string his words together. Seokjin pinches the bridge of his nose and falls back onto the sofa, already spacing out. Namjoon weakly cries out that he knows you. He really does - he just doesn’t remember how, or why. 

Like a puzzle with a few missing pieces. 

He wonders when and if the missing pieces will ever make their way over to him. 

Namjoon gives up and flops down onto the sofa next to Jin, who squeaks out various protests about how heavy he is and how stupidly huge his arms have gotten after he started working out, along the lines of comparing him to Jungkook and calling him a gym rat. 

As usual, Namjoon doesn’t listen. 

It’s difficult to explain the feeling of falling to someone who hasn’t experienced it. The cursed Click echoes out and suddenly, the world spins around, the axis breaks and he’s physically thrown into another time, another place… another memory that he can’t seem to recall. His stomach lurches, his head hurts and there’s a small breeze flowing in. 

For a short moment, the loops of space and time are completely open to him. He can’t see it, but he can feel it. It flips his mind completely upside down and boom. He’s in a specific, random time and place. His body feels light, and every step he takes, he can physically feel it: He doesn’t belong here. He isn’t supposed to be here. Everything feels different. Even the air is more smoky, because something in this world is suddenly wrong, and it’s him. 

The next time he meets you, he is in just about the worst place to fall. Sitting in a press conference, his stomach drops and he’s dreading the fall. Namjoon can already hear his boss screaming at him, and he desperately tries to root himself to his seat, typing whatever the assemblyman is yapping on and on about. About farming and agriculture and tax cuts… 

Click. 

He can distantly hear the assemblyman candidate talk about corrupt government workers as he’s thrusted out of his world and into another. 

The memory he has the pleasure to be in this time is something not too unfamiliar. For a second, he thinks if this is just a normal day of him in his cramped, tiny city apartment. Until he turns around and realises you’re lying right next to him, sound asleep and nuzzling into the side of his neck. 

The air is crisp. It’s spring, not winter anymore, and he can hear the flower petals outside his apartment complex falling lightly on the ground. This, Namjoon thinks, may just be the best memory he’s been in. The press conference and his life and his boss slips his mind and he cradles you in his chest, holding you closer and closing his eyes shut. 

“Mm?” You mumble, half asleep. “You’re suffocating me.” You hoarsely call out, and Namjoon releases you with an insincere apology. He brushes the hair out of your hair and grins, framing you in his head. He reaches to his alarm clock, which is right next to his bed as it always is to check the time. 

April 1st, 2017. 

Oh god, Namjoon winces. This means he still has that god awful haircut right now. He reaches up to feel his head, and sure enough, the horrible slicked back bleached hair is still there, an unfortunate result of his friend Hoseok daring him to drunk dye his hair. 

“You’re awake?” He asks you, and you nod slowly. 

He wonders if this memory precedes or follows the one he had with you last time, and he desperately hopes things are going in chronological order. He wants to know you just as much as you know him. Namjoon naively prays to whatever deity that controls his dreamworld: Please follow things step by step, follow the clock. 

You roll around, saying something he can’t really catch. He asks you what you said and for the first time today, you peel open your eyes directly facing him. Namjoon’s heart almost falls out of his ass, seeing your eyes bore into his own. 

“Where’s my morning kiss?” You ask cutely, nudging his nose with your own button nose. 

“Right here.” He finds himself saying, leaning in to close the inches in between your two faces. You taste like hotteok, even early in the morning. You taste like a spring day and a never ending forever. As your lips capture his and his everything is consumed by thoughts of you, Namjoon begs himself to kiss you harder. 

His past self declines politely, and Namjoon thinks about whether this counts as himself being controlled if he himself is still controlling what he says and does. 

In that moment, listening to your slow breathing and someone across the street playing simple, melodic piano chords, Namjoon tells himself: Do not ever forget April 1st, 2017. You rise from the bed and some form of protest bubbles up from Namjoon’s mouth, to which you just laugh and drag him out of bed with the excuse of wanting breakfast. 

You push him into the bathroom, where he expects to meet his sad single grey towel and foggy mirror. You push him in front, and he cringes at the sight of his hair in the mirror. You sigh. 

“Calm down. The blonde looks sexy. You can dye it back black later.” He laughs, because it’s clearly not very sexy. For once, his past self is doing exactly what the current Namjoon is pleading him to do. Does it count as reliving your memories if someone else was living through them originally? But, he reminds himself while you hand him a green toothbrush and squeeze a dollop of toothpaste on both your toothbrushes, this is him. He lived through this once and he is just taking a trip down memory lane. 

The person who lived through this before was him. 

He has to remind himself many more times before it sinks in. 

You brush your teeth next to him, fluffing your hair and squinting in the mirror to wake yourself up. Without a second of hesitation, Namjoon brings the toothbrush up and starts to brush his teeth. Nothing has ever felt more domestic or right than this, despite the tentative steps and heavy lead feeling in his throat telling him he still isn’t supposed to be here. 

You spit out toothpaste in the sink to gargle your mouth and Namjoon mimics you exactly. Somehow, you find yourselves in the kitchen, giggling while making some sort of french toast with an abundance of cinnamon floating through the air. Which makes Namjoon cough and makes you laugh even harder. 

“This is a perfect morning.” You say, peering out the window to watch the city life slowly bustling to life. People scrambling out their doors, ushering their children or pets with them. People you don’t recognise going on walks or runs. Mailmen and delivery people dropping off packages and people yelling into their phones as they hurriedly walk along the sidewalk. 

And you and Namjoon, calmly staying in your pajamas while frying toast on the pan. 

“Is something burning?” You ask, sniffing the air, and Namjoon’s blood runs cold. 

“Oh, shit!” 

You smile and shake your head while Namjoon attempts to save the blackened piece of bread to no avail. He catches sight of the corners of your mouth lifting, even as you chastise him about watching the stove and ranting on about how you’re never going to trust him in the kitchen again. Namjoon watches your pink lips, stained with a brown mudge of cinnamon french toast mixture, which lifts up and your head falls back, hair flowing around your head like a halo. 

Your laugh plays out in front of him in slow motion, and absentmindedly, he thanks that deity he prayed to for slowing this moment down. Because if there’s anything he yearns most to remember, it’s the way you laugh. A chuckle makes its way out of his own throat as well, and he’s not sure who’s in control at the moment. 

Himself or himself in the past?

Either way, they both did the right thing. Namjoon forgets. He forgets the life he has back home, he forgets Seokjin’s warnings, he forgets that he has at least a hundred articles waiting for him at work to be written. He forgets that this world is nothing but a chance for him to follow the footsteps of what he once did, with no control to say or do anything he wishes to do himself. 

But, oh, he really can’t bring himself to care. 

Those piano chords from before blend together beautifully, and you scrape the black toast into the garbage can, still teasing him relentlessly, and oh. Oh, this is what it means to have a home. You made this junk of a house into a home, and he feels like he has to return here. This is where he’s meant to return to, everyday. Each time. 

You turn around after discarding the toast and with a bright smile, you ask him to kiss you again. Namjoon thinks that he doesn’t ever have the capability to deny you when you smile like that, so he complies and crashes his lips onto yours. 

The lead, heavy feeling in his throat is still weighing him down. Except Namjoon isn’t sure whether it’s weighing him down to this world or the real world.

 The cursed deity pulls him back, pulling him through the time and space back to his own responsibilities and life. His heart is wrenched out and he reaches out, trying to grasp your hand for the last time. He falls back to his own world in a hospital bed and an IV attached to his arm with half a piece of french toast dangling in his mouth and another promise he makes with himself to meet you again with a smile on his face. 

Memories… memories that he’s lived through but can’t remember. Memories he slips into to live momentarily through the actions and words of his old self. 

Somewhere along the line of diving back and forth his own life and this past one, he has forgotten which is which. 

“Most likely due to exhaustion. Lack of sleep, lack of rest. It’s quite common with working young adults, workaholics. I’m putting him on medical leave for the rest of the week. He needs a rest - He needed it yesterday. Don’t worry too much, Mrs. Kim. A long nap and a meal or two will fix him right back up.” Namjoon groggily registers the white walls and beeping noises, the chatter of doctors and nurses rushing around. 

He’s in a hospital, and a rush of fear runs straight through his blood. He sits up to eye his mother, sitting next to him and holding his hand. She shushes him, laying him back down on the bed, but all he can do is panic. 

“No, not here. Not here again.” He mumbles incoherently. His mother puts a hand over his eyes, shushing him again and telling him softly to go back to sleep. He doesn’t want to go to sleep, he wants to get out of here. But his eyelids are already feeling heavy and he weakly fights against his body, but before he can even process it, his eyes are shut and he is asleep. 

Seeing her son close his eyes and drift off to sleep, Mrs. Kim turns back to the doctor. 

“I’m not surprised,” She starts. “He’s always worked himself to the bone. But that’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about his brain.” The doctor cocks his head and looks through the papers which are clipped to a clipboard in his arms. 

“Ah, yes. I see he was in a car accident a few years ago.” Doctors are some of the most heartless people, and you can always tell how experienced a doctor is by how much sympathy they show. This doctor shows none at all, which must mean he’s been working for a long time. 

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Kim.” The doctor continues, peering over Namjoon’s sleeping body. “I see he suffered light effects after the accident. Selective amnesia, no external damages to the skull. He didn’t suffer as much. In fact, I believe the doctor in charge believed that the amnesia was mostly due to the shock of the event. But he’s received treatment for PTSD since then, right?” 

Mrs. Kim nods. 

“Good. Doctor Park also noted at the time that his amnesia actually didn’t affect much of his memory. He couldn’t remember distant relatives or kindergarten friends, but that seemed to be the extent of his amnesia. Oh,” The doctor slipped through the clipboard. “He also couldn’t remember certain knowledge about philosophers such as Freud, which he was, quote, ‘devastated over’ un-quote.” 

Mrs. Kim stays silent. 

“So, you don’t have to worry too much. Best thing your son could do for his well being is rest. And a therapist if he has a relapse or shows some symptoms such as sleep difficulties or nightmares, or physical signs like fatigue and nausea.” 

Mrs. Kim nods. “Thank you, doctor.”

That’s it, and she turns back to her son, with her hand in his. She stays there, unmoving until he opens his eyes, mumbling incoherent questions and asking his mother why he is in the hospital again, demanding to be discharged immediately. Her heart breaks a little, small cracks form for her beloved son and she kisses him on the forehead, telling him he’d be out of here in no time. 

“What did you see?” She asks quietly, and Namjoon is surprised. She never asks him about his memory walks. It’s taboo to mention it in his household. Not even his sister is comfortable talking about it. “Anything? At all? You passed out at a rather unfortunate time, I heard.” She continues. 

“Nothing much.” Namjoon replies, lying through his teeth and trying to justify it with the sight of your laugh. He leans back and closes his eyes once more, bringing up his memories of you and your bedhead. He tries to fill the gap inside of him with thoughts of you, as if that can make up for the empty feeling that he’s forgetting something. 

In the hospital, staring at a white ceiling and glaring lights, Namjoon is left to think about what’s happening to his head. During the end of his rather short stay, he comes up with a terrifying conclusion. One that scares him more than he could imagine, but it’s the only one that makes sense. He’s falling in love with you. 

He voices out this concern to Seokjin when he visits after his mother leaves. Seokjin stays silent, mumbling out an apology that feels like the wrong thing to say. The elder boy can only look at his friend with sadness in his eyes, telling him that someone as great as Namjoon shouldn’t be suffering so much pain. Namjoon jokes that a witch must have cursed him when he was born. 

None of the two friends laugh. 

This routine continues on and on, without Namjoon dwelling too much on it. Which is so much unlike Namjoon, whose main personality trait is overthinking about the smallest things. He lets the flow of time and space take him wherever they wish to plop him down. He lets the evil deity toy with his heart and wrench him away whenever you smile the largest. 

It hurts right after he is torn away from you, but he’s filled with so much joy in the moment that he can’t bring himself to do anything else about it. Even if he wanted to do something without it, he has no idea where on earth he might start. 

Sometimes he questions the validity of his memories. What is real, what is fake? He still can’t answer, and this is what he spends most of his time wondering about. The memories he has with you don’t make sense. Those are large gaps in his life that he seems to have no recollection of. 

He goes everywhere with you. 

One day he showed up on November 5th, 2015. 

The next day he jumped to August 23rd, 2017. 

Another time, he was thrown into March 15th, 2016. 

None of it makes sense. Are they not memories? He thinks. There’s no possible way he’s spent this much of his life with you and can’t recall any of it. What is real - the world he spends with you, or the world where he always returns to by default?

And yet, nothing else can explain these short periods of blackouts. Ever since one day in some horrible hospital, he’s gone under and pulled and thrusted into some land where he has no control over his own hands. Everything else makes sense. This world, everything else is accurate from the settings to the props, with one anomaly in his memory. 

A character who goes by the name of Y/N. 

He could go the science-y logic route that he so often frequents, come up with theories that can somewhat explain these periods of time. Theories that include explanations such as hallucinations, or that Seokjin’s right and he’s finally gone crazy. You’re just a figment of his imagination, that this is all in his head and he’s out of his mind. 

But he rejects all those theories when he’s clicked into another memory. Somehow, he just understands. These are memories. These are memories he’s had with you, whether that was in a past life or in some sort of messed up alternate timeline where he’s actually happy. 

Is this a gift or another curse from this stupid deity?

He has too many questions. 

He cannot explain these memories using science, logic, common sense, or even using his own words. But in the moment, while you’re in his arms, he can feel it. He can explain it by describing the way you smell, like pancakes and fresh mint. He can explain it by describing the way you feel, like a warm marshmallow filling up his insides and consuming him. 

It’s cheesy, cringier than Seokjin’s dad jokes, but only he gets it. 

Namjoon is in his living room, switching channels on the TV and thinking about this when his stomach sinks again. He braces himself, and disappears. 

Click.

Seoul is freezing cold. The air is light and he is sitting on a bench on his college campus, rubbing his hands together and zipping up his huge jacket over his sweater. Namjoon shudders, his body not yet used to the bite of the cold compared to the warm breeze he was just enjoying. 

He sniffles, nose slightly red like some knockoff Rudolph and wanders around. His body pulls him to go to the right, despite the warm coffee shop being on the left. He shudders again and tries to protest, but his body won’t listen, standing up and walking over to the right with no particular destination in mind. Students are rushing around, complaining about the cold and talking about their next party or study session. 

Namjoon pulls himself forwards, and thank god this version of himself still has terrible tolerance for the cold, because he reaches up and pulls his beanie down over his ears, still wandering around aimlessly. Where are you going? Namjoon wants to scream out frustratingly. 

His brain doesn’t reply and Namjoon sulks. 

Eventually, he is pulled over to another bench, outside in the cold, and he sits down, deeply resenting himself and wondering why on earth he just stood up from one bench to walk to another one. If anything, it’s colder here. He watches the students that pass by for a minute or two, thinking that this is the most boring memory he’s ever been in. 

There is no snow falling, but almost everything on campus is lined with a sheet of ice or cold steam. Namjoon nuzzles deeper into his own clothes, cursing himself for not being able to go buy another sweater or something to fight the extreme cold. 

Suddenly, you appear in front of him and Namjoon perks up. There you are. He thinks. Finally. You come over and sit down, holding something in your hands. He smiles, waiting for you to speak up and greet him with a kiss that will surely warm him up, but you silently sit next to him, ignoring him. Namjoon urges himself to say something, but instead, he continues to watch the students bustling through campus grounds without looking at you. 

Are we fighting? Is Y/N mad at me? 

This is excruciatingly frustrating, Namjoon bites his tongue and thinks. Why can’t he just say something? Abruptly, something lands on his jacket with a splat and he straightens up, snapping his neck towards you, who is looking at the yogurt splat on his jacket with a look of terror. 

“Oh my gosh!” You squeak out, quickly setting your yogurt aside and reaching for some tissues in your purse. “Oh, god, oh god, I’m so sorry. Please, let me-” Namjoon frowns, taking his hands out of his pockets to thumb at his jacket, debating whether he wants to take it off or not. 

You lean over, pawing at his jacket and wiping the yogurt off of his jacket. “I’m so sorry!” 

“No, don’t worry.” Namjoon says, chuckling. He reaches for another tissue, helping you get the yogurt off of him. “It’s no big deal.” The yogurt is mostly wiped off and you side eye him with the unmistakable look of guilt filling your eyes. Namjoon laughs again. 

“It’s fine, really! No, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m literally so sorry. Do you want me to pay for dry cleaning? Laundry? I can, um, wash it for you! I’m not the best at laundry, but it’s the least I could do?” 

Namjoon briefly wonders why you’re being so polite. 

“No, it’s fine.” The words tumble out his mouth again before he can process it. “Really, this jacket is old, anyway.” Not really, Namjoon thinks. It feels really new. “But who the hell eats cold yogurt in this kind of weather?” He jokes. “You sure you’re not a demon?”

You freeze, terrified before realising he was cracking a joke. “Oh. Hah! Yeah, no, I guess I just really like yogurt.” You offer lamely, and you break out into a small giggle. “Yeah, I guess I kind of am a psycho for eating it right now. It’s freezing today.” 

“God, tell me about it.” Namjoon says, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. 

“Thanks for not going bonkers on me. This jacket looks insanely expensive.” 

“Not really.”

“I’m Y/N.” You greet, holding a hand out for him to shake. I know, Namjoon thinks with a secret smile, but everything makes sense now. You don’t know him yet. To you in this moment in time, he’s just a random stranger who didn’t blow up on you after spraying some yogurt onto you. To him, you’re… you’re… 

“Oh, um, I’m Namjoon.” He says, hurriedly taking a hand out of his pocket to shake your outstretched hand. Your fingers meet and Namjoon swears a small zap just went through his hand. 

“Namjoon. Nice to meet you, Namjoon.” You say with a small smile, yogurt already long forgotten on the bench beside you two. 

“It’s nice to meet you too.” He says in return, even though he doesn’t mean it. He already knows you, he knows you better than everyone. He knows your favourite food is Korean street food, and you always wake him up with kisses and your favourite colour is periwinkle and you absolutely hate abalone with more passion than he’s ever seen in his entire life.

But this is your first time seeing him, ever, he reminds himself. This is your meet cute. This single moment set off the events in the next god knows how many years. This is the first time he ever had your name grace his tongue. This is the first time you’ve seen him. 

Another moment to treasure. You let go of his hand, after realising you two have been shaking hands for much longer than the socially acceptable rate of hand shaking. Blushing, either from the cold or humiliation, you sit, turn back around, grabbing a hold of your yogurt once more. 

Suddenly, Namjoon finds himself blurting out: “Hey, you wanna go get some coffee?” You look over curiously, pointing to yourself like you can’t believe he’s asking you out, because you don’t know that you’re all he ever thinks about at any given moment in any given day. “You’ll probably freeze your ass off if you keep eating that yogurt.” He jokes, pretending like this is all because he’s caring about how cold you are and not how cute or incredible or kind you are. 

“Sure.” You say, nodding shyly. He stands up, leading you to walk over to the left where the campus coffee shop is. Along the way, you throw the yogurt cup in the trash. 

“You can’t bring food brought from outside into a shop, right?” You ask. 

Namjoon smiles. “Yeah.” He stays there until night takes over the sky and one single twinkling star in the sky is signalling that it’s time to go home. Possibly the longest time he’s ever spent in a memory. He keeps glancing at the clock, praying that he gets one more minute with you, one more second, one more moment. 

At any time, he could be pulled out of this world, and he needs to make the most of it. You tell him about your childhood bedroom and your major. You tell him about the love you have for pancakes, and how much you want a puppy even though it’s prohibited in the on campus dorms. He nods, pretending like this is all new information even though it’s not, and he’s known all of this for the longest time. He knows you better than you know yourself, which he keeps to himself. 

In return, he tells you about his own childhood bedroom, which was adorned with posters of western hip hop rappers. He tells you about his passions for writing and music, that if he didn’t major in journalism, he’d be studying music production in school. He tells you that he’s obsessed with philosophy, and in all honesty, is a bit of a nerd. 

Instead of laughing or pulling a face, you nod and smile, saying that you think he should tell you more about philosophy on a second date. 

You leave the coffee shop with a small goodbye, and even though he desperately wants to, Namjoon can’t kiss you.��

He gets pulled back after you disappear pass the corner of the street, and the world morphes into a huge motion blur. When he gets pulled back into his living room, the TV is playing late night TV shows already. Namjoon checks the time. He was pulled in for five hours, the longest he’s ever been in that world. 

After that, no matter how much more he prays and begs, he never stays any longer than that. 

Three days later, Namjoon suddenly pops into Hong Kong, which is hotter than anything he’s ever felt. The streets are heavy with people, squabbling in cantonese while selling raw meats in a wet market. The sun is glaringly bright, and Namjoon starts to sweat almost instantaneously. Taxis and huge buses drive past, Namjoon jumps to a side only to find a vast ocean. He’s at the harbour front. 

The smell of food, of egg tarts and pineapple buns and meat dumplings along with other Hong Kong delicacies waft through the air, combined with the salty air of the sea. It makes for a strange combination that confuses his senses but works nonetheless. 

He thought he knew a city like Seoul, but this is a true city. This is busy and fast paced like he’s never even seen before. People shove each other aside to catch the bus, dogs are yapping everywhere and he soaks it all in before the thought enters his head.

What the hell is he doing in Hong Kong?

It’s like every time he wonders aloud, you pop up. “I’ve been looking for you.” You say, echoing the words he said to you that day in the streets of Seoul. 

“I was exploring!“ He says defensively, and you roll your eyes. 

“Come on.” You say, walking along the harbour front. 

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” Namjoon asks, the words spilling out and surprising himself. Are you mad at him? You’ve never been mad at him before, not in the memories he’s seen. He hasn’t ever seen you fight with him, and immediately, he wants to apologise, fix things before he’s pulled back out and he has to live with the guilt and overthinking of whether you’re still mad at him for the next week. 

“Can’t believe you’re mad at me during our vacation.” Namjoon says, and that’s why he’s in Hong Kong, he realises. He’s on vacation. How strange. Namjoon thinks back to when the last time he took a break from work and the only thing he can think of is when that doctor put him on medical leave not too long ago. Oh no, you’re mad at him on holiday?

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” You retort back, and Namjoon has never heard your voice this curt. “Just sit around pretending like everything's okay?”

“What do you want me to do?” Namjoon replies. “You act like this is my fault!” 

“It is your fault!” You cry out indignantly, and Namjoon knows that, but why? What did he do? What did you do? “Is this even a vacation?”

“Yes!” Namjoon cries out again in response, and you shake your head. 

“You promised, Namjoon.” You say like it’s a warning. 

“Yes, I know,” Namjoon says, even though he doesn’t and really, what on earth did he do? “But this is out of my hands! I can’t just say no, you’re not looking at this from my point of view.”

“You’re not looking at this from my point of view!” You argue back, and Namjoon looks around, realising that this squabble is attracting a small crowd of chinese people, gathering around to watch the free entertainment along the sidewalk of Victoria harbour. He awkwardly laughs, raising his hand and bows, a universal sign of apology, grabbing your hand and walking to the other direction. 

“Come on, I’d rather not have the whole city witness our fight.”

“Oh, so this is a fight now?” 

“What? Yes!” Namjoon says exasperatedly. “How else would you classify this argument?” 

Once he makes it to somewhere with at least a sliver of privacy, he turns around with his brows furrowed and a glare etched on his features. Why do you look so angry? Namjoon chastises himself. Just relax, relax, relax. As usual, his body doesn’t listen. 

“Why are you so mad at this?” Namjoon asks, and feels a flow of relief go down his spine. Finally. 

“It’s not just this instance, Joon. I know work is important, but sometimes it feels like you put literally anything else above me! Like last time? You bailed on our date, like, at least twice. You keep saying you can’t say no, but you can. You have that right, Namjoon.” 

Namjoon’s heart softens a little bit. His workaholic tendencies ended up biting him in the ass after all. Sighing he rubs the back of his neck, eyes glued to the floor. “I’m not prioritising work over you, baby.” He tries to explain, and tries to ignore how his heart sinks when your eyes turn stony at the sound of the pet name he often uses to address you. 

“It’s just important to me as well, okay? It’s not my fault my boss heard I was going to Hong Kong and insisted I come to interview some investors about Hong Kong’s economy.” He explains slowly. “It couldn’t take more than a single day to get everything organised and tidied up.” 

“But-!” You huff angrily, spitting out your words. “You don’t understand! You keep doing this, Namjoon. You keep working, working, working. It’s been this way since college. It’s like you’ll die if you just take a break to come talk to me. I even went over to your office to have lunch with you last week and they told me you were in a meeting.” 

“It was important!” Namjoon insists and he can feel things sinking and getting worse and worse with every word he says. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? You can’t expect me to put you in front of all of my responsibilities. I’m sure you have things you can’t give up for me too.”

Hearing that felt like a slap to the face to both you and Namjoon, and he’s screaming at himself internally, why would you say something so, so, stupid?

“Excuse me?” Your broken voice rings out and Namjoon’s accusatory finger falls. 

“Wait.” He mumbles, fumbling with his hands. “Wait, I didn’t mean that. Wait, I-” 

“Fine!” You yell angrily. “You think nothing’s more important than work? You think I haven’t given up anything for you, Kim Namjoon? Because I’d quit and give up anything for you, you asshole.” You bite out, tears desperately trying not to fall. “You fucking asshole.” You say, before turning back around to weave through the crowd. 

“No, wait, baby!” He calls out, and even he knows that he’s messed up. Messed up big time. That was more hurtful than any cuss word or insult he could’ve ever said. “Kim fucking Namjoon, you idiot.” He mumbles to himself. Seeing you cry is more painful than anything else in the world, Namjoon thinks. He’s not ever going to see that sight again if he can help it. 

He walks forward, trying to find you. Maybe you went back to the hotel, or went to look at the sea to clear your head. He thinks he sees the back of your head for a second, and he reaches forward, clutching at air. He’s about to cry, and Namjoon has never seen himself be more pathetic. 

“Oh no, where are you?” He murmurs to himself like a crazed man. What if you were hurt somewhere? He needs to know you’re safe, he needs to know you’re okay, he needs to make everything better. With each step, the lead feeling in his throat grows heavier and heavier until he feels like it’s sunk to his chest. He wants to kneel down, he wants it to stop hurting, but he can’t. 

He must aimlessly follow his shell to do whatever he is doing now. 

The lead feeling continues to grow, and Namjoon feels like he’s suffocating. He’s not supposed to be here, he reminds himself. But he has to find you first, then he can leave. Then he can go, but where are you? He wants to cry, he wants to breathe. 

Namjoon tells himself to gasp for air, but he cannot. He tells himself if this is the last time he ever sees you, he needs to see you smile. He needs to see you laugh. 

Like the pattern in the rest of his meaningless life, an evil deity always pulls him away from the ones he loves when he needs them most. He feels the lead feeling being lifted and pure panic races to Namjoon’s head. He tries to croak out no. He tries to resist, he shoves people aside and calls out your name. But no one answers him, and the cruel deity laughs at his demise. 

He is too weak, too weak to control himself. 

Namjoon is plucked out of the world and transported back to his bedroom with the threads of time slowly ravelling and tangling themselves around his neck, all while he reaches forward, only to grasp at air and pretend in his head that everything’s alright. 

When he reaches his bedroom and wakes up, he stumbles into the bathroom and vomits, all while longing for the warmth of your lips.

-

Walking around dazedly, Namjoon somehow manages to make his way to Seokjin and Jimin’s apartment, knocking and hoarsely asking them to open, open up please. Because he’s not sure he can hold on to another night alone. Jimin opens the door instantly and catches Namjoon in his arms, frantically calling for Seokjin to come fast. 

They lay him on the couch, hearts slowly breaking and trying to convince themselves their friend will be fine as they watch Namjoon whimper in his sleep. 

Namjoon wakes to the smell of breakfast, of bacon on the stove and Jimin chattering around while watering his plants. He gets up, headache pounding and throat sore. Seokjin wordlessly hands him a few pills and a glass of water, while Jimin plates up breakfast, placing the sausage, eggs and toast separately on the plate because Namjoon can’t stand it when food on his plate touches. 

Silently, the three friends eat. Nobody speaks until Namjoon clears his throat and looks up. 

“Thank you.“ He whispers. 

“What are friends for?” Jimin says. 

Namjoon wonders why he’s got such amazing friends. Jin replies that he was born perfect and God created him like this, so Namjoon shouldn’t dwell too much on it. Jimin and Namjoon both throw a spoon of scrambled eggs in his direction simultaneously, high fiving without missing a beat when Jin lets out a protest of unjust behaviour. 

 As the three friends sit quietly, Namjoon says: “I think I’m going mad.”

“I’m glad you’ve realised.” Seokjin replies offhandedly. 

“I don’t think I can keep going between these worlds. I think it’s making me lose my mind.” 

Jimin stills. Seokjin stops washing the dishes and turns off the faucet. 

“Do… do you know how to stop it?” Jimin asks hesitantly. Namjoon shakes his head, and Seokjin sighs, in deep thought, which is a strange and rare sight to see itself. 

“Well, I guess we’ll have to figure this out together.” Seokjin says casually. Jimin agrees and the faucet comes back on, Seokjin going straight back to washing the pan he used to fry up the scrambled eggs. Jimin unplugs the toaster and Namjoon sits, smiling at his beloved friends. 

“You can borrow some of my shirts.” Jimin calls from the bathroom. “You know, if you want to stay over a couple more nights. Feel free.”

“Make yourself at home and shit.” Seokjin mutters, waving his hand around sarcastically. Namjoon almost bursts out into tears of happiness, but he decides to hold it in until Seokjin doesn’t have access to his phone and won’t put Namjoon’s breakdown on instagram live. 

The next day, the entire gang comes over, all with varying degrees of understanding what the hell is going on with Namjoon. For example, Yoongi pretty much knows as much as Seokjin does, who still doesn’t really understand what’s going on. Taehyung was just told Namjoon’s been feeling down because God knows that boy has a big mouth and definitely can’t keep a secret to save his life. 

Seokjin supplies homemade snacks and burgers fresh off the grill, Yoongi brings over his unlimited Netflix and HBO account passwords he probably stole off of some innocent family member to watch Disney movies, Taehyung comes over with Yeontan clutched to his side because that’s the group's emotional support dog. Jungkook and Hoseok offer up their extensive alcohol collection and bring over some quality wines. Jimin, after a long three hours of consideration, gives up his lucky plushies and fluffy blankets to build a fort. 

For one night, the seven boys crowds around the television, watching everything from The Lorax to Tangled to Frozen and bawling their eyes out when Anna turned to ice (spoiler alert!!!) For one night, the fully grown men all turn back into their 8 year old selves, playing video games and staying up as late as they wanted even though they all had responsibilities to tend to the next day. 

When they all awake from their mega-sleepover the next morning, the remaining six friends all insist they just felt like watching Disney movies and drinking wine suddenly. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Namjoon’s been feeling a little off in the past few days. 

Absolutely not. 

Namjoon’s eyes brim with tears and he tackles all the boys to the ground in one incredibly coordinated group hug, ignoring Yoongi’s complaints of being anti-social and that his love language is not physical touch. 

“Thanks, guys.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jungkook mutters. “Now could you please get the fuck off?” 

“Never.” Namjoon says, muffled because he says it while his head is buried in Hoseok’s chest. 

“Love you.”

“... Love you too.” 

The next time he falls, Namjoon thinks he’s prepared. Ready, not to get attached, ready to make clear of what belongs in his world and what doesn’t, after lots of pep talks and therapy sessions with Seokjin and Jimin and Yoongi, who is surprisingly helpful with shooting down ideals of toxic masculinity and talking about mental health. 

He’s wrong- he’s not ready, but he doesn’t know that yet. 

Click. 

He’s come to resent that stupid sound. In an instant, he’s dropped into a car, which is strangely familiar. You are next to him, driving, and thank goodness, because everyone knows Namjoon cannot drive. If he were dropped in the driver’s seat, things may have taken a turn for the worse. 

“You want to play some music?” You ask, and Namjoon nods. 

“Yeah sure, turn up the radio.” You reach over to flip a switch and a pretty tune fills the car, echoing and bouncing off the walls of the small vessel. You bring your hand down and interlace it with Namjoon’s, who is suddenly hyper aware of his surroundings. 

“You’re driving, baby.” He says, and a great sense of relief floods back into his system when he sees you smile at the pet name. He hopes this moment is after the Hong Kong trip. He hopes he did the right thing and made up with you afterwards. 

“We always do this. When there’s not many cars around, anyway.” You hum along with the music. “Nobody’s on the road tonight.” Sure enough, there are no cars in sight and Namjoon sighs, curling his hand tight against yours. He looks out the window. 

“No stars tonight, either.” 

You snort. “There are never any stars around the city, babe.”

“Ahh.” He huffs playfully. “Fuck global warming.”

“Fuck capatalism.” You add on, and he nods, wholeheartedly agreeing. 

“I love you.” He murmurs. 

“I love you too.” You reply with a sweet smile and Namjoon just realises that no, he’s not ready to let go of you, because his heart still flips like crazy when he hears you say that. He’s so unbearably, horribly, absolutely in love with you. Not in a creepy or obsessive way like he was probably in love with you a few months ago, but so in love with you. 

He wonders why on earth he’s so drawn to you, but as usual, there’s no definite answers to his questions. Namjoon thinks about how he likes the way you cook pancakes, and how he likes the way you always reach down to pet a puppy no matter where you are or where you need to be. He loves the way you’d give up anything to defend the people you love. He admires your bravery and your courage. He admires the way you present yourself to the world. 

He loves you simply because you are who you are, unapologetically and unashamed, which is something he never had the guts to do. But he gets pretty damn near to being fully and truly himself when he’s around you, so maybe that’s why he’s so in love with you. 

Namjoon feels bad for a moment because he realises his love isn’t selfless or humble like the ones he sees on dramas and TV. His love for you is shamefully selfish, because he needs you more than anything else. He voices this out to you in a long speech while you keep your eyes on the road. 

“I need you more than you think I do, Joon.” You say, while laughing, and Namjoon doesn’t know whether to feel offended or relieved. 

“You think your love for me can trump my love for you?” He asks with his eyebrows raised.

“One hundred percent.” You drawl out, and this time, Namjoon’s offended. 

“Excuse me? Who the fuck?” He asks, sitting up. You laugh bashfully, enamoured but mostly just entertained by your needy boyfriend who is very willing to prove how much more he loves you right now. “I love you way more than you love me!” 

You laugh, your eyes still fixed on the road. “Oh no, please, we’re not arguing about this.”

“Yes we are!” Namjoon demands with a huge smile on his face. “How could you possibly think you love me more than I love you?” Your laugh only grows louder. 

“I don’t even know if you’re being serious or just joking around anymore.” You say through bit back laughter. 

“I’m being dead serious.” Namjoon softens for a bit, laying a hand on your thigh. “You’re my everything. You’re my future, you’re my present, you’re my past.” A part of you wants to tell him he’s being cheesy again, but the romantic in you who doesn’t want to hurt your boyfriend immediately shuts the realist in you up. 

“That was sweet.”

“I try my best.”

You turn your head back to the road and he keeps his eyes on you. On the hoodie you’re wearing, which definitely doesn’t belong to you and he now has a certain inkling of where his missing hoodie went. He likes how it swallows you up. He likes that you have something of his on you. 

Not as a weird mark of possession, but he likes that you’re comfortable with wearing something that essentially brands you as his. But you are his as much as he is yours and wow, Namjoon thinks in his head, is this the real Namjoon or the past Namjoon speaking? And his brain replies that it’s both. 

“I love you.” He repeats, because as much as he seems to say it, he can’t seem to express how much he loves you (hint: it’s a large amount). 

“I love you too.” You say right back. 

He wants to say it more. He wants to say it better. He wants to repeat it until you get annoyed and tell him to shut up, he wants to let you know how much he loves you. But his lips are sealed, and he can’t say another word. Instead of what he wants to say, the words that come out his mouth are, admittedly, just as true. 

“You’re pretty.” 

You giggle. “Did you just realise?” 

Namjoon shakes his head. “You’ve always been pretty. You were pretty on the day we met. You were pretty the day we fought in Hong Kong. You were pretty the first time you stayed over. You’re pretty when you cry, you’re pretty when you… I wanted to think of something that rhymes with cry, but it slipped my mind and now everything’s ruined.” 

You laugh, a real, huge one this time. He can always tell when your laugh is real or not. 

“Thank you.” You say. “For the record, you’ve always been pretty too.” 

Namjoon leans back into his seat. “Damn straight.” 

“When d’you think you first fell in love with me?” You ask, genuinely curious, and Namjoon thinks for a moment. He thinks about what the Namjoon in this moment would say, and he thinks about what the present Namjoon would say. 

If he had verbal control, what would he say? That he fell in love with you during the very first memory he was thrusted in? But that wouldn’t be true, and that wouldn’t be honest. He fell in love with you during the memory of when you met? But that wouldn’t be true either. He fell in love with you in between memories, when all he could think about was the next time you could be in his arms, or how much he longed for your touch. 

He tries to say that, he really does. 

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is: 

“I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s a specific moment. Maybe it was that time we went to the movies and watched Coco while crying over popcorn, or maybe it was that time we went to Disneyland.” Namjoon’s heart slouches, because he doesn’t know any of those moments. He hasn’t been in any of those memories. 

“But I don’t think falling in love is a one moment, time stops kinda thing. I was always falling in love with you. From the time you spilled yogurt on my jacket to right now, where you’re asking me when I fell in love with you. I’m going to be falling in love with you tomorrow and the day after that, until the day where we shrivel up and die from old age.”

Oh, good answer, Namjoon thinks. 

“Good answer.” You say. “I think I’d say the same thing.” 

“Great minds think alike.” Namjoon sighs out. 

Something strikes Namjoon’s heart. It’s not the lead feeling or the heavy weight he’s grown used to. It’s strange, like a wave of deja vu. And suddenly, Namjoon stops thinking. He glances over to the control board to look at the time, which proudly reads: December 3rd, 2018. 

So that’s why he’s always had the feeling that these were memories. Why he was so adamant to believe these things really had happened to him. Even more strangely, what feelings strike him then is not panic, nor fear. It’s a strange flow of calmness that rushes through his veins. He looks over at you again, driving now with both hands on the steering wheel. 

He wonders why the deity would make him witness something as cruel and horrible as this, and he gets the weird feeling that this will be one of his last memories to enter. Namjoon looks at the dark blanket covering the sky and sadly thinks that the deity could have at least placed a few stars in the sky on this night. As consolation, or perhaps an apology. 

Something is ticking in the background, and Namjoon has no idea if it’s coming from the car or if he’s imagining it. Flashing memories go through his mind, so fast he can barely register them as images or moving pictures before they are gone again. Your smile, your laugh, your first date, your second date. The day he asked you to move in, the day you told him ‘I love you’ for the first time and he literally fainted. 

The day he came to pick you up from work for the first time, the night where he first laid his hands on you and kissed all your worries away. 

It comes fast and hurtles towards the two of you, but Namjoon doesn’t even see it coming because all he is looking at is you. Your face, your lips, your eyes, trying to engrave it all in his memory. You yelp out something to him, which he doesn’t hear. Floating images spin around both your heads and a high pitched screech rings out, a spark of orange lighting up like a stack of fireworks. The dark van shoots forward and collides into the driver’s seat. 

The world collapses. It goes sideways, rotates then flips completely upside down, and the dark fog starts to eat up Namjoon’s eyesight. Oddly, nothing hurts. Perhaps because of the shock, or panic, but nothing on Namjoon’s body is in pain. Everything crashes, Namjoon’s head hits the window with force. Something breaks, glass cracks, people scream and he cannot tell which is which. Red and white flashes are all he can see before everything fades to grey and he can only reach around in the darkness, to find your hand. 

He clutches onto your unmoving, still hand desperately, trying to calm his jumping heartbeat. Are those sirens in the background he hears or is that his imagination? Is that your voice he hears or is that a hallucination? 

In the end, his final thought before leaving the world once again is a wish. A wish that he prays the deity will grant him. He hopes that in your final moments, you were not scared. 

He falls. 

When Namjoon arrives home, his entire body is numb. He doesn’t know where he is, nor what he was doing before he was clicked in. He opens his mouth and screams for a full minute without stopping. 

It feels good in a fucked up way. 

Namjoon has never been one for confrontation. Just ask his middle school bullies, who tormented him all they wanted because he wouldn’t do anything but put up with it. Just ask Mingyu from work, who keeps piling his unwanted projects and articles onto Namjoon because he never protests or complains to the higher-ups. 

But while walking towards his childhood home with the birds chirping and his hands placed casually in his pockets, confrontation is all he can think about. He lets himself in the door; his mother never locks it and walks in calmly. 

His mother is sitting on the couch, stitching up a sock which has a hole in it. 

“Mom. I’m home.” He says softly, and his mother greets him normally. Namjoon leans on the wall and his mother stares at him strangely, calling him over to sit and have some fruit. He declines, telling her he won’t be staying very long. “That car crash that happened two years ago.”

The needle in his mother’s hand stills. 

“They said I had selective amnesia, right?” 

The needle picks up speed, stitching faster and faster, his mother’s hand moving faster than light. 

“What did I forget again?” 

“What did you remember?” His mother asks, never one to beat around the bush. 

“Mom.” He says, firmly this time. “What did you do to me.”

The sock is torn apart in his mother’s hands. “Namjoon,” She starts and Namjoon already has a growing urge to shake the truth out of her. “When you got into that crash two years ago, you came out of it with very little injuries. We were all so relieved. When you woke up, you didn’t remember Y/N.” All that fills the air for another moment or two is the spongy sound of silence. 

The gap in this family became clearer than ever to Namjoon. He thinks about how everyone must have been in on the secret, even his sister. And he was left to suffer, wondering why his life seemed so empty after forgetting something he couldn’t clutch onto. 

“And what?” He demands, screaming and throwing his hands out of his pockets. “Do you think you can just keep something like that from me? The love of my life, and you just decide to erase them from my memory?” His mother stills and looks up at her son. 

“You didn’t remember Y/N. You lost contact with all your college friends, and then when I asked the doctor how selective amnesia worked,” His mother cleared her throat. “Sufferers often forget some parts of their memory. Relationships, talents, skills, certain areas or certain people.” His mother looks up directly in his eyes. “Sometimes, especially after going through a traumatic event, people forget certain parts of their memory as a coping mechanism. To erase bits of pain and regret.”

“I thought,” Her voice breaks and her face twists in regret and bad memories. “I thought maybe by forgetting her, I’d be saving you from more pain and hurt. I just wanted you to stop hurting”

Namjoon held eye contact with his mother for three full seconds before collapsing and gasping for air, lying with his head on her lap. All words of scolding, anger. All the confrontational tactics and all the accusations he’d thought of shooting towards her had gone. 

“Hurts.” He let out through large gasps of breaths. “Hurts, mom.” He lied there, with tears threatening to spill out his eyes for the rest of the night, with his mother caressing his hair and apologising to him with tears in her eyes. 

“Miss Y/N. I miss Y/N.” He hiccups out, and his mother wipes away his tears, but it feels different from when you used to do it. 

“I know, I know.” The woman looking down at her son wonders why she put him in so much pain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” The night carries on like that, with the lights eventually dimming and the night covers up the light in the sky. The mother son pair repeat their grievances and apologies to each other until the sun comes back up, peeking through the curtains and extending out their warm embrace as if it wants to comfort the hurting humans. 

It doesn’t take long for Seokjin and co to come knocking on his door, sent by his mother who must have filled him in on everything, judging from the looks on their faces. It only takes one single glance at his friends, tilting their heads and all asking to come in for him to burst into tears. Ugly crying, with snot coming out of his nose and eyes bloodshot red from the nightmares. 

Jimin is the first to reach forwards and bring Namjoon into a hug. Soon after that, the six friends surrounded Namjoon, comforting him with the warmth of their arms and soft spoken words of encouragement. 

“You did well.” Someone mumbles into his hair. 

“We’re all proud of you.” Someone else says. 

Namjoon’s sweater sleeves are sopping wet with tears when he asks the boys to help him get into therapy. 

Things went on like that for another while. 

Therapy isn’t as bad as Namjoon had thought it might’ve been. He wasn’t forced to be vulnerable or open up or confront his worst fears. He certainly didn’t want to tell the truth about the world he’s thrusted in, for fear of getting thrown out of the building and into a mental institution. 

Even his mother didn’t believe him the first time he told her about it. She urged him to visit a doctor. How could a therapist who doesn’t even know him believe the nonsense he spouts? Even he himself wouldn’t believe himself if he hadn’t experienced it firsthand. Slowly, but surely, he began to open up, and to his surprise, there was no calling of hospitals or kicking him out. His therapist sat there and listened like everything he was saying was valid. 

He started eating again, mostly because of Seokjin, stuffing his creations down everyone’s throats every two seconds, claiming he needs opinions on his new recipes even though Namjoon’s fairly certain that the past three dishes of spaghetti were the exact same recipe. 

Namjoon started to workout again with Jungkook, much to the younger boy’s surprise and happiness. They talked about their own struggles while panting on the treadmill and spinner. Jungkook eventually tells him that he also has a secret he keeps from the rest of the guys, which is his high school sweetheart who broke his heart so horribly that he still feels hurt from it. 

Jungkook told him to cheer up though, because most of the pain fades away with time. It’s still there, ever as present, but other things will become more important to you and cover up a scar or a wound with blooming flowers. 

“Like us,” He said cheekily. “Your friends.” 

He talked to Yoongi most days of the week about nothing in particular. He enjoys the time with Yoongi because he’s the only one who never walks on eggshells around him. He still pelts him with pillows and roasts the outfits on Rupaul’s Drag Race with him. Taehyung and Jimin even helped him adopt a dog, an furry white Eskimo named Rap Mon which is literally now Namjoon’s entire life. 

Would likely kill all of his friends if one of them hurt his precious baby. 

Life is good, Namjoon learns. He gets better at his job. He never forgets you, but things seem to hurt less. But he gets relapses sometimes. Some days he wakes up screaming about the stupid lead filling up his throat. Sometimes he gets nightmares so intense he has to take medicine.

Therapy isn’t as bad as he painted it out to be, but recovery is ten times harder than he thought it would be. Some days all he can do is lie in bed or do nothing, thinking of you. 

His therapist tells him that his life is more than his past memories. Both Yoongi and Hoseok agree, when he pulled up a random conversation about it late at night. Hoseok says that there’s never going to be a time where he won’t think of you, or still love you. Perhaps not as much as he once did, but he’ll never forget about you. Yoongi tells him he’s healing, and that they’re all proud of him.

Namjoon meets his friends, for the first time in the two years he’s known them. Taehyung has an extraordinary and (slightly strange) obsession over art museums. He’s been to almost every single one in Korea, and he dragged Namjoon over to one an hour away in Gangnam in the summer. Jimin is an amazing dancer, which Namjoon never knew.

Until Jimin brought it up casually, looking through old footage of his dance competitions. “Nothing big,” He said. “I used to dabble.” Namjoon’s eyes bulged out of his head and he told Jimin if that was ‘dabbling’, then he was wasting away his talent. He asked Jimin why he never made a career out of dance, and Jimin replied casually:

“I feel like if I start to make money off of it, and I’ll lose my love for it. Now that I haven’t really has time for it... I dunno. I feel like I’ve lost the talent a little bit.“

Namjoon told his friend that talent is nothing but a bunch of practice and time dedicated to a certain skill. Nobody loses talent, people just get a little unfamiliar with it. Jimin turned around in deep thought and told him he may just have a point. 

Still, some days, he can do nothing but sulk around, feeling like a waste of space. Take today for an example. He walks down the street and out of the corner of his eye, he thinks, and he might be wrong, he thinks he sees you. The back of your head, anyways, but you’re wearing a red sweater with headphones over your ears and you turn around the corner. 

Namjoon panics. He drops his coffee, which splashes all over his leather shoes and runs. He runs past the corner and he doesn’t know what on earth he’s doing but all he can do is run, and the wind dries his tears faster and faster, and he forgets all over again, that you aren’t here, that there’s no way he can go back and see you unless it’s in his memories, which he doesn’t even know how to control. 

Somewhere deep in the depths of his mind, he knows something about this doesn’t seem right. That it couldn’t possibly be you, because he watched you go right in front of his eyes. He knows that in order to heal, he can’t chase after you or center his world around you. He knows all of that. But in that moment, he forgets that he still doesn’t remember everything about you. 

He forgets that you’re dead. 

And one day he’ll be free from this constant spinning. One day he won’t ever have to think twice when he cooks pancakes but that day and all that work he’s put in is the last thing on Namjoon’s mind and all he can think about is if that’s really you. 

He sprints faster and reaches out, misses your wrist by an inch and ends up clutching at nothing but air. He heaves a huge breath, about to clap his hand over your shoulder-

Click. 

tags; @jksbbyfacebunny @extremeobsessions101 @dwcljh @bishuthot @s0seo @stonyiscanon @cecedrake2217​ 

[bangtanbetchfics]

friction: iv - finale | knj (m)

genre: office au, romance, smut rating: explicit // 18+ pairing: kim namjoon x reader word count: 8.6k suggested listening: different - woodz | strangers - taemin | handle it - twice | amnesia - kai | last piece - got7 | playlist warnings: m/f, m/m, explicit language, explicit/casual sex, masturbation, enemies to lovers summary: your pesky and overworked assistants meddle in your relationship with your sexy rival -- kim namjoon -- and find themselves caught in the crosshairs of love and all-out war. notes: the final chapter! thanks everyone for all of the notes and support on this one. for more fun insights on this story, please visit my ao3, linked below. navigation: ch. i | ch. ii | ch. iii | finale | m.list | ao3

Namjoon: “All I know right now is that I want you,” He says, tilting his head. “And that I’d never hurt you.”

You: “I’m afraid, Jin,” You confess in his ear, and he rests his chin on your shoulder. “That he’ll break my heart.”

Jin: “Someone’s feelings are ultimately going to get hurt.”

✹✹✹

“We have like...fifteen minutes before they’re both back,” Taehyung whispers to Jimin, both of their bodies pressing against each other in a minuscule phone room.

“I can’t even move right now,” Taehyung laments, moving the chair near him as close to the door as he can, enabling Jimin to straddle him.

“Well...this was the only room I could find, Tae. It’s busy season.” This makes Taehyung frown as he grabs Jimin’s waist to steady him. “We’re lucky we even got this.”

Jimin slides to the bottom of Taehyung’s legs near his knees, and the edge of the desk behind him digs into his back.

“Ow, fuck.” Jimin sucks air in through his teeth, refocusing his mind before he looks down at Taehyung’s crotch. Taehyung’s cock is somehow rock hard, and Jimin rubs his palm over the significant bulge. “It’s amazing how you can still get hard in these situations.”

The comment makes Taehyung frown before he spreads his legs open to evenly distribute Jimin’s weight across him.

“We haven’t fucked because we’re always so tired from work, so yeah, I’m hard. Really fucking hard.” Taehyung pulls Jimin in for a few sloppy kisses, his hand firm on the other man’s slim waist. He rubs Jimin’s back and his hands glide to Jimin’s plush ass before he gives it a squeeze.

Jimin bites his lip at the grab -- grinning and moving further up Taehyung’s legs to straddle his crotch. “It’s been too long since I’ve done that.” Taehyung chuckles, licking his lips.

Taehyung sighs lightly at the warmth covering him, and he uses his massive hands to glide Jimin’s ass over his crotch -- making the both of them breathe in unison. Jimin loosens two buttons of his own crisp white shirt, Taehyung moving to lick his exposed collarbones before nibbling at his clavicle.

Faint moans slip from Jimin’s lips as he reaches into Taehyung’s pants, and pulls out his fully erect cock. He salivates at his girth, and a wad of spit leaves his mouth before landing on Taehyung’s firm cock.

The sensation causes Taehyung’s back to press into the chair, the thick line of spit rolling down the sensitive skin. He sighs as Jimin’s smooth hand rubs up and down his shaft and he groans, feeling himself grow even harder.

Jimin leans back to get his elbows on the desk for support and shimmies to tilt his pelvis up toward the ceiling.

Taehyung then pulls Jimin’s soft, thick cock from his pants. His thumb moves to glide over the soft tip, expecting a drizzle of precum to follow. It does, and Taehyung smears the droplet of arousal over the prominent head. Jimin hisses at the feeling, grinding his hips into Taehyung’s firm grip. His hand was firm without even trying, and Jimin gives Taehyung a firm squeeze in return, making the other man hiss through his teeth.

The two are soon jerking each other off in unison, the slick sounds of their pleasure filling in the room.

“Motherfuck-“ Taehyung groans, his cum sliding down Jimin’s fist. “Already?” Jimin gasps and follows in response, his cum flowing down over Taehyung’s fingers.

“Well, fuck.” Jimin reaches behind him and cleans the two of them up before zipping both of their pants. He balls the napkins up in his hand, maneuvering to toss them in the trash below the desk.

“Ah, fuck...this is miserable.” Jimin pouts, rolling his eyes into the back of his head. He grabs Taehyung’s shoulders before mumbling into the fabric there. “We have to figure out a gameplan to get our bosses back together.”

Jimin lifts from Taehyung’s lap and looks at his watch as he buttons his shirt back up: 6:56 P.M.

“Let’s hurry and get back.” Jimin says, tapping Taehyung’s shoulder to get up.

✹✹✹

A sigh leaves your lips and you move to pull a bouquet slotted in a vase closer to your face. The fresh scent hits your nose as bury your face in the silkiness of the petals.

“Ya!” Jin yells, breaking you from your lovesick stupor. “It looks like a florist took up shop in here!” He looks around, observing the bouquets sitting in every corner of your office.

Taehyung looks over and chuckles, laughing to himself at Namjoon’s failed attempt to get you back.

You grab your coat and shrug it on before you carefully navigate your way around the bouquets and out of your office.

Jin notices how quiet you are -- the two of you waiting in the empty elevator bank. This was a state he was worried about you being in, and he made sure to pick you up from work when you were like this. He nudges you and his arm hooks into yours, but you’re barely able to acknowledge it.

“Anything you wanna talk about?” You lean your head on his arm and shake your head. He leans his head down to meet the top of yours in a quiet understanding before the two of you enter a crowded elevator car.

The elevator beeps as it navigates each floor, and you squeeze your eyes shut -- praying that it doesn’t land on the 61st floor. You knew that was Namjoon’s floor and he was one hundred percent the absolute last person you wanted to see right now -- especially after your impulsive encounter earlier that afternoon.

61.

Of course. The universe always had to mess with you.

The elevator doors open and Namjoon’s eyes search around the car. You look up, and his gaze locks with yours. It feels like the two of you are frozen in time for a moment, and other employees brush past him to enter the car.

You can tell he’s worn from the long hours of work by the dark bags sitting underneath his eyes. In the moment he looks to you for some sort of relief -- some sort of resolve -- but you don’t lend it to him. Jin notices and glares him down, and Namjoon’s crestfallen gaze lifts from yours to meet Jin’s leer.

You quickly look down and swallow a lump of nerves down your throat, and Namjoon slowly enters the car. Your hand trembles as you grip the strap of your purse -- the piece of leather feeling like a lifeline -- like a sweet, temporary escape from the situation at hand.

The car reaches the lobby and employees spill from the elevator, scattering in a rat race out of the building. You grip Jin’s arm closer to you as you watch the back of Namjoon exit the car.

“Is that the guy?” Jin cranes his neck down to your ear. You don’t respond, and Jin takes it as a confirmation. You and Jin take a left as you leave the building, and Namjoon takes a right, but you can’t help but listen for the sound of Namjoon’s shoes to dissipate.

“You see? I knew you’d get hurt.” Jin laments, moving his arm over your shoulder to tug you closer. The sound of Namjoon’s shoes halts as he overhears, and he turns around to look at the both of you walking down the street. He takes a deep inhale, the breath exhuming a deep regret from his body.

✹✹✹

Light snowflakes fall from the sky, starting to coat the city below them in a white, glistening blanket. Your eyes glide toward the view of the city through the floor-to-ceiling length windows, and you watch cars -- now rendered to tiny, glittering lights this high up -- float by in the pulse of the dark evening.

Your foot extends to meet the cool edge of a clawfoot tub, the rest of your body enveloped in the warmth of the water around you. The movement of your foot around the white ceramic edge makes a squeaking noise, the sound bouncing off the quiet halls of your apartment.

You sink further into the water and blow bubbles into it before submerging your head fully for a few seconds. You gasp as you emerge, the cool air creating goosebumps all over your exposed skin. Your hand moves to slick your hair back, and you rest your head on the back edge of the tub.

All you can hear in the darkness are the droplets of water dripping from the edges of the tub.

The space in your apartment was now somber -- no longer filled with your buoyant giggles or throaty moans of being deeply taken. No tinkering sounds of Namjoon making his morning coffee, or the deep, needy exclamations of your name tumbling from his lips.

Thinking of him somehow made a desire tinder inside of you, and you feel your nipples harden under the thought -- only exacerbated by the cool air in the room. You close your eyes, surrendering to your thoughts; your mind racing through the various scenarios and encounters with Namjoon.

At this moment you were grateful that the nerves in the human body retained memories, for you suspire as your fingertips start to trace your skin just as Namjoon would.

You inhale as a wet thumb glides over your erect nipple, sending sensations of pleasure through your body. Your hand moves to grip the soft flesh of your other breast, your fingers kneading the sensitive skin in your hand. Your teeth bite your bottom lip as you imagine the person touching you is Namjoon instead.

A mewl leaves your lips as two fingers meet inside of your core, easily slipping inside. The tightness of the two fingers makes you writhe -- your breath coming loose from your throat.

Your pointer and pinky finger become affixed to either side of your lips, giving you leverage to pump your fingers faster inside of you. Your back arches as you move faster, the sounds of moving water growing louder in the space. The recollection of Namjoon’s desire from earlier that day is somehow still singed to your skin, and you pant as you recall.

Cries leaves your lips as your fingers curl up to meet your engorged g-spot, and your eyes squeeze shut as your fingers glide back and forth over the pleasurable spot.

Burning sensations rip through your body and you squeal, feeling your core clench around your fingers. You moan out loud, biting your lip from the guilt of conjuring a memory before a final drag over the swollen spot courses a delectable pleasure through your veins.

A sigh leaves your lips in your comedown, and you heave while you wonder how a kiss in a fervid moment got you here: alone, and without a promotion you’d been waiting to achieve your entire life.

You lift your body upright and rest your arms on either side of the tub, looking back out at the cityscape.

✹✹✹

Snow crunches under Namjoon’s feet while his fingers clench to a paper cup in his hand. He’s grateful for the hot sear on his fingertips to keep both his fingers and body warm, and he looks down, watching his feet sink into the fresh snow with every step he takes.

Hoseok squints at the sunlight peeking through the snow-coated limbs of the trees above, and he notices Namjoon’s spaced-out expression beside him. He nudges his friend and Namjoon comes to -- looking over to Hoseok and feigning a smile.

“You alright, bro?” Hoseok’s tone is concerned, and Namjoon smiles again and shakes his head.

“See this?” He points down at the fresh snow. “My life used to be like this. Just new and...fresh with her.” He then nods his head over at the dirty, white slosh in the street as they approach a corner to cross. “Now it’s more like that.”

Hoseok covers his mouth, and he can’t help but giggle at Namjoon’s humor, even in such a low moment.

“Sorry...but you kinda brought that one on yourself.” Hoseok chuckles through his response. “I mean, who ties their lover to their bed and then leaves them there? I’d be kinda mad, too. Even if I did get a couple of orgasms out of it.” Hoseok chortles, taking a sip of his own coffee.

“When I think about it...I just wanted the promotion at any cost. You know how my mom is.” Namjoon’s fingers squeeze dents into the cup in his hand, and Hoseok stops in his tracks. He reaches a hand out to grab Namjoon’s arm to stop him as well.

Namjoon’s throat tightens and he avoids eye contact with Hoseok, still looking down at the ground. He hated looking into Hoseok’s wide, earnest eyes. He always told him what he didn’t want to hear, but the advice was always right.

“Hey. Look at me.” Hoseok is calm, and he shakes Namjoon to look up at him. “You’ve gotta start living for yourself, man. This...this ruthless mentality is really fucking with you and your relationships. The tactics you use at work don’t necessarily reap the same benefits in love.”

Namjoon sucks air up his nostrils, frustrated with Hoseok -- but he understands he’s right. He shakes his head before looking up into Hoseok’s eyes, his own eyes glossy with tears.

“I really fucked this one up, Hobi, I-” Namjoon shakes his head again.

“Apologize. Start there.” Hoseok starts, and Namjoon interjects. “But I already-“

“If you really care about her, do it as many times as it takes.” Both eyebrows raise on Hoseok’s face as he cuts Namjoon off.

“Also, know you love and respect your mom...but like, you can’t let her dictate the way you live your life anymore.” Hoseok squeezes Namjoon’s arm in assurance. “No disrespect, but you gotta do you, bro.” He smacks Namjoon’s arm.

“I’ll see you later!” Hoseok shouts, running to make it across the street before the light changes.

Namjoon shakes his head as he looks down, his hand balling into a tight fist.

✹✹✹

The cool winter wind curls through Namjoon’s hair, and he sighs as he looks at the ground coated white below him.

The plastic of the bouquet in his arms crunches as he kneels down, and he sets the flowers to the side.

He takes a deep pause before he wipes a few inches of snow from a gravestone labeled KIM. He sits there, hands on his knees as two silent tears fall down his cheeks. He quickly wipes them with his gloves as they almost freeze on his face.

“I-I’m...I’m on my way, Dad. The position is pretty much mine.” Namjoon starts, his voice trembling.

“Is that what you would’ve wanted?” He asks, unwrapping the flowers from their plastic and slotting them into a cement holder above the grave.

“But your work nearly...no, did. Your work did put you here, right?” He laments, his head falling into his palms, still frigid even through the thick gloves.

“Or...would you have wanted me to be happy?” Namjoon tilts his head, a heaviness on his chest as he lets out the words.

“There’s this woman you see...” He continues, looking down at the engravings in the stone below him once more.

Namjoon squeezes his eyes shut and a final crest of tears leave his eyes. He stands up, walking to the edge of the bluff he’s on before looking out at the frozen landscape.

✹✹✹

You sit on your couch, curled up by a neon fire crackling in a glass display in front of you. Your toes curl up as they fill with heat, and you polish off the rest of the wine in your glass.

Somehow, you were undeniably tipsy and had finished off half a bottle of the sweet, tart liquid. Your hand slides over the glass coffee table to the side of you, and the glass screeches as you place the cup down. You let out the beginnings of a yawn before you hear your doorbell ring -- making you jolt up out of your seat.

“Can I help you?” You press a button on a digital intercom labeled ‘lobby’ and you hear a voice ring out on the other end.

“Yes, there’s a gift for you, ma’am?” A male voice answers back, and your hand drops from the button. You roll your eyes before you hit the button to speak again.

“Fine, bring it up.”

✹✹✹

Your doorbell rings, and you take your time to stand -- slowly walking toward the door. You release the lock on the door and swing it open before leaning back on it.

“It’s from...” The man starts, before looking down in his phone again. “Ah. It’s from one Kim Namjoon. Sent with the utmost urgency, ma’am.” He nods, tipping his hat down before he hands you a huge black box.

You groan at the weight, closing the door shut with your foot.

You lug the box over to your coffee table, and place it down before your hand meets your hips. Air blows from your lips as you ponder whether or not you should even open the box. The indifference develops into a sigh while you massage your temples, moving and scooting closer to the table to take in the outside of the box.

You place your hand on top of the lid and sigh again, your fingers lifting it off before you set the top to the side.

You gasp and stand up, taking in what’s before you.

Thirty-six light purple roses are carefully arranged in a circular box inside, and the warm, rosy scent travels up your nose.

Neatly tucked inside is a shiny gold envelope, and you move to pull it out. You break the seal with your fingernail, pulling out a piece of light pink cardstock.

To: The Woman I’m Not Sure I Can Live Without

There’s a thin line between love and hate...but I can only hope that you keep your faith in love.

“Love means to commit oneself without guarantee, to give oneself completely in the hope that our love will produce love in the loved person. Love is an act of faith, and whoever is of little faith is also of little love.”

The florists told me that the roses carefully arranged in this box for you are forever, but I hope our love outlasts every single one.

Hoping this message reaches you in the depths of your heart -- in a little corner of light -- where I hope you’ll be able to find a place to believe in me again.

-Lovingly, Kim Namjoon

Your hands tremble and you drop the letter -- your head falling into your palms. You collapse to the couch and softly sob out of frustration, more confused than ever.

✹✹✹

The next morning, you sigh as a bunch of people crowd next to you after you board an elevator car. You definitely didn’t get any sleep the night before, and you study the back of the woman’s head in front of you. Your gaze lifts and your eyes widen as you see Namjoon run to board the front of the crowded car. His eyes widen in response to seeing you, and your eyes swiftly meet the ground.

The elevator stops at the next available floor, and a few people cycle out of the car -- Namjoon being one of the first out.

A dozen more people wait outside of the car to enter, and Namjoon’s only choice is to move further into the back of the car near you. He crushes his lips together before he gathers the courage to stand next to you as the car fills back up. Someone squeezes near him -- and his arm pushes into yours.

“Sorry.” He whispers, keeping his sight focused ahead of him.

You become rattled at how close he is to you, a heat rising up your throat and into your cheeks.

He’s so close you can smell his cologne, and you subtly inhale it -- reveling in the brief moment of nostalgia. You follow it by swallowing a breath down -- your best attempt to cool your nerves. You blow relief from your lips as the elevator reaches his floor, and he files out of the car.

You’re able to steal a glance of Namjoon before the elevator shuts, and his eyes grow wide again in response.

✹✹✹

“Almost ready for dinner?” Taehyung asks you, powering his computer down. He takes a quick glance at his watch before looking over at your office.

You use a large, fluffy brush to swipe blush across your cheeks and you smile slightly to make the apples more prominent.

“How do I look?” You ask Taehyung, taking a slow turn. A creamy white dress is affixed to your curves, and a transparent chiffon choker floats around your neck.

“It’ll be nice to get out for dinner for once.” You mention as you pin twinkling diamond earrings to each of your ears.

✹✹✹

“How are you adjusting to the new workload?” You ask Taehyung, slicing through a piece of chicken below you. You take a bite, watching him formulate an answer.

“It’s a lot to take on...but I know in the long run it’ll pay off.” Taehyung shrugs. “Or...at least I hope it does.” He says, loading a few green peas onto his fork as he looks at you before shaking his silver locks from his eyes.

“Good mindset to have,” Your fork points at him, before you polish the food down your throat. “But. You don’t want to end up old and grey like me. And with no one to share it with.”

“You’re not old. Or gray!” Taehyung exclaims before clutching his belly in laughter. You join him in laughing, the wine spinning glee through your veins.

“Thanks for doing this, Tae.” You mention, tapping the back of Taehyung’s hand and watching a smile curl up on his lips.

“You deserve it. Truly-” Mid-response, he jolts as the watch on his wrist buzzes:

[Jiminie]: 7:58 P.M. Now.

He smirks a bit as he sees the message, but his brows furrow before he looks up at you.

“I have to take this.” His voice is asking for permission, and you nod in response -- waving him off.

✹✹✹

You look at your watch, noticing that thirty-five minutes have lapsed since Taehyung left you at the table. You lift the device to your mouth: “Call Taehyung.” The device rings for half a second before you’re served Taehyung’s voicemail.

The kick to voicemail brings your brows together on your head, and you try the sequence once more. Another fail. You sigh, slightly worried by the lack of response.

A sliver of fear causes you to rise from your seat to take a walk around the space. Decadent crystal chandeliers light up the space, but they’re dimmed to give ambiance to most of the couples huddled up in the restaurant for the evening.

You admit to yourself that you’re jealous, as one half of those couples could’ve easily been you a few weeks before everything went down between you and Namjoon. You sigh, rubbing your arms to relieve yourself from the pockets of wind coming through the front door each time it opens. Your eyes scan the restaurant, but nothing unusual sticks out to you -- and you still don’t see Taehyung.

“Did he leave me here?” You whisper under your breath before heading back to your seat. You admit you’re lightly pissed off, but you calmly sit back down at your table.

“So, how was everything?” A waitress arrives, and she starts collecting items from the table. “It was amazing...except for...well.” Your voice trails off as you look over to the other side of the table. “I’ve really gotta find him.” You mumble, pulling out your wallet. The waitress grimaces, collecting the last fork and placing it on her tray.

“Anyway...could I have the receipt, please?” You ask, looking up at the woman. She looks back at you, confused, and you return the look. “The bill’s already been paid, ma’am.”

“By whom?” You tilt your head, and the woman points over her shoulder before she steps to the side.

It’s Namjoon.

Namjoon walks toward you, a hand in the pocket of his white pants. A cream dress shirt hugs his frame in the right places, but it's tucked in to accentuate his slim waist. A white wool coat adorns his frame and reaches just below his knees, and his hips sexily cut side-to-side before he lands to stand above you.

“May I?” He asks, his deep voice rippling through your ears, goosebumps traveling through your skin.

You’re at a loss for words as you take his divine form in from head-to-toe, and he gestures toward the empty chair.

Shockwaves zip through your body, and you can only manage a nod in response.

Taehyung and Jimin grin at each other from a well-hidden corner of the restaurant as they watch the two of you -- their pinkies linked tightly together.

✹✹✹

Namjoon marvels at you as he sits, his hand loosening from his pocket. His eyes triangulate around your face, and you can tell he’s at a loss for words himself. He takes a deep breath in, looking down at the table.

How handsome he looks under the candlelight is something you can’t help but notice -- his tan skin twinkling under the flicker of the flames. You lower your eyes so you don’t get sucked too far into his charms, subtly shaking your head until you come to.

The both of you sit in silence for a few moments before he reaches for your hand.

“Joon-“ You gasp as the warmth radiating from him courses through your veins. He squeezes your hand before speaking.

“I’ve been selfish,” He starts, his soft brown eyes raising to meet yours. “It’s just that you’ve never been apart of the grand plan I had laid out for my life...” He sighs, and you can tell his thoughts are trailing off.

“I...I told you kissing me that night wasn’t a good idea.” Your chest starts to heave, and your hand begins to tremble in his. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me then. And now we’re here.”

“I know...I know...” His voice turns into a woeful plea, and tears gather at the edges of your eyes. “I’m so, so sorry.”

His head hangs down and he squeezes your hand again. You loosen your hand from his and he looks up in shock, watching as you look down to reach into your bag.

“I want you back,” He pulls his hands into a prayer near his lips, his thumbs tucked under his chin as he looks at you. You flare your nostrils to hold in your tears as you listen to him.

“If you have it in your heart...please forgive me.” He continues, tears gathering in his own eyes.

“I really liked you, Joon.” You get choked up, tears flooding down your face. You suck in air to calm yourself, using the handkerchief you pulled from your bag to dab at your tears.

Namjoon reaches across the table to wipe the fresh wave of tears falling from your eyes with his thumbs, and he looks directly at you.

“I have something to tell you.” His tone is serious, and you grab ahold of his wrist. He takes your hand and holds it again, massaging the back of it.

“I told Yoongi...” You can tell whatever he’s about to say is hard for him, and his eyes widen before he looks down. “I told Yoongi that he should give the CEO position to you. That you could lead it with more grace than I ever could. And that’s something that I’ve always admired about you.” His warm lips meet the palm of your hand, and a tear falls from one of his eyes.

“No, I-“ A hot tear shoots from one of your eyes, and you shake your head. He shakes his head in assurance, placing your hand on his cheek.

“You can’t do this on my behalf.” You gasp out, more tears pooling in your eyes. “You really wanted this.”

“So did you. And yes, I can.” He starts. “But why? Tell me why. You wanted nothing more.”

“It’s simple, really.” Namjoon releases your hand, sitting back in his chair.

“I was chasing a dream that wasn’t my own to make the people I loved happy. I’ve always done what my family’s wanted -- no matter the cost. But I was never happy. Not until I met you.” He says, his eyes focused on you. His eyes grow even warmer under the candlelight as he admires your features.

“The only thing I’ve ever truly dreamed about was falling in love.” He sits back up, taking your hand in his again. Your fingers slide in between his and your palms meet in a firm clasp.

“I’m guilty of it too, I guess.” You respond, searching his eyes. “I think I’ve always used work as an excuse not to go too deep...to not to fall in love too hard. But you broke all of my walls down, and then you left me.” You chuckle softly, drawing one out of him as well. “But now you’re here again. In front of me.” You shoulder raises and then falls, and you look at him.

“I guess it was fate that pushed us together like this.” Namjoon kisses your hand warmly, and you sigh at the comfort of the familiar feeling. His eyes scan yours, and you can feel more words are at the tip of his tongue. The words seem to dissipate from his lips, and he releases your hand.

“I guess...I guess I’ll see you at work tomorrow?” You give him a slow nod as you watch him stand up, and you chew at the inside of your lip. He starts to leave the table, and you grab his wrist.

“Wait. Would you...would you mind taking me home?” There’s a lilt of desire in your voice, and he looks back at you.

✹✹✹

“Sorry, no heat in here -- don’t ask.” A cab driver mentions as the two of you hop in the backseat. You cross your legs and look out of the window as the car pulls off.

There’s still a marked silence between the two of you.

After a few minutes you can hear the whisper of wind coming through the car door, and the cool air makes you shiver. You ball your hand into a fist as your fingers and toes grow cold, and you rub your arms to gather warmth in your body.

You knew Namjoon was probably warm, but you were stubborn and you refused to give into him that easily.

Namjoon turns and looks at you coolly as you look out the window, and he taps your shoulder. You turn to face him, and your lips are a hair away from each other in the small car.

He looks down and your eyes follow his as he hooks his arm into yours before pulling you closer to him. His warmth surges through you, causing your body to melt into his. Your cheek meets his shoulder, and you warm your hand by rubbing one of his thighs. You squeeze the hard muscle and he can feel himself getting hard. You slow the rubbing as you notice him fidgeting, simply resting your palm on his leg. His racing heartbeat becomes apparent as your head slides down to his chest, and you smirk to yourself that you still had this affect on him.

“This is you, ma’am.” The driver mentions, looking back at the two of you. “Who’s payin’?” He asks, pulling up to a curb.

The car pulls up outside of your house, and you look up at Namjoon -- your lips close once again. A desire knots in between your legs, and you squeeze them to dissipate the sensation -- gasping at the sudden intensity of your lust.

“Um...um I guess this is me.” You say softly, looking from his lips up to his eyes. He returns the look, and you quickly break eye contact and get out of the car.

Namjoon whips his credit card into the reader before handing the driver fifty dollars in cash.

“Can you give me a few minutes?” He taps the man’s shoulders, and the driver looks at Namjoon through the rearview mirror.

“Good luck, man.” The driver nods, watching Namjoon exit.

✹✹✹

Namjoon catches you before you start to walk away from the vehicle, and he comes to stand tall in front of you. He looks down at you for a few moments, and neither of you break eye contact. The wind starts to chill your lips and fingertips, and Namjoon moves a step closer toward you.

He’s hesitant as he approaches, not sure how you’ll react. He places a hand on your shoulder, and it moves up your neck and toward your cheek. Your head naturally falls into his large palm, and his other hand moves to do the same. Both of his thumbs massage the skin underneath your chin -- both of your lips only a breath away from each other.

“I forgive you.” You whisper, looking into his eyes. His eyes fall in relief, and your fingers hook into the belt cinching his coat around his waist to pull him closer to you.

Both of your lips gently meet, the warmth melting your frigid lips.

Snow starts to fall, and each flake that meets your skin is no match for the heat rising from your cheeks. You relish in each others warmth, one always pulling the other closer -- your fingers embedded in the smooth fabric of his coat.

Namjoon taps the cab for it to leave, and you press your lips further into his as his soft thumbs rub up and down the column of your throat.

“It rained the first night we kissed.” Namjoon pulls his lips from yours and you giggle. He presses back into your lips halfway through another giggle leaving your mouth.

“Is that a sign?” You mumble into his lips, nipping at the lush bottom one. You dive back into him with your tongue as a familiar, insatiable thirst overtakes you -- his head tilting to the side to gain more leverage in the kiss.

✹✹✹

A trail of clothing lines the floor to the couch in your living room, and you’re perched atop Namjoon’s lap. His tongue dives into the silky fabric of your cream-colored slip, the moisture embedding the fabric against your nipple. You gasp, your hands rummaging around his hair as he does the same to your other nipple before lightly nibbling at it. The silk begins to stick to your form, the heat from the fireplace causing your body to collect small droplets of sweat.

You breathe into each other’s mouths as you slowly unbutton Namjoon’s shirt, his hands roaming underneath your slip and over your ass. He slides his fingers underneath the suspenders that hold up your stockings, and then moves to squeeze the cheeks of your ass firmly before slapping it.

You bite your lip -- gasping into his mouth before diving back into his lips. Something about his grip on your ass made you distinctly feral, and you grind into his crotch below.

“How did I get so lucky?” He gasps, only allowing you a small wind of his hips, and you bite into his bottom lip. He growls and pulls your panties to the side, feeling the slick heat between your lips.

“Fuck. You still get so wet for me.” His fingers continue to rub you and you whine, attempting to grab his wrist. You were on fire by now, and you run your hands over his hard, exposed chest before diving back into his lips, the only part of his body he was allowing you access to.

The length of his finger suddenly slips inside of you and you firmly moan into his lips. He pumps his finger inside of you and you squirm, hearing the slick sounds of your juices coating his finger. He slips a second finger in, using the two of them to stretch you.

“Ah...Namjoon...” A pert moan drops from your mouth, his fingers moving to pump into you again.

You relish in the sweet stretch of his fingers, his mouth moving to suck on your breast through the fabric. You grab his head as his drags his tongue from your breast -- up your neck and back to your lips. Need -- a deep aching need -- emanates from your lips as you make contact again, and he pulls his fingers from inside of you.

“Let me taste you.” He growls into your lips, and you gasp as he throws you on your back. He pulls you closer to him on the couch before dragging your soaked lace panties to the side. He immediately suckles at your drenched lips below, moaning into the sensitive skin. He swiftly burrows his face inside of you, his tongue flicking deep inside of your core. He rotates his head around your core, his masterful tongue dragging with it. You squeal as he growls into you, and you grip him at the roots of his hair.

“Namjoon, fuck-“ You feel yourself drip, throwing your head back over the edge of the couch. The feeling of his tongue was more intense than usual, the sounds of him eating you out sending electric zaps through you like a livewire.

He gives you a dark look -- lightly pulling at your lips as you watch him below, moving to trail cum-drenched kisses up your abdomen. He meets your lips with his, and you moan as you taste yourself on his tongue.

Namjoon’s now positioned above you and you reach below, massaging his shaft through his boxers. He groans, almost as if in pain, from how much he wanted you. He gasps as you pull out his weighty length, and sit up to tuck it into your warm mouth.

Your tongue slips over the wet head before you take him in as far as you can. He groans as you pull out and precum gathers on the tip. You hum at the liquid before you dig your tongue into the slit its pouring from -- devouring him again and again.

You release him from your mouth after a few moments, the entirety of his shaft glistening with saliva. You lay back on the couch and he parts your legs, looking up at you. He drives his shaft up and down your lips before he enters you -- and you wince as his firm head pierces you. He pulls back out briefly, blowing air out so he doesn’t fill you whole in one go. You line him up with your entrance, and you push him in -- gasping at the furious stretch. He groans in return, beginning to pump slowly in and out of you. You whine, placing a hand on his abdomen to slow his pace. Both of your breathing picks up, and he props himself up over you -- his lips joining with yours.

His hips start to wave into yours, and you whimper in pleasure as his pace increases.

“Does that feel good?” His length pulls in and out of you, the subtle difference in size from his pronounced head to his shaft intensely massaging your walls. You nod, so deeply concentrated on the pleasure.

“Faster?” He asks through a few labored breaths, his eyes intense on yours. You wrap your arms around his neck, your lips meeting the wet heat collecting on his skin.

“Fuck...yeah.” You can only mewl out into his ear as he picks up his pace, his cock growing larger inside of you.

“Motherfuck-“ You whine, your legs moving to hook onto his shoulders. He fills you deeper, and the slosh of your bodies meeting below filling the room. How wet you are turns you on further and you tap his back, indicating for him to take his thrusts a tick faster. And so he does, his skin slapping hard into yours as you gasp, whining as you’re taken the deepest you’ve ever been. Your fingernails clamp into the rippling muscles on his back, and your senses explode as you clench around him, nearing your release.

You gasp as he pulls out and flips you over onto your stomach, positioning your ass in the air. He pushes your slip up, and takes hold of the white garter belt affixed to your nude fishnet stockings. You squeal as he enters you from behind, his grip tightening on your belt to drive deeper inside of you.

“Faster.” Grits through your teeth, the end of the word ending in a whine. Something about not having him for weeks ignited a deep desire inside of you -- and you moan as his free hand digs into your waist. His large hand slides down to grip the back of your neck while he bucks into you madly, lewd moans repeatedly slipping through your lips.

“Namjoon I’m gonna-“ You squeal as he slams harder into you -- the neurons in your body exploding in euphoria. The pleasure radiates from your core and through the rest of your nerves as you still pulse around him -- your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

“Fuck!” Namjoon exclaims, his warm load releasing inside of you, and your head hangs down as you catch your breath. He pulls from the tight fit, a popping noise echoing in the air as he does so.

“God, I missed you.” He says softly, before he positions you on your back, laying himself back on top of you. He dives into your lips once more and you grab his jaw, relishing in his weight on your body. He luxuriates in your softness and warmth as he fixes his hard frame on top of yours, and you pull a leg up to wrap around his waist. He caresses you from the curve of your ass down to the back of your knee, looking at you with adoration in his eyes.

“Why are you here with me again? After everything?” There’s wonder in his whisper -- a need for some sort of unspoken assurance -- and you seal your lips to his. Your thumb glides over his cheek, and you pull back to look at his features.

“I’m only human. I can’t control how I feel.” You breathe in, stroking his soft locks. He glides his nose over yours, his lips still roving over your skin. He places a hot, opened mouthed kiss on your neck as he squeezes your waist, and you softly moan into his ear.

Namjoon lifts his head up, looking from your lips to your eyes. His toasty chestnut eyes grow larger, and he looks at you.

“I love you.” He says softly, and your chest heaves up and down before you kiss him again.

“I love you, too.” Coming up for air, you look at him -- still feeling as if you haven’t indulged enough in his plush lips. You kiss him feverishly, soaking in his confession.

Both of your swollen lips vibrate against one another as you look at each other, gasping for air as you pull away.

“What are we gonna tell Yoongi?” He sighs into your mouth, looking at you.

“The truth.”

✹✹✹

“Maybe I should take the position. Because then I’d be your boss.” You mention, pushing Namjoon down into his chair. You grip the arms of the chair, leaning down to kiss him. He pulls you onto his lap, smacking your ass.

“Are we really gonna do this first thing in the morning?” He growls into your lips, and you giggle. “We have like...an hour before people start arriving. So yeah. We’re doing this.” You grip the back of his neck and weave your neck to access his lips as his head moves from side-to-side.

“Maybe I don’t want to, Boss.” He teases through a growl, and you bite your lip -- pressing your forehead to his.

“Well...then...you’re fired.” You whisper, your tongue slipping past his lips and into his mouth. He sucks your bottom lip as he pulls away, studying your eyes.

“That’s retaliation.” His dimples pop into his cheeks mischievously, and you place kisses on his neck -- feeling him grow hard underneath you.

“Mmm...well he seems to disagree.” You mention, and Namjoon gasps, grinding up into your throbbing core.

“Fuck.” You mutter, feeling yourself get wet the more he grinds into you.

Footsteps start to float down the hall, and you hop from Namjoon’s lap. You look around the room for a place to hide -- but there’s nowhere to be found in a glass office. You decide to burrow underneath his desk, and Namjoon quickly pulls his chair into his desk after you do.

“Hey, Mr. Kim! How are things going this morning?” Namjoon nervously puts his elbow down on the table and picks up a pen.

“Oh, you know. It’s going.” He chuckles, his eyes subtly widening at the janitor.

“I feel ya, man. It’s real crazy-“ The janitor starts.

“Yeah, um, I’ve got work to get back to if you don’t mind.” Namjoon uses the pen to point around the office. “You know, before everyone starts filing in.” He nods, satisfied with the lie.

“Oh! Yeah. Sorry, man. I just get so caught up.” The janitor responds, sweeping a few specks from the floor.

You sigh in relief as you hear the janitor’s footsteps leave the room, but Namjoon looks down at you and shakes his head.

“Mr. Kim! Good morning -- you’re here early!” Jimin exclaims, dropping his briefcase off at his own desk. He notices Namjoon looks bright and glowy as he rolls into his office, and he smiles at him.

“How was your night? Anything interesting happen?” Jimin pries, his hand on his hip as he scours Namjoon’s face for an answer.

“You could say that, I guess.” Namjoon chuckles, twirling the pen in his hand around his fingers. You circle Namjoon’s knee with your pointer finger, and you feel his body stiffen.

“Mind if I brief you now?” Jimin asks, looking him over -- and Namjoon tilts his head. “It’s...just that I want to knock out the rest of the work you gave me before the end of the day.”

Namjoon chuckles; of course this was the one day everyone was early, and of course Jimin wanted to brief him now.

Right now.

Your palm glides over Namjoon’s cock, and you slide your fingers over his shaft through his pants. You cover your mouth with a hand, holding back a snicker.

“Um, sure.” Namjoon’s voice comes out in a tremble before he sucks in air. “I know. I know it’s an intense, stressful schedule you’ve got coming up.”

Namjoon fidgets in his chair as you pull his cock from his pants, wiggling it to observe its satisfying weight.

“First thing’s first. Min has said that overall, it’s been a challenging fiscal year, but that your product and the CMO’s complimentary marketing pulled us into the black.” He says.

“A real Hail Mary.” Jimin continues, swiping the screen of his iPad to the next slide.

“Fuck!” Namjoon exclaims as you take his shaft whole into your mouth. “I mean...that’s really great news.” He corrects himself, and Jimin crunches his eyebrows together in confusion.

Namjoon leans his neck to the side, his hand balling into a fist to try and contain himself. He gasps, your tongue quietly swirling around his length.

A light, satisfied moan escapes your lips as you pull his cock from your mouth, licking its length.

“So-“ Jimin pauses and looks up, his eyes locking with Namjoon’s. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Namjoon asks, biting his lip -- praying Jimin didn’t hear you. “I think that’s enough for today?” Namjoon raises the statement like a question, and Jimin raises an eyebrow at him.

“Just wait..one more thing.” Jimin says, reaching to hand Namjoon a portfolio. “It’s the paperwork.”

You flatten your tongue and take Namjoon’s length in whole again, and he leans forward in his chair for relief. His hips subtly buck up to get deeper in your throat, and he twitches in your mouth. His load spurts into the back of your throat and you try to hold yourself back from choking.

The thick, sticky cum drizzles from your mouth and lands on your white blouse, and you scrunch your face, mouthing “Fuck.” to yourself.

“To be honest, I can’t remember the last time we got through a brief uninterrupted.” Jimin comments. “But to each his own.”

“I won’t be needing this.” Namjoon sighs in relief after his release, picking the portfolio back up and handing it to Jimin.

“But it’s for your promotion.” Jimin tilts his head in confusion.

“I’ll explain later.” Namjoon responds, shaking his head.

✹✹✹

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You lament, dripping water from a faucet onto your shirt. You pick up a Tide pen from the counter, frantically rubbing it into the fabric.

You came to the unfortunate resolution at this moment that Tide pens didn’t get cum out of shirts.

You blow at the stain and then dab it with a napkin before accepting defeat.

You toss the damp napkins into the trash and exit the bathroom.

You quickly shuffle down the hall, attempting to make it to the staircase before anyone sees you on Namjoon’s floor.

Jimin walks down the hall, catching sight of the back of your body as you run into the stairwell.

He smirks in relief, shaking his head.

✹✹✹

Both you and Namjoon sit across from Yoongi’s desk, awaiting his return to his office. You dig your fingers into the free spaces where Namjoon’s fingers rest on the edge of his chair, and you look up at him.

“I truly hope Yoongi takes this well.” You whisper, both of your lips embracing in a quick peck.

Yoongi returns, quietly sitting at his desk and observing the two of you.

You look at Namjoon and Namjoon looks at you, the both of you searching each other’s eyes to see who should speak first.

“To clear the very big elephant in the room...do you think I didn’t know about you two?” Yoongi asks, folding his hands together on the desk.

“You...know?” You ask, your eyes widening as you squeeze Namjoon’s hand.

Yoongi leaps back in his chair, laughing out loud -- the satisfied laugh nearly sinister. Yoongi swipes a tear from the edge of his eye, holding his chest to calm his laughter.

“You two are so obvious. Not subtle at all.” He gasps out, still trying to calm his breaths. “I should fire you both for violating company policy.”

Yoongi bursts into laughter again as he sees your worried expressions, and he wags his finger through the tears.

“Luckily. L-Luckily, I own the company.” He heaves. “And I’m giving you a pass.” He blows out air.

“Well...well that was part of the news.” You say, squeezing Namjoon’s hand. “We’ve always wanted to start something that was our very own.” You continue, looking over at Namjoon, and he nods. Your lips open cautiously: “We’re both resigning as of today, our last day fully effective in two weeks.”

“You’re totally fucking with me, right?” Yoongi asks before he stands up. You shake your head in response, and Yoongi collapses back into his chair.

“I have to admit...I’ve never seen the two of you happier, if I’m being honest.” His head drops into his hands as he falls into processing the dire reveal. “You both came in here young. Bright-eyed and bushy tailed. But...I saw you both fade in real time as you became hard-nosed execs on behalf of my company.”

Yoongi motions over his face. “It’s like the all light went out from your eyes.” He admits, looking up to study the both of you.

“You were both pivotal in the success of this company over the years, and I can only thank you for that. If being with each other is what brings you happiness, that’s the least I can give you in return.” Yoongi’s voice trembles a bit, and he clears his throat out of embarrassment; he wasn’t one to be choked up.

“Just don’t leave and become my competitor.” He chuckles, coming around to the front of his desk. “Now get out of my office.” He motions, shooing the two of you.

You giggle at Namjoon, and the two of you rise up from your chairs. You approach Yoongi slowly, looking at him as he tries to hide his forlorn eyes.

“Can I hug you?” You ask, and before he objects you collapse into his arms. Yoongi protests as Namjoon comes around to hug him as well, and Yoongi laughs as he melts into the embrace.

✹✹✹

“Well, well, well. Now we’re both the boss. How do you suppose we have hot hate sex now?” You ask, your fingers twiddling through Namjoon’s hair as you’re nested on his lap.

Floor-to-ceiling windows line the walls as far as you can see, and Namjoon wraps his hands around your waist.

The two of you are in a new, empty office space, and your eyes rove over to the desks and offices waiting to be filled.

“The money from that Blackjack game you beat me in while we were in Vegas came in handy for this new building.” He whispers in your ear before he places a kiss on your neck.

“But still kinda mad at you for beating my ass in that.” He chuckles, his voice vibrating in your ear.

“Seriously gonna hate fuck you again remembering that.” He growls. You giggle as he tries to put his hand up your skirt, and you lightly elbow him in the abdomen.

“Stop being naughty. They’ll be here any minute.” You pull your skirt back down, standing up and leaning on the front of Namjoon’s new desk.

Jimin and Taehyung both walk through the door of Namjoon’s new office, and you smile at the both of them.

“Well, if it isn’t our pesky love fairies.” You cross your arms, and Namjoon circles to the front of the desk with his hands in his pockets.

“Are you two ready to start work?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Taehyung responds first, giving you a subtle bow.

“We already dropped our things off at our desks and fired up our laptops.”

“Can we get you anything?” Jimin inquires, his brows raising as he awaits an answer. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Neither.” You respond, and Namjoon reaches behind him to pick up two silver nameplates. He gestures for the two to approach, and he hands them the pieces of metal.

“Associate…” The title doesn’t register until he reads it again, his brows coming together in disbelief. “Associate?” Taehyung asks, his voice rising up.

You laugh as the two jump up and down together, glee spreading across their faces.

“You’ve both worked hard...in more ways than one.” You giggle, hooking your arm in Namjoon’s. He lays his head on top of yours to affirm your statement.

“Just to show you both that all of the late nights...and plotting was worth it.”

All of you laugh in unison.

The four of you link your arms over each others shoulders and giggle as you approach the large windows — admiring the dazzling view of the city below.

navigation: ch. i | ch. ii | ch. iii | finale | m.list | ao3

[visionsdiary]

Professor

He was acting strange. The chores got down quicker than normal and he was almost a butler when it came to doing what was told. Something that his natural born mischief could not allow. 

It only all made sense when he brought a paper to Draco asking if he could sign in order to participate in the newest class that only fifth years and up are able to take. 

Spiritual Magic. 

It was talked about here and there. How a former Ravenclaw found a way to harness her magic without a wand. It was incredibly hard to master and dangerous to attempt - so much so that Draco didn’t want his son to attend such a class. It has only been too years since his beloved Astoria passed, the slight dullness in his eyes was noticeable and he has done everything to make sure his son is safe as well as happy. 

This could take a terrible toll on him that he might not come back from and will be damned if he signs his sons future away. 

“Scorpius we’ve talked about this.” 

“Father just listen, I passed the exam with flying colors to get into this class. I’ll be one of the first students in a revolutionary study. Please don’t take it away.” 

He begged for this. When he used words like that he couldn’t just say no. Still he rather not loose his son.

“You don’t know the outcome of this practice. I’m not going to send you to a class to be a test rat.” 

Draco set the signed document into the gradually rising stack of papers. He inherited his fathers business and is maintaining his own potions line. Still all of that important work didn’t compare to the importance of his son so he relaxed and leaned back in his office chair. 

“The trails were already ran prior to securing it as a class. It was 93.7% successful with no casualties.” 

“Yes because people left the trails when they woke up in a hospital bed.” 

“Well that’s just rubbish.” 

Draco almost laughed as his sons childish behavior. He hid his smile taking a moment to adore how handsome his son actually has become. He’s sport his platinum hair with his mothers sad yet determined eyes. The memory of Astoria begging him to come spend time with his son made his amusement fade. His mother had the same stare every time, sure that she would pull him out of work and into his family. Their son. He sighed knowing he’s lost. 

“Alright.” 

“Yes!” Scorpius thrust his fist in the air for his victory.

“But,”

Victory smile falls, “Dang it.” 

“I have to speak with this so called Professor.”

“Dad-”

“He has to understand the consequences of any potential harm to my son.”

“She is the one who request I join. I doubt she’ll allow harm befall me or anyone for that matter.”

“Your teacher is a women?” 

_______

She is a women. Its not unnatural of course and maybe it makes sense for it to be a women for Draco thought only a madman would research such a thing. Wands are essential to controlling a wizards powers, without them who knows what chaos could unfold.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

This is what played through his mind as he walked with his son to the classroom of this women professor. It was only a few days before school started so the hallways echoed with the clicks of Draco's shoes. His suit was clean cut and his usual black. His sleeves were rolled up a bit and he held his jacket in one hand the heat already getting to him. He was already in a rush and the fast walking did not help very much. 

“Father.”

“Not now Scorpius we have to hurry I have some business to attend to soon.” 

“But father.” Scorpius griped his wrist. Draco flinched for a moment, being back in these hallways with the memories he tried to keep at bay he wanted to get out of here and soon. He stops before looking to his son whom is almost as tall as himself. 

“We past the door.” 

His tense shoulders relax, “Oh.” 

They turn back walking just a few ways back down before knocking on the door. 

a muffled, “Come in” sounded through and in they went. The classroom was big, no tables but some chair laying about. There was stairs leading up to a stage with a chalk board, books, and a desk where a women stood over her back facing the two. 

A window was on the upper right wall shining perfectly down flooding the classroom with a crisp morning dew. 

“Are you Ms. Wells?” She turned around her soft material midnight blue blouse moving with her, It was neatly tucked into her black slacks and he heels clicked bouncing the sound off the walls. He hair was dark brown and thick curls but her eyes were an almost unnatural honey. She was absolutely breath taking. 

How did I not notice you? He thought, Perhaps I was just to caught up in my arrogance.

“Yes that’s me.” 

He cleared his throat. It’s not the first time He’s seen a beautiful women before and also won’t be the last but the way the sun seems to make her glow left his speechless. She walked down the steps with a smile. 

“Scorpius, Lovely to see you again.” She shook his sons hand before turning her attention to him. 

“Draco Malfoy. It’s been a while.” They shook hands. Her hand was soft but her grip was sure.  Her smile wasn’t helping his case as he fumbled with his words for a moment. 

“I’d say the same but I do not believe we’ve spoken before.” 

“I suppose not. What can I do for you?” 

“Scorpius, wait outside alright?” 

“But-”

“No buts Scorpius.” Draco gave him a look. One Scorpius was very much familiar with. Without another word he stalked off, closing the door behind him. Once the clang of the door sounded Draco turned back to face the Professor. 

“So I looked into your practice. I’m sure you can understand my concern.” They both took a seat, pulling up a chair. 

“I do. Trust me the process wasn’t easy on me either. I won’t lie to you Mr. Malfoy there are some potential dangers but not in an extreme way. He might feel tired at times since our bodies are so used to exerting power through our wands and not our actual bodies. He might have to take a rest day but I assure you that the process is slow. 

He wouldn’t have a paper if he couldn’t pass the exertion test.” 

“Your practice is interesting and my son has taking a liking to it. I would love for him to master any study, I was told you are the one who requested he’d join.” 

She nods, “I was. He is a extremely bright boy and his chances at mastering this is so high. I would be very disappointed if you wouldn’t allow him to at least try.” 

Draco nods thinking about this in his mind. 

“I’m willing to sign the paper. I trust though that you understand if any harm befalls my son consequences I deem worthy will be given.” 

His face was serious and part of her was to crawl in a corner in hide from his intense stare. He’s a Malfoy. He inherited riches and created triple the amount in a span of just a few years. He powerful in wealth, contacts and magic so despite her calm exterior she trembled on the inside. 

Same old Malfoy making threats, only this time he can actually back it up. She thought. 

“Of course.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound as terrified as she was. 

She took in his stormy eyes and longer platinum hair, he had a after shave to match which only made him look more handsome. He grew up even better. The intense stare stayed for a moment. 

“Good.” He takes out the small packet that needs his signature. “I will be checking in on his progress every other week as well as his health. Take care of my son will you?” He signed the paper and handed it to Professor Wells. Her fingers only slightly brushing his warm ones. 

“I take care of all my students.” With that he shook her hand again holding on a little longer than needed before leaving. 

He was happy to tell the news to Scorpius, and the feeling only grew when his son hugged him with the biggest smile. It was something he wanted from his own father, and was glad that he had it with his son.

[sableflynn]

By flash and thunder fire - 13

Prompts: No. 10 (trail of blood), No. 19 (mourning loved one)

CW: blood, mentioned death and torture, guns, yet more head trauma

Taglist: @lave-e @justplainwhump @hurtmebeautifully @whumpymirages @slaintetowhump @justwhumpitwhumpitgood @whump-tr0pes @whump-me-all-night-long @greatandquestionablecontent @whumping-newbie @moose-teeth @butwhatifyouwrite

Also on Ao3

---

Katia stepped out of the cabin, breathed in the crisp morning air, and took in her surroundings.

She wasn’t in the city, or anywhere she recognized. A single dirt path led from the cabin into the woods surrounding her on all sides, and a few cars were parked in the grass. Mist clung to the ground in tendrils, dew dampening her ankles as she took a hesitant step forward.

She immediately stumbled. Barely managing to catch herself, she gasped, her head swimming. I’ve lost too much blood, she decided, and as she lifted her cuffed wrists she saw that several of the neat lines Savio had carved into her had broken open and were bleeding again. She watched the blood ooze for a dazed moment, and then her eyes trailed down to a fresher cut slicing along the very edge of her waist. Peters, pulling a knife from his belt and lunging at her—Peters lying on the ground with a pool of blood seeping around his head—she squeezed her eyes shut as if to block out the memories, and the cut on her stomach throbbed in pain.

I’m not walking out of here. She had no clue where she was and she was on the verge of passing out. Blinking, she stumbled against the passenger door of the nearest car, jerking the handle. Locked. She crossed the path to the other car and tried it, but it was locked as well.

Staring down the dirt path that disappeared into the woods, then turning back to face the cabin, her body thrummed with mingled dread and cold determination. I’m just going to find some keys, she told herself. Peters is—he won’t bother me any more, and Leila…

Movement through the window caught her eye. A figure walking through the house, shit. That other guy. What was his name? Anderson. She ducked down, like that would hide her if he decided to look out the window, stupid.

It was fine. There had to be a back entrance somewhere, or an open window. She would just crawl around the house. And pray no one noticed the trail of blood she was surely leaving streaked in the grass.

Now that she’d stepped outside, felt the grass on her skin and the cool breeze in her hair, she couldn’t let go of the thought that she might make it out of here. Her mind was crystal clear, singularly focused on escape. It’s fine. I just have to find some keys.

The damp dirt irritated her cuts, left muddy streaks on her skin and clothes. She kept close to the side of the house as she crawled. It was a peaceful morning, but not completely quiet; a few birds were chirping, the wind whispered through the trees, and Katia’s own labored breathing was oddly harsh in her own ears as she struggled to pull herself forward with her bound hands. Then she saw curtains billowing out a window in the morning breeze and her breath caught in her throat.

Slowly, so slowly, she lifted herself up to look in the window, braced to be met with the barrel of a gun to her face. There was only silence and a dark, empty room. She hoisted herself over the sill, hissing in pain as the movement aggravated her injuries. Her hands left smears of blood on the wood.

As she rolled gracelessly into the room, her eyes adjusted to the dim indoor lighting, and she took in her surroundings. An office of some sort, with a gleaming wooden desk and shelves lined with leather-bound books. She gripped the edge of the desk with slippery fingers and hauled herself to standing, eyes already searching the room, because if this was an office then maybe there was a phone.

She kept one eye on the door as she searched, praying no one would walk in on her. The desk was cluttered but organized, covered in files and loose sheets of paper. Her mind was racing as she shuffled through the clutter. If there was a phone, she could call Nic—no, not him. They’d already called him. She’d call the police, then, and then she’d curl up under this desk and wait for them to show up—no. She had no clue where she was, she wouldn’t know what to say to them, she couldn’t count on them to come here. She’d have to call them and then go find the keys and get away. But her head was still spinning and she felt dizzy every time she moved, and what if she passed out before she got to safety—

Her scanning eyes stopped on a photo among the papers and her blood ran cold. Picking it up with shaking hands, she held it up to the weak sunlight streaming through the window, confirming what she saw.

A photo of her and Nic, arm in arm, walking downtown together. She was wearing her sleek cocktail dress and her hair was styled in loose waves; he had that effortless charm he always had in his button-up and charcoal slacks. Katia remembered this night—the ballet was in town, so they’d gone to opening night, and then they’d gotten drinks downtown after at the rooftop bar. She could pick out the landmarks in this photo, recognize exactly where in the city they had been. She’d had no idea anyone was taking her photo.

Her gaze was drawn back to the assortment of files and papers on the desk, background clutter that now concealed something more sinister. She shuffled past several bills and found another photo, this one of Nic giving a speech at the opening of a new branch of the public library. She’d felt so proud when he got the invitation to speak, and he looked so confident and collected, standing up there and giving his lecture to the crowd.

The next photo was Nic, a gun in his hand, his expression stony.

She stared at the photo, her mind slowly processing. He wasn’t looking at the camera; his gaze was directed at someone just out of sight, and his eyes blazed with cold fury. He held the gun easily by his side, like it was just an extension of his arm. She couldn’t help but remember the time they’d gone to the shooting range together, just to try something new, and Nic had been so nervous and clumsy around the guns, as if he’d never held one before. The man in this photo seemed perfectly at ease.

Who had even taken this photo? Was Savio pulling his phone out in the middle of a—a business negotiation, snapping photos to use against him later? The sound of the shutter echoed in her mind, and she could almost see Savio shoving the phone in her face to capture the frozen image of her fear and pain.

Beneath that photo, she found a note, scrawled in handwriting she would recognize anywhere.

We need to talk about just who controls the Northeastern corridor, and about this rat of yours that wandered into my business. 1125 Strickland Avenue. July 25th. 11 pm. I’ll take a finger for every minute you’re late after that. Come alone, or I’ll take his entire hand.

There was a smear of reddish-brown blood in the corner of the page. Katia’s eyes glazed over as she stared at it, the words blurring as she lost focus. Suddenly she was in the kitchen of her home, holding a love letter Nic had left her before he took off for a business trip. The lo in alone looked just like the way he’d written love. The blood in the corner could be a heart.

A business trip.

Katia shut her eyes a moment to stop the tears from falling, clutching the paper in tight hands. She could deny Savio’s words; she could even convince herself Leila had been mistaken. But there was no mistaking the note she held, and the pointed brutality of the words written in her husband’s own hand. She took in a shaking breath and tried to allow herself to grieve the love she thought she had once had.

“Found her.”

Katia’s eyes flew open at the voice and she automatically stumbled a step back before she even processed what she was seeing. Anderson. She’d gotten wrapped up in the moment, let her guard down, and now he was watching her with hard eyes from the doorway. One hand held a phone up to his ear, and the other had a gun pointed directly at her.

“She was digging around in your office,” Anderson said to whoever was on the line—Savio, it must be Savio. “What—I’m not gonna kill her, Jesus, but I’m not—she killed Peters, for fuck’s sake.”

Katia’s heart was hammering as her vision narrowed to the gun pointed at her. The paper slipped from between her fingers as she slowly raised her cuffed hands, as if she could protect herself if he decided to shoot.

Anderson took another step into the room, his expression darkening. “You don’t need to come back here,” he snarled. “I have her completely under contro—”

A crack, and the deafening bang of a gunshot, and Katia threw herself back against the wall with a scream. For a moment she was terrified to move, braced against the wall with her eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the inevitable explosion of pain in her stomach or shoulder or heart.

The pain didn’t come. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

Anderson was sprawled on the ground. The phone and gun had both fallen from his hands and were lying next to him, a tinny voice just barely audible from the phone. Leila stood above him with a baton clutched in her hands, panting heavily.

They stared at each other for several heartbeats. Not breaking eye contact, Leila slowly crouched down and picked up the phone. She pressed the end call button without a word and let the phone drop from her hand as she straightened back up.

Finally, she spoke. “You didn’t use the bobby pin.”

Katia couldn’t help but give an incredulous laugh. “You think I know how to pick a lock?”

Leila smiled at that, but it was tinged with regret. “I’m sorry I didn’t do anything better. Or sooner.”

Katia swallowed. She couldn’t allow herself to imagine, just yet, how things would be different if Leila had acted sooner. A bit of blood dripped from the cut on her side. “Do you have a car?”

Leila’s eyes flicked down to the unconscious man at her feet, then back up to Katia. Her gaze lingered on the fresh cut, and she nodded.

Steeling herself, Katia stepped away from the wall and moved towards the other woman. She kept wary eyes on Leila as she approached, just barely daring to trust. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, and she managed to keep her voice from trembling.

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The Emptiest Part of Cities

People talk of cities as “full” and “cramped,” they say they don’t want to live in them because they’re too noisy and smelly and crowded, crowded, crowded. But Diana never saw it like that. There are plenty of places in cities that are empty, blank, flush with negative space. However, it’s not the pretty “face” of cities that are bare, not Times Square or Harajuku neighborhood or Piccadilly Square.

It’s the belly and the heart and the insides, the “bad” neighborhoods with office buildings with basements where barely even rats make nests. Car junk yards with only dead bodies of metal and stiff broken tires and wheels. Alleyways that are too dark and narrow for even bums to spend a night in.

There are empty places in cities, but there’s usually a reason for it. Reasons you don’t usually want to find out. Diana was coming home from her second job with cigarette smoke still powdering her clothes and the street lights just now flickering on.

It was the type of street where they rarely replaced the bulbs and cars sat on cinder blocks and the rest of Chicago sent blankets and food bank stuff to in the winters. It was fine though, it fit her lifestyle well enough. After Diana cut all her hair off and learned to growl instead of smile she had been fine on her own as she walked home in the evenings.

She had her earbuds in and was listening to a podcast on the true crime murder of Spider Savage when a figure caught her eye. Diana was taught to never stop for anyone in most parts of the city, but this was a woman she recognized.

Diana took an earbud out as an older woman in a lank floral dress stood and stared down a narrow side street. Her face was blank and mouth slightly parted. Her hands were stiff beside her like she forgot how to move them and her body was tense with pinched shoulder blades. Her purse was dropped on the ground beside her.

“Miss Hernandez?” Diana asked tentatively.

The older woman had her hair in a loose bun and there were deep wrinkles under her mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there before. She glanced over toward Diana after a pause like she was traveling across several state lines just to reach her.

“Did you hear that?” She whispered and her lips barely moved as she said it.

Diana frowned slightly and she went to stand next to the woman. “Are you, uh, feeling alright?” She whispered because there was something breakable about Miss Hernandez’s expression. “I mean, how… have you been?”

It was a non-question. Diana knew how the other woman was doing since last October, it had been year now, and she knew how she was doing after the amber alert had been sent out. Very, very badly.

Her eyes turned back to the side street. “Listen…” She said softly and Diana looked down the alley.

It looked like a normal street that wasn’t really a street, one of those caverns of the city that was carved out for no discernible reason. The shops on either side didn’t have any fire escapes leading down onto it’s damp concrete. Some trash bags were piled up haphazardly by the walls, but no hulking green bins were situated in the small space.

The walls around it were brick and stone and the space would only be big enough for them to walk into side by side if their shoulders were touching. It was narrow and smelled of something wet and slightly turned. Like bad milk maybe.

The hairs on Diana’s arm started to stand on end as she really looked down the street more carefully. There were no lights casting any glow down its dank insides. Her neck started to prickle as she realized there were no windows facing into the street. It was just walls and ground, and distant polluted skies above.

It was a long several minutes of silence with Miss Hernandez standing beside her. She was the type of woman who wanted to join a community garden if she ever got time off. She wanted to do more needlework that said things like “Not Taking Stupid Questions at This Time” if she ever got time off. She was the type of woman who kept the door of the apartment open when she was cooking and hated church music but went every Sunday nonetheless.

Well, that was her before October. Now she was mostly long faces and urgent phone conversations that ended with red eyes.

It was several long minutes with Diana standing there in silence before she turned to Miss Hernandez. “Want me to take you home?”

She shook her head and it came. Soft, and distant, and wispy.

“I dunno…” A small voice called with girlish tickle to the words. “It’s a little late.”

The words sounded like nonsense, but the voice itself was unmistakable. “Miss Hernandez,” Diana said quickly and whipped around, “That can’t be Dominique.”

Miss Hernandez gave her one short look and then straightened up. “So you do hear it too.” She started walking.

Diana didn’t want to manhandle a middle-aged woman, but there were no windows facing the inside of this alley. “Wait.” She grabbed for Miss Hernandez, but she was already out of reach and plodding down the street with her practical clogs clacking.

Diana started jogging after her.

“Huh, I’m not sure.” The child’s voice said from somewhere far ahead.

“Dominique!” Miss Hernandez called and her pace quickened. “Sunshine.”

Diana reached for her, “you can’t.”

Miss Hernandez turned with a surprising amount of force and pushed Diana away. “I have to. If there’s any chance, I have to.” She spat, “don’t try and stop me.”

Diana stood there for a moment, dumbstruck. This wasn’t the type of woman to raise her voice, but there was a fire to her eyes that could have burned down Chicago a second time.

“If you say so…” Dominique said softly from somewhere ahead.

Miss Hernandez kept walking.

Diana glanced at the place where the narrow street turned and thought about turning around. She could go home and come back later with more people. She even considered calling the police, but she doubted that would do anything good. Miss Hernandez took a left turn and disappeared.

And she was the woman who knocked on Diana’s door on Christmas when she was alone and asked if she wanted something hot to eat. She bought her candles to light when her cat died. She had lived in her hall ever since Diana was kicked out of her own home.

Diana took a deep breath and reached into her purse to get her keys out. She put each one between her fists like wolverine claws and then followed after.

The next turn brought them to someplace that didn’t look like it should exist from the outside. The walls opened up and these strange wooden boxes piled high one either side, they looked like old-fashioned crates and thick canvas fabric draped over them.

Diana covered her nose as the smell of rotten milk sharpened. “Miss Hernandez,” Diana reached deep inside herself for something more. Something soft to offer or comfort to provide. “She’s been gone for a year. Please…”

Bits of wood were strewn across the ground as they kept walking. Boxes and canvas and shards of wood piled high on either side of them with something looming at the end of it all.

Diana took another deep breath but rotten milk layered over her tongue and something even more putrid under that. She forced herself not to gag.

She finally reached out and grabbed Miss Hernandez’s shoulder to stop her.

Miss Hernandez wasn’t looking at her though. She was looking at the end of the street, “Dominique?”

“Alright, sure, I’m coming.” The girl’s voice was crisp and clear through the night air and there was no doubt it was hers.

“Please! Come back,” Diana could feel her shaking. “We can talk about it. I won’t be mad. Never.”

“I’m coming.” The wall itself seemed to shifted and Diana realized there was something beside them. Tucked in between the boxes and so still she hadn’t noticed before.

She turned and it was not Dominique.

There are many empty parts of cities. Caverns and hollows and places where your footsteps echo and echo and echo. And they are empty for a reason.

He was twice the size of a grown man and just as broad. Covered in coarse brown hair. He had arms that reached all the way down and knuckles that rested on the ground. His head was covered in the skull of a deer-- either placed there or grown there.

The skull of the deer opened up and a voice drifted out. “Are you sure?” Dominique’s voice was sweet and careful as it left the mouth of the beast.

“Run,” Diana wasn’t a brave person, but she had already made her wolverine claws. “It can’t have both of you!” She pushed Miss Hernandez who barely got a few steps away.

A hulking hand reached for her throat and Diana punched upward. She connected with its thick wrist and knocked the hand away.

A new voice came out of the mask and it wasn’t a young girl. It started low and crooning at first but then it was a singular mash of sound: aaaaaaahhh.

Voices, ten, twenty, thirty streamed out of the mask all at once. “Aaaaaah!”

“I said run!” She pushed Miss Hernandez again who finally started to teeter in the other direction. Diana went to follow, but a hand crashed down in front of her and blocked her path.

“What is that?!” A woman’s voice yelled from inside the mask.

“You fucking ugly bastard.” A man’s voice cried out.

“What is this a joke?” A teenager’s voice broke across the words.

“Run!” The last voice sounded familiar. Far too familiar. The creature’s face loomed closer and closer with a deliberate slowness. Diana tried to back up, but found herself hitting another pile of boxes behind her.

“Are you… are you friendly?” The last voice was a young girl. The mouth was wide open now and the smell of rotten milk flooded over her. There were teeth like needles on the inside.

Diana opened her mouth and despite herself she let out a shriek. “Aaah!” But the scream wasn’t coming from inside her. The beast retracted his hands around her middle and lifted her off the ground. The fight seemed to leave her body as no sound came from Diana’s voice. It was gone.

She looked up, and there was sky, the last thing she saw, no stars, no moon, and no clouds, but there was deep, blue depthless sky. And perhaps that is the emptiest part of cities. Just the sky.

[sunlitangles]

Prose and Cons

I had the pleasure of also writing a fic for the @grishaversebigbang! Please go check out the other wonderful fics written by my fellow Etherealki. 💙

Thank you to my Corporalki @jdobrski and my sensitivity readers @niecity, @nekonamicosplay, and @wybiegowritey

And my talented Materialki (please check their pieces out and show them some love):

@ninaaswaffles x

@artzy-lia-art x

@dingy-doodles​  x

@protec-kuwei-yul-bo x

Summary: When his father kicks him out of America in disgrace, Wylan leaves for London looking for opportunity. He loves telling stories and sharing knowledge, so when the publishing company Crows Publishing accepts his application as a writer, he is overjoyed. There’s only one problem- Wylan can’t physically write. The solution to this stumbles into his life as Jesper Fahey, the anonymous author of popular war-time novels and coworker. They quickly enter a co-writer relationship, but maybe Wylan wants it to be more. The pair starts to get closer, but it isn’t long before Wylan gets caught up in the secret goings of the Crows Publishing company.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26316439/chapters/64080943

Keep reading after the cut for chapter one! 

“Mister Van Eck, I simply must inform you that you are not qualified for this job,” said the man. Wylan sighed and glared at the stout man sitting before him. “Mr. Rollins, I really need this job. I don’t have anywhere to go, and I-” Wylan started but was quickly cut off. “Van Eck, I couldn’t give a damn. Now, please see yourself out of my office,” Mr. Rollins said, spit flying out of his mouth. He didn’t give Wylan another look, proceeding to make a ‘shooing’ gesture and turned back to his records. Wylan grimaced and wiped his face with his sleeve.

Wylan stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in his tweed blazer. He grabbed the strap of his leather bag as Mr. Rollins lit a cigar. The beady gaze of the older man followed Wylan out of the office, and as Wylan stepped outside into the cool autumn breeze, the noisy bustle of London streets overwhelmed him. Wylan resisted the urge to plug his ears, which were not accustomed to the din. The countryside was never this loud. He missed the scent of the rolling fields, the clean autumn breezes, and the subtle hints of life on the farms nearby. He sighed disdainfully and stepped into the chaotic streets of London.

The intricately built buildings arched high above Wylan, seemingly watching his every move. What am I supposed to do now? His bag thumped against his side as he strolled the uneven cobblestone, dodging other pedestrians in long coats and large skirts. He was alone in this damn city with no steady source of income. If only my dad could see me now, Wylan thought, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth. He walked down Fleet Street, a sour expression stuck on his pale face. He strolled past the brightly lit shops of 36th street, the warm smells of the bakery wafting towards him. He stopped in front of the shop, observing the buttery pastries and golden rolls in the shop window. The soft light emanating from the bakery illuminated workers bustling around inside, putting more dough in the oven and piping thick jam on top of fluffy cakes. His mouth watered at the sight of flakey scones and he longed to taste at least one warm confectionery but tore himself away from the shop, turning back to the crowded streets. He certainly didn’t have the money for those types of luxuries yet.

He continued down the street, avoiding the large skirt of a beautiful fair-skinned brunette who strutted as if she owned the town. Her red dress flaunted her generous, soft body. She was fairly plump, and Wylan could tell her corset was laced far larger than customary. He stared as she bounced down the street, entering the bakery with a wide grin on her face. The other patrons stared after her, their expressions a mix of disgust and confusion. Wylan grinned to himself.

Loose pebbles skittered down the path as Wylan continued to make his way down to the run-down hotel that he called home for the time being. He’d managed to make enough money doing odd jobs between university classes to keep himself out of the streets, but if Wylan didn’t find steady work soon, he’d surely be down on his luck. He hurried down the cobblestone streets until he reached the hotel. The front needed a new paint job and windows were in a serious need of cleaning, but the rooms were in good enough condition. He stepped inside the lobby, which was empty save for a Suli family who waited on the moth-eaten couch and a tall, well-dressed man speaking quietly with the concierge. Trudging up the stairs, Wylan searched for his room number, turning right and then forward. He slid his key into the lock, taking off his jacket as he stepped into his hotel room.

He examined his belongings, anxiously making sure nothing was missing. Earlier in the week, he had experienced a run-in with a maid who had taken a liking to rifle through his belongings, looking through his music notebooks and pockets for spare change. He sighed in relief as he realized none of his belongings were swiped. Wylan could hear horses trotting along the street below him, barkers shouting at passerby and the mumble of conversations over watered-down tea and lumpy rice pudding. He still couldn’t believe he was in London. It felt a lot bigger, even though it was barely big enough to fit a fraction of America. He sat down at the tiny desk in the corner of the room, lit by the setting sun. Sunlight streamed through the dusty window, illuminating his fiery copper-red hair. Setting his head in his hands, he rubbed his temples, willing the stress of the day to disappear.

He had no idea how he was going to sustain himself for much longer. The funds that his dad had sent him off with were running low, and it would only be a few more weeks until he would be kicked to the streets with only the clothes off his back and a university scholarship, forced to feed himself and fend off the rats and pests that lurked in the dark alleys. According to his calculations, he would be able to afford his room for three weeks if he cut back on his food budget and skipped meals. He groaned as he pushed himself out of the creaky wood chair, the moth-eaten upholstered cushion leaving dust on his nice black pants. Brushing himself off, he collected his school work from his leather bag. Thick leather-bound books and spare pieces of paper stared up at mockingly, the neat font gleaming under the setting sun. Rubbing his eyes, Wylan attempted to make out the words written on the crisp pieces of parchment but gave up after a few tedious moments.

Mind still preoccupied, Wylan grabbed his flute. The cool metal was familiar to his smooth hands, the brass instantly calming his nerves. Grabbing a few sets of sheet music that he had already memorized, he brought his flute to his mouth and began to play.

As the stars twinkled in the midnight blue sky outside his window, Wylan fought to ignore the rumble of his stomach. He had played for hours, taking breaks to try to read the work he was assigned but he quickly gave up; the frustration consumed him as simple words mocked him. He craved a flakey pastry from the bakery he’d passed earlier, but the almost non-existent weight of the money in his pocket reminded him that indulging in such luxuries would not suit him well. He fiddled with the cuff of his shirt, wondering if he could afford to buy potatoes at the grocer. Deciding to go food shopping tomorrow, Wylan got himself ready for bed, humming under his breath as the crows chirped in the distance.

*** The streets of London were never quiet at night, Wylan had soon realized after his first night at the hotel. The drunken steps of men stumbling out of bars and their loud, slurred voices filled the streets night after night near the gambling halls and pubs while the sound of horses trotting through the cobblestone alleys mixed with quiet sighs of private theatricals. Tonight, Wylan caught wind of a few conversations, most of them noisy neighbors complaining about the prices of tea and whatever was in the paper that morning. Curling up on the window sill, he felt the cool London air blow into his room.

“Brekker said he would be here by now,” mumbled a gruff voice. The voice was coming from a stocky man, leaning against a building with a few companions by his side. The man to his right drawled in a kaelish accent, “Damn that kid. I can’t stand him.” “Did you hear what happened to Thomas today?” a blond man asked, rolling his neck. Fiddling with the pistols at his hips, a Zemini man replied, “Did Brekker con him?” The blond man nodded and replied, “Got ‘em good, too. I heard he got all of Thomas’ inheritance. Didn’t even see it coming.” The group of men continued to converse, loudly complaining about “Brekker”.

Wylan tuned out the rest of the conversation, opting to watch the early morning carriages drive across the roads. He watched rats scour the streets below, rotten apple cores littering the darkest corners of the alleyway. A young couple took a stroll along the other side of the street, speaking to each other in earnest. Wylan wondered what that was like. To have someone to tell everything to. Try as he might, Wylan’s father never could seem to get Wylan interested in the town girls. He just didn’t fancy any old girl, right? That had to have been the explanation for his blunt taste in women. They were just so peculiar. He often felt as if he never really liked any of them.

“Damn Brekker, can’t seem to keep his nose outta people’s business,” complained the man with the kaelish accent, snapping Wylan out of his daydreaming, “Do you reckon The Dregs will write something about Thomas?” Wylan knew that The Dregs was a popular newspaper in London, published by Crows Publishing. The Zemini man snorted and replied, “It’s a newspaper and publishing company.” “So? They can’t possibly know everything.” “You would be surprised, and I don’t read their shit. You’re the one reading penny bloods from Crows Publishing.”

Wylan knew about the penny bloods that were taking the country up by a storm. His neighbors often gossiped about them with their friends and family, and his classmates read them at school. They formed clubs where they would read them aloud and catch up on the latest episode. Wylan joined a few of those clubs, enjoying the way the writing sounded and taking note of the masterful ways they were written. The most popular penny bloods were written by a man named Kit Young starring a plot of war- novels and by the sounds of it, they were almost the most popular penny bloods in London, second only to a series of detective penny bloods published by the Dime Lions publishing company. Wylan heard that they told tales of crime and detection in America, but he didn’t find the descriptions as intriguing as the bloods written by Kit Young. Wylan participated in one of the clubs for Mr. Young’s stories and he latched on to every one of his words, but he had to stop going to the clubs as he needed to find work more than participate in leisure. He laughed bitterly as he thought about the war bloods and continued to ponder the on-goings of Crows Publishing.

Wylan had dared to hope that he could potentially be hired at the publishing company. He imagined conversing with his coworkers, and hopefully friends, about the latest stories and articles looking to be published. He imagined laughter spilling out of him and his coworkers and them sharing a mutual love for stories, him hopefully writing successful penny bloods that took the country by a storm. He wondered what he would do if he met Kit Young, and how he would praise the man for writing the stories that kept almost all of London intrigued. He let his imagination roam free until the sun rose over the gray city.

***

Though he was drowsy from his lack of sleep, Wylan tried to pay attention to the lesson his English professor was droning on about. He had yet to read the book assigned and he tried to understand what Professor Williams was saying about the metaphors in the book, but the encounter he witnessed from last night had been playing on repeat. The name “Crows Publishing” stuck out to him and kept nagging in the back of his mind. Wylan got chills down his spine each time he thought about how “Brekker” worked the gang and how disturbingly good he was at getting what he wanted. Doodling on the piece of paper in front of him, Wylan continued to ponder the mystery of Crows Publishing. Professor Williams announced that he would be calling on students, effectively breaking Wylan out of his stupor. Wylan silently prayed that he wouldn’t be called on as his professor scanned the room for participants. Though of course, Professor Williams decided it would be the perfect time to call on him.

Locking eyes with Wylan, his professor said, “Mr. Van Eck, what did you think about the relationship between Victor and his monster?” Wylan gulped nervously, the room feeling awfully hot and stuffy. “I found their relationship, uh, quite intriguing.” Professor Williams raised his eyebrow in expectation, “Anything else, Mr. Van Eck?” “Uh, I thought that Victor treated the monster unfairly and that maybe the author was commenting on the times,” Wylan said, balling his hands into fists. He thanked the lord that Mary Shelley’s work was popular enough for him to have known the plot. His breathing began to get shallow, and he focused on simply breathing in and out to avoid getting too worked up.

Professor Williams sighed, nodded, and called on another student. Wylan felt the eyes of his classmates burning holes into the back of his head. Wylan shifted uncomfortably, digging his fingernails into his sweaty palms. He focused intently on the paper in front of him, fighting the blush creeping up his neck and heating his ears. He silently wished for the floor to open up and devour him; anything would be better than sitting here embarrassed.

As the class ended and students were packing up their belongings, Wylan felt a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him from exiting the classroom. “Van Eck. Hold on,” said Professor Williams. A few moments after all the students had sifted through the door, he leaned against his oak desk, crossing his ankles and watching Wylan intently. Wylan gulped and settled his hands on the strap of his leather bag. “You wanted to see me, Professor?” Wylan said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. “In fact, yes, Mr. Van Eck. Your performance in my class has been… less than satisfactory. I am quite aware of your, ahem,” Professor Williams cleared his throat, “difficulties with reading and writing, and I would like to help you.” Wylan looked towards the ground, “I’m sorry, Professor.” “I have a tutor willing to help you. I hope you accept this offer, as I truly think it would help you.” Wylan nodded, “I accept. Thanks.” Professor Williams smiled slightly. “Let me know when you’re available and I will let your tutor know. Don’t worry about the finances, I have it handled.” Wylan walked out the classroom, cheeks hot. His professor was paying for his tutoring sessions, and Wylan couldn’t help feeling useless. He wanted to think that the tutor could help him, but he was too overwhelmed by the fact that another human being had to know about his inability to read and write. Wylan silently decided to somehow find a way to pay his professor back; his search for a job becoming his top priority.

***

Professor Williams had found Wylan a tutor, all right. He was a 19-year-old boy with hints of patchy peach fuzz along his upper lip. His blonde hair was gelled back and he wrote a purple bowtie, rather than the standard university’s blue. Wylan sat down at the library table his tutor, Joost, had found. Joost pulled out an intimidating stack of books and Wylan eyed the stack nervously. “I think we should start with the book Professor Williams assigned to us. Do you have a copy?” Joost asked with a pretentious air in his voice. Wylan smiled, narrowing his eyes. He already disliked Joost.

“I do. It’s required, you know,” he said, the fake smile slathered on his face. If his jab affected Joost in any way, he didn’t show it. Joost eyed Wylan up and down, waiting for him to pull out his book. Wylan gritted his teeth and grabbed it out of his bag. Joost smiled and opened his heavily- dog eared copy. “Let’s start with chapter one. Do you know what happens?” Wylan bit his tongue to stop himself from lashing out at the blonde boy. “I don’t remember.” Joost cleared his throat arrogantly. “Then open your book to chapter one.” Wylan groaned internally as he began his slow descent into hell. He tried to read the words printed on the smooth sheets of paper, attempting to keep up with Joost’s monotone droning. After ‘reading’ the first chapter, Joost looked at Wylan expectantly. “Now, can you finally tell me what happens in this chapter?” Joost looked at Wylan intently, and Wylan dropped his head into his hands, pulling on the strands of his hair. This was clearly not going to work.

*** No matter how well-intending Joost was, he was not the tutor for Wylan. Wylan endured two grueling weeks of his pretentious personality and he couldn’t stand how Joost treated him like the scum under his shoe. Wylan sagged in his seat, pretending to read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as Professor Williams directed them to a certain part of the book. He glanced at the pages, scanning the words printed on the cream pages. As the rest of the class went on, Wylan avoided eye-contact with Professor Williams and Joost. He couldn’t stand the way Joost kept glancing at him. Wylan silently hoped that the class would be dismissed quickly.

Professor Williams held Wylan back at the end of class, grabbing his shoulder as he tried walking out of the door. “I take that tutoring with Mr. Van Poel didn’t go well,” his professor said after the students cleared out of the room. Wylan internally rolled his eyes, heat crawling up the back of his neck, “Joost was… fine.” Professor Williams pursed his lips. “I’ll find you another tutor, Wylan.” Wylan nodded, embarrassed of his additional request, and quickly thanked him and sprinted out of the room. As he rushed down the hallway, he felt his spirits deflate. Wylan couldn’t believe he’d already needed a new tutor. He already felt bad enough that his professor was paying for it, and now he’d complained about his old one? In times like these, he thought that maybe it was a good thing he could no longer disgrace the family name.

***

The library he’d agreed to meet up at was on campus, and it stretched a sizable distance. It had a big, arching front doorway and, once inside, beautiful oak shelves lining up the tall ceilings all the way to the back. Wylan held down a shaky breath thinking about the words lining those pages, words that he couldn’t read. It was almost suffocating. There were about fifteen people spread around the library’s common area, including a plump, whiskery little man sitting at the front desk. Wylan shuffled his way over. “Hi, sorry, I’m looking for a- um,” he glanced at the slip with the address and his tutor’s name, a name that he already memorized but he looked at the slip nonetheless, “Jesper Fahey?” “Always great to meet a fan,” called a rich, deep voice behind Wylan. He spun on his heel, coming face to face with a tall man with a rich-umber complexion. The confident expression on his handsome face made Wylan’s heartbeat quicken. “Hi, I’m uh- Wylan Eck Van. Uh- sorry, Wylan Van Eck. I’m assuming you’re Jesper Fahey?” Wylan said, stumbling over his words. “That’s my name,” the stranger said, raising his eyebrows in amusement, “And nice to meet you, Wylan.” Wylan reached his hand out for a handshake, but Jesper started down the hallway, looking for a table to sit at. The whiskery man stared at Jesper and went back to reading, smoking his cigarette when Wylan turned back to him. “Uh- wait up!” Wylan called, dashing to catch up with Jesper. Finding an unoccupied desk in the middle of the library, Jesper sat down, pulling out various books from his worn messenger bag. Wylan sat down, mimicking Jesper’s actions. “So…” Wylan started, glancing around the musty library, “What subject should we start with today?” Jesper looked up from his bag, pulling a textbook out. “I was thinking we could do English. Professor Williams told me you were struggling with the reading assignment?” Jesper confirmed, and Wylan glanced down at his hands, heat flushing his cheeks. Clearing his throat, Wylan replied, “Yeah. Something like that.” Jesper gave him a wide smile and said, “It’s fine, Mr. Van Eck. So, how far are you into the book?” “I haven’t- um, I haven’t started it,” Wylan clenched his fists tight, “I can’t read… it. I can’t read.” Jesper’s playful smile dropped just enough for Wylan to feel embarrassment flood over him. “Oh,” Jesper simply said, scrunching his eyebrows, “Well, we can either read it together or I could give you a brief summary. Williams said that we should be at chapter four by now so I highly recommend the summary.” Jesper winked. Wylan took a deep breath and felt the tension leave his body. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

[the-fiction-witch]

Escape P2 : stuck together

MOVIE STAR WARS THE FORCE AWAKENS

COUPLE THANISSON X READER

RATING FUNNY

I loaded everything up in the escape pod getting a launch organized and just as I keyed it in I felt the ship take a hit, alarms blazing and the mass of panic above me. I quickly launched the pod and did my best to keep myself up but I was quickly floored by the violent ejection. I tried to keep focused as I saw the rebel ships attacking the finalizer if I didn't know better I'd say they where to take it down. I feared for Bill, for my friends and the civilians aboard but I knew the first order would never let them go. I took another jolt as I hit into the atmosphere of the nearest habitable planet, the third moon of Lentos I would be safe there, and soon enough the pod hit the ground and the door opened.

"Fuck! I know it's emergency escape but… a little gentler couldn't kill you" I sighed as I climbed out onto the bright blue grass, I had landed the pod fine it's cool open wide things scattered all over the floor from the landing, like a little strange sci-fi house sat into the dirt of this world, the grass blue around me, with bright white flowers growing, the pod had landed by a source of fresh water as it was programed to, a beautiful folecent pink waterfall against black rocks coming out into a beautiful pond beside the pod. The air was so fresh, crisp and clean. There was a tall wood of orange trees around the clearing and waterfall. In all honesty I didn't mind it, it was beautiful here. 

But my peace was rather suddenly interrupted, by a yell of complaint.

"UUUUGHHHHH! What stupid little bastard has upturned my whole damn-" the voice began as a girl climbed out of the pod door looking dishevelled and confused she was humanoid like me with bright purple hair, and some little green lines across her face, she was undeniably increadly beautiful, she stood in a white tank top and red jumpsuit tied around her waist some bands up her arm, her hair in a strange braid. I couldn't deny I looked as confused too see her as she did to see me. "Who are you?"

"Who are you?" I asked her

"I asked you first, and what have you done to my pod?"

"Your pod? What on earth are you talking about?"

"Who are you!"

"Officer Thanisson, first order officer stationed aboard the finalizer, three years into tour aboard,... Departure control." I explained and her first move confused me. She lifted her shirt, I couldn't keep my eyes off her and what she was doing as she pulled her shirt up I had already noticed her rather… uhh voluptuous breasts but I saw under her shirt was a holster she grabbed a knife and went for me I held her back as best I could getting her down into the grass pinning her hands above her head and knocking the knife from her hand "now...you tell me. Who are you?" I ordered her 

"Never!"

"Who are you! And why did you just try to…."

"Let me go!" She kicked and complained trying get out my grip but I put as much of my weight in her as I could even if I didn't have much to do so

"I will when you tell me"

"Ughh fine!" She complained "y/n y/l/n. First commanding officer of the rebel alliance for sectors nine through twelve" she explained and I froze moving away from her a moment

"You- you're a rebel?"

"And your a first order rat"

"What were you doing in the pod?"

"I was stationed in the finalizer, tracking, coding, keeping an eye" she explained

"You'd been hiding out in the escape pod this whole time?"

"Yes, they have quarters, life support systems, escape pods are basically livable ships in their own right. I've been hiding since pento three"

"Pento three! That was galaxies back"

"I know"

"You… you're transmissions in and out, that's what I was picking up on my scanner, this whole time my little radio was, pick up you and your messages down in the pods?"

"I assume so." She says "are you going to kill me?"

"I should." I told her "but… I deserted. I'm no better than you"

"You'd have died if you hadn't"

"I know. The first order expects you… to die at your post. For the order."

"You didn't wanna die?"

"I didn't want to March blindly into my own death." I told her "either way we're dead. Or worse, the first order finds us I'm dead for desertion, and you're dead for being a rebel. The rebels find us they'll execute me anyway. And if some other ship finds us… death would be a welcome treat for where we'd end up"

"Someone will find us. Where are we?"

"First habitable planet the pod found, third moon of Lentos"

"... Wait what?"

"We're on the third moon of Lentos." I told her again she seemed panicked rushing back into the pod and checking the computer seeing I was right 

"You. Absolute. Fucking. Idiot!" She yelled throwing various things from the pod floor at me "Lentos! Is closed! The whole system! Is in quarantine!" 

"In what!"

"You dumb ass first order boys never heard of the Lentos flu! That causes lung dry, black mucus, skin blistering, and a horrible horrible death!" 

"How do you catch it!"

"You breath Lentos oxygen you dumb ass! The whole system is in a ultraviolet sun causing all animals and vegetation to form in rainbow luminescent colours!" She yelled pointing to the said environment we were now in. "And makes them release a compound that gives all non Lentos matter the Lentos flu"

"Ohh god. We're dead!" I Screamed trying so hard not to breathe.

"We guess we don't need to worry because knowone is coming to get us. And we'll be lucky were not dead within the week."

"There has to be something call a nurse or something" I explain rushing into the pod shutting the door into a tight airlock and I found the Lentos monitoring system and rang them up and a robotic voice answered

"Hello, due to Lentos flu our system is in quarantine, if you have businesses with a resident they are dead, for symptoms press one. For drop off press two. For all other issues press three."

I pressed three and it finally rang and reaches a man at a desk 

"Hello how can I help you today?"

"Hi, yeah uhh we just had an emergency evaluation from…. Our ship" I lied "were in an escape pod on Lentos three… we uhh we may have been exposed to the oxygen… what do we do?" I asked 

"Okay, you are aware you will be fined sixty nine credits for entering the planet due to quarantine restrictions." He says 

"But we crashed! In an escape pod!" Y/n complained

"Sorry but that's the rules"

"It's fine we'll pay it, what do we do?" I asked

"Quick question are you humanoid?"

"Yes, humanoid" y/n yelled

"Yes we're both humanoid."

"Okay then now you have both definitely taken a lung full of the oxygen?"

"Yes, what's going to happen to us?" Y/n asks 

"Likely not very much you see an interesting fact about Lentos flu is that humanoids reaction to is is actually very minimal the issue is once you take even a mouth full of that oxygen into your body Lentos flu fuses to human lung tissue meaning yes you are one hundred percent both now infected with Lentos flu however humanoids don't suffer symptoms or even death your just carriers if we let you out you'll be carrying the flu until your very death"

"So… it won't kill us?"

"It's a fifteen thousand to one chance you'll even get a fever" 

"Ohh. So we're carriers, what does that mean?"

"It means you need to stay on quarantine can't have the flu getting out"

"Okay, so how long for?" She asks 

"Uhh just let me translate it to humanoid life spans, one hundred and sixty two years."

"One… one hundred and sixty years!" I yelled "so we're stuck here till we either get the flu and die or die naturally?"

"I'm afraid so"

"Isn't there another option?" She asks

"We can kill you now. If you'd prefer?"

"So we're stuck here indefinitely?"

"Yes we can start up a supply delivery and other such deliveries for needed items have a nice day." He said before it cut off

"So… I guess we're stuck here together"

"I guess so" she sighed "I can the bedroom of the pod you can have the shitty room with the hammock"

"What why!"

"Because I'm a girl, and I called it" she says walking to get her things sorted.

[deathvalleyqueen]

**Finn technically belongs to @cornfedcryptid​ but I have aunt rights to use them for this **

Loss of Innocence - Grace Seed - New Dawn

It took most of the day for Grace and Finn to make their way to the old abandoned Armory. They barely spoke, they had been raised as siblings, they were the closest of friends but neither of them quite knew how to process the emotions they were about to unearth. They had heard one set of stories from their parents about the events that led to the Collapse, but in the month they had spent with Carmina and her mother in Prosperity most of what they had known about their parents, their family and by extension themselves was called into question. Kim Rye, no matter how well meaning her intentions, had perhaps told too much of the truth to the pair. Not fully considering that they probably had no idea of the extent that their family had a chokehold over the county. 

Pulling up outside the bunker, Grace threw the truck into park and as she turned to Finn. “Are you sure you want to go inside?” 

“Am I ten years old, Grace Lynn?” Finn quipped sharply as they pursed their lips and ran their hand nervously through their short dark hair. “I mean, how bad could Dad have really been? Really... our dad... some monster?” 

Grace pondered what Finn had said. Her crisp blue eyes fell upon the dash as she muttered. “Well, it can’t be worse than what Kim said and you are right.” Grace shrugged. The Jacob Seed who raised her was a strict parent, sure. He taught her to shoot as soon as she was big enough to hold a rifle. But he was not some violent monster who wanted to kill anything he deemed weak and unworthy. That wasn’t her ‘dad’. “Dad was a solider, sure he killed people... but it was war right?” 

“Right? Dad always said there are casualties in a war and we accept that,” Finn repeated far more solemn than Grace had recalled seeing them in years. The pair exited in the truck and their respective animals followed suit. Timber at Grace’s heels. Mango taking her time as she padded behind Finn. 

They took their time getting into the Armory, it had seen better days and there were dangers around every corner. “SHIT!” Grace screamed as she walked directly into a spider web with a scream. 

Finn started cackling behind her clutching their pieced together saw launcher. “Well look where you are going dumbass.” 

“Listen, I am still bigger than you...” Grace snapped quickly, wiping her face to get the rest of the web off. “I will fucking whomp you one right quick if you don’t knock it off...” 

“Rawr...” Finn mocked as they waggled their head. 

Grace’s eyes narrowed on her sibling for a moment before she glanced down at Timber and scratched his head. “You are now my favorite family member Timmy... and ya know what... you always should have been.” 

Finn scoffed and thew their head back “How dare you, you wound me sister... WOUND ME!” They clutch their hands to their chest and mock being fatally wounded. At the gesture Mango, the cougar, rolls on to her back and puts her paws into the air. Faking her own death. 

Grace and Timber just share a glance before Grace shakes her head and continues down the hall. “Come on Finn, before the rats find us..” 

“RATS?” Finn squeaked, stopping their show and chasing after Grace who was already a good distance away. “Sister! Don’t leave me, please for the love of Christmas...” Grace rolled her eyes as Finn settled beside her and Timber, reaching down and scratching the dog’s head. 

It took them nearly a half hour to reach what they assumed was once Jacob’s office, or rather one of them. It for the most part was fairly intact. There were still papers in folders on top of a file cabinet and Grace wasted no time to start her search. “Look in the desk, remember Dad always hid the stuff he didn’t want us to find.” 

“All the way in the back, usually behind other stuff. I know, Gracie... I lived with him too.” Finn sighed as settled in the ratty chair and started pulling open the drawers and rifling around. 

Silence fell upon them once more, each going about their search till Finn found a small wooden box. “Hey... look.” They said setting the box on the desk. “Remember didn’t we have a music box kinda like this, I mean...” When they noticed Grace was off in her own head again they wadded up a piece of paper from the desk and tossed it at her. “Eh... you... with the face.” 

Grace spun around and shook her head. “What?” 

“Come look at this, it looks like the music box we had in the bunker. Remember when we were small and innocent and you wore dresses.” Finn snarked, tapping the wooden box. 

Crossing the room Grace leaned on the desk as she reached for the box and flicked it open. A familiar tune began to play and both teens eyes grew wide as they instantly recognized that song. In shock Grace dropped the music box and Finn pushed back from the desk. They both acted as if that was the most cursed object in the world. 

Pointing at each other they each began to talk over each other till they fell on the same phrase. “That’s the song dad sang at bedtime...” They both instantly started humming it almost out of reflex before they each clasped their hands over their mouths. Taking a moment for their minds to catch up, the pair began tearing the office apart, finding more and more of the information they didn’t want to find but searched for desperately. 

An hour into their search they each sat on the floor in utter disbelief. Finn was shaking their head as Grace stared at the wall completely numb, with faded photographs of Jacob’s operations in her hands. “So...my actual... parents... were the fucking public face of this cult and the people that raised me basically had their own fucking brainwashed super solider army...” Grace said flatly. Her voice devoid of all emotion because she was unable to process all of them that she was feeling at once. 

“How? These aren’t mom and dad... they aren’t,” Finn choked out, far more upset than Grace had ever expected to see the normally light-hearted Finn. “Even... Peaches... and look... Judge...” They said shoving a pair of photographs attached to files across the floor. 

Graces shook her head, she had enough. “I can’t do this Finn.. we are fucking born and raised by monsters...” Grace screamed. “I can’t. This... this is not the person I am Finn... I am...” 

Finn scrambled to their feet and went to embrace Grace but she pushed them away. “Hey, you ever think I could use the fucking hug...” 

Turning around Grace sighed and wrapped her arms around her younger sibling. They stood there, holding each other for a moment and in the quiet Grace heard a noise. Instantly they both dropped everything else and turned to their weapons. “Someone followed us...” Grace whispered as she went to the door. She could hear footsteps in the hall. 

Bringing her finger to her lips, she set her rifle down opting for a quieter and personal approach. Tapping her thigh, both Mango and Timber crouched down with her, with Finn following behind as Grace snuck up behind the shadowed figure and drove her knife into their neck. She wasn’t about chance just wounding them, all for the sake of asking questions. Mango spotted a second figure and pounced with a snarl. 

The man she mauled let out a horrified scream as the two hundred pound beast settled herself on his chest. This one, Grace would let live to talk for now. Finn walked up behind Mango and scratched her ears. “Good job, mama…” They cooed as Grace knelt down beside the man. 

Her face covered in blood as she tilted her head to the side to look the man in the eyes, she asked. “Who sent you?” 

The man choked as he gasped for breath. “Ethan...Seed…” 

“Oh yay, more family…” Finn grumbled sarcastically as they patted Mango to move.

The man gasped for breath as Grace put her knife to his throat. “What does he want with us?” 

“To bring you to New Eden… to find… the Father…” 

“OH FUCK THAT SHIT!” Finn exclaimed, throwing their hands up. “Oh hell no! No! I said No! Grace… don’t you dare get a single fucking idea…” Finn knew where their sister’s mind was already going as she drove the blade into the side of the man’s neck with a sicking squelch that made Finn cringe and turn their head away. “Jesus…” 

Grace looked up and smirked. “It’s time to go kill some peggies, Finn…” 

“And what if we fail?” They asked sharply. “What happens then…” 

“Then, we hope that Timber can get home and find dad… or they are dumb enough to leave us with in ten feet of anything sharp…” Finn grumbled and nodded their head as they ran back to clear all the weapons off the bodies before they went outside to face the rest of the hunting party that was searching for them. 

[fairykat112]

Finished that story i wrote a while back

Complimentary Lollipops

I twisted my fingers under my puffy bleach white jacket, my white press on nails holding on for dear life as I bent them this way and that. Eyes darting back and forth nervously across the scarcely decorated gray office I’d been dragged to. I sat beside my mother on one of four short gray cushioned chairs against the back wall of a tiny square waiting room covered in inspirational art, like concrete gray wallpaper and a gray glass coffee table scattered with celebrity “Lose Weight Quick” magazines, the only spot of color in the room.

My father was standing at the counter, talking to a short, plumb, young lady through a thick shield of glass. His olive green suit freshly pressed, dark hair combed back neat and tidy with the help of over a dozen hair products, polished black dress shoes, freshly shaved face, picture perfect business man. My mother was sitting stiffly next to me, hands clasped over her black leather purse. Honey brown hair curled and pinned up like they used to in the 50s, makeup subtle with neutral tones and a soft mauve lipstick, crisp gray blazer with a dark pencil skirt and olive green ascot and earrings, picture perfect partner.

I clicked my black flats together, white painted toes peeking out in the front. A long strand of my ginger hair fell across my face, I pushed it behind my ear. Olive green dress to fit in, but don’t eat the day before because, “Minuette you look disgusting in that color and it makes your stomach look much too round. You need to make sacrifices to keep up our image”.

Minuette isn’t my real name, and ginger isn’t my real hair color. I’m adopted and my real name is Blair. But Blair means “plain” in Scotish and mouse brown is much too ordinary a color, so my parents insist I always address myself as Minuette, “Small and dainty like a lady should be''. Dye my hair red to “look less boring”. Change my whole identity so everyone would forget I’m the child of my fathers disowned, incriminated, heroin addicted burnout of a brother.

A young blonde haired boy in an itchy looking green sweater vest about my age walked past the window, looking as bored as I. As he glanced through the glass lazily I felt the tiny pinch of my moms acrylics against my forearm. I sat up quickly. Spine straight, chine down, legs crossed at the ankle, slight smile, but make sure you don’t overdo it. I settled into my mom’s “Perfect format”, feeling the boy’s gaze graze over the room before moving on. I sat back in my chair. Being perfect is exhausting.

“Minuette, this is our new consultant, Miss Aubery.” My dad said, turning back to me, smile just like his hair, fake.

“Nice to meet you Miss.” I stood up to say hello, and the world spun drunkenly for a moment. I grasped her hand tightly for stability, when my stomach let out a large growl. Time froze for a moment and our faces flooded with color cartoonishly. My face flushed pink, my father’s red and my mother’s white. Embarrassed and humiliated, I let go of her hand and sat down quickly onto the understuffed gray waiting chair, wiping my hand against the seat like it was diseased. I fought to hold back my tears, beating them back like they were rats, toads or some other disgusting yet overwhelming creature.

“Sweetie, are you hungry?” The lady asked, warm brown eyes peppered with concern.

“I’m just-”

“She’s fine.” My mother interjected. “You know teenagers, always skipping breakfast.” Her words hung in the air, silently at first. A moment too late, the adults laughed awkwardly for my mother’s benefit while I sat there, jaw clenched, stewing in my humiliation.

“Well here, have a lollipop.” She said kindly, taking one off her desk. A red one, I bet it's cherry, my favorite. I haven’t been allowed to eat candy since I was 9 years old but I can picture it’s flavor perfectly. Tart and sugary, the artificial fruit taste coating my hypothetical senses. Some sort of high ran through my body, electrifying. I reached out for it when my father grabbed my arm in disarray.

“Sweetie you can’t. We don’t have an insulin shot for you!”

“Oh! I am so, so sorry, you’re diabetic?” Miss Aubrey asked, looking embarrassed as if she’d offended me. I’m not, but I forced a nod for I could feel my mother’s stare drilling into the back of my head. Miss Aubrey apologized, and my parents quickly changed the subject while saying that they should start the meeting by now.

“We’ll be out in 5 minutes… Darling” My mother said with a look that told me I would be punished later. I nodded at the slamming gray door. I sunk into the chair once again, letting my tears flow down my cheeks silently.

My stomach kept growling. Just don’t think about it. I put my fingers around my wrist, making sure they could touch. Then my upper arm, then my thigh. God I hate my legs. I look at my reflection in the window. I wonder what others would’ve seen, sunken in eyes, shallow face, but all I could see was all the things my parents pointed out as I’d done my makeup. Your cheeks are too round, your jaw isn’t sharp enough, your lips are too small, your nose is too big. Do better.

My stomach let out another rumble. I was starving. I looked at the lollipops on Miss Aubrey’s desk. I had maybe two minutes. Don’t do it, it’ll make you gain weight. It’s just a lollipop. It’ll lead to more. No, I’ll just have one. You know if you go down that path again you’ll get uncontrollable. You know I saved you. You know I’m right.

I stood up with hesitation, wobbling slightly as the world shifted. Slowly walking across the room. Don’t you dare! I reached towards the jar, pulling out a bright red lollipop, fiddling with it between my fingers. No one will love you if you let yourself go! I could hear my parents meeting finishing up. You can’t eat in front of them! That's disgusting! I slowly unwrapped the candy, the cellophane wrapper crinkling in my hands, my body starting to tremble. No one will love you if they see you like this. I held it in front of my face, breathing in the scent of sugar and cherry flavoring. jaw quivering. Fat tears rolled down my face as I stared down the candy.

The room around me slowed and wavered, darkness glimmering at the edge of my vision. I felt my legs start to buckle as the air in my chest grew short. Are you really going to give me up for a lollipop? The door began to squeak open. I hit the carpeted floor with a soft thud, trying to stand up to say I was fine, but my body was like sandbags, weighing me down. The room’s sharp edges softened and the speech of the adults muffled and slurred as time seemed to freeze to a stop. All I could see was that damn complimentary lollipop before everything faded from view.

[kamilah-the-bloodqueen]

Mafia (Part VI/I think it’s going to be 10)

Notes: ONE THE FIRST NOTE IM GOING TO APOLOGIZE FOR THIS PART OF THE SERIES AND IM SORRY!!! I honestly don’t think this chapter was great, but I’m hoping part VII will compensate because I had an idea of where I should take this fic while avoiding Stockholm syndrome. I’m definitely feeling the struggle of writing a coherent fic with this series, but it’s always good to get out of your comfort zone right? *laugh* Anyways so I’ve never written a 2 point perspective fic before so that was also new so like tell me what you think because I deadass need feedback because I love writing and I always want to put out content people are going to enjoy. I think I’m going to stick to one shots  with fluff and smut after this though! 

Pairing: Kamilah x MC (Amy Johnson)

Warnings: Violence, Language 

Tags: @mrskamilxh @slytherinthoughts7 @made-me-deep-blue @scarlet-letter-a0114 @uselesslesbianfr @kamilah-sayeed-let-me-love-you (if you want to be tagged comment because a chapter of Mafia II that I deleted got around and people asked but I never saw it so I never knew 😬)

Part I  Part II  Part III  Part IV  Part V

----FBI Hideout----

“You’re alive!” Jackson guided Amy to an office, pulling out a seat for her to rest in before opening a first aid kit. “Damn, I’m sorry Amy. We-we were supposed to keep you safe..” Jackson reached for her wrist, Amy let out a whimper at the contact. 

“It’s okay Jackson, sometimes that happens,” Amy closed her eyes and Jackson applied the antibiotic ointment, “and it wasn’t your fault.” Amy watched Jackson’s deft hands wrap her wrists, his grip firm but soft. Their eyes met, Amy’s heart fluttered, his brown eyes slightly lighter than Kamilahs. Jackson reached out to cup Amy's face as she leaned into the contact, disregarding the throbbing of her bruises. 

“Who did this to your perfect face?” Jackson snarled, his eyes hardened. His hands were soft, gentle and warm, Amy closed her eyes.

“Kamilah.”

“She-she didn’t kill you?” Jackson let out a gasp, drawing his hand away.

“No,” Amy sighed again, reminiscing on the memories as their hostage, “she was planning on ransoming me for information or something.”

“Well, that won’t happen.” Jackson pulled Amy into a gentle hug, she leaned into him. His strong arms gave her a sense of peace, of safety. 

“Amy? Jackson? You guys all right?” Leo’s voice rang out, before the door creaked open. He stepped into the room, a regretful look on his face. “Amy-I, apologize. We-I don’t believe I prepared you enough before sending you back out there.” Leo bowed his head, an apologetic look on his face. 

“Don’t worry Leo, they didn’t kill me.” Amy laughed, followed by Jackson’s eye roll. 

“Well, I don’t know if you want to go back out there after her, we can certainly find someone else-” 

“No. It’s my mission and I’m going to finish it.” Amy huffed, crossing her arms and legs. 

“Amy!” Jackson cut in, Amy brushing him off with the wave of her hand.

“I know their tricks, if anyone can hunt them down, it’s me. It has to be me Leo, this is what I’ve been trained for.” Amy stood up, her eyes flaring with determination.

----A dark alleyway----

“Fucking hell.” Kamilah huffed, poking her head out of the alley to scan the surrounding area. She was angry, infuriated. Not only had the mafia lost control of a major boatyard, they’d also lost an upper hand over the law, they’d lost Amy. 

“So what? She got away, it’s not a big deal-” Darius nearly choked as Kamilah threw part of a brick at him.

“We lost a hostage Darius.” Kamilah huffed, drawing her handgun, “we lost the boatyard. We lost Amy, and now the law is upon us.” She concealed her gun, before moving her hand for the rest to follow. 

Kamilah moves swiftly, silently and with precision. She knew the streets of NYC like the back of her hand, leading her men to an old abandoned base. 

“So was it a rat?” Darius hesitated, stepping back out of Kamilahs arm range. Kamilah huffed in frustration, setting her equipment on a crumbly table. Her eyes flared, her jaw clenched as she shook with fury. 

“I had one job. I-“ Kamilah sighed, recomposing herself. “We have work to do. Amy is a loose end for us... I’ll see that it gets cut off.” Kamilah gestured for the men to settle in and begin preparation. 

—— 2 days later ——

“So you figured it out Amy?” Jackson appeared at Amy’s side, his perfect brown hair shining in the light. 

“Yes Jackson I know what I’m doing.” Amy huffed, reminiscing on the few moments with Kamilah that gave her a new perspective of the Mafia. 

“And?” Jackson crossed his arms, pointing to the map of NYC. “Can you draw her out?” 

Amy felt her gut turn at the thought. She didn’t want to kill Kamilah, and if she could keep her alive she would. It was a complicated situation and she’d be lying to herself if she said she hadn’t contemplated quitting her job as a detective. 

“Yes.” Amy stood there quietly, praying Jackson hadn’t been smart enough to read body language. 

“You don’t want to kill her do you?” He hesitated, Amy turned to gaze into his deep brown eyes. “Amy I’m-I’m not going to incriminate you if you don’t want to kill her.” He faltered, gazing towards the ground. 

“Jackson you know I don’t, I wouldn’t want to kill anyone-.” Amy felt her face flush at the thought of Kamilah. “I don’t like killing people, I don’t like hurting them. It seems unnecessary.”

“I know that but-“ His smile fell, and his eyes lost some of their spark. “The-the way you talk about her...it’s-different from any other target you’ve had to pursue. Might I ask why?” 

“No. Sorry Jackson.”

“It’s okay. Well, we should get back to it.” He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Amy with her thoughts and memories. Amy felt her eyes well up at the thought of having to kill, or arrest Kamilah. Amy contemplated how she could draw Kamilah out in a way that wouldn’t immediately get her killed. 

“Keeping you a secret” Amy let out a gasp, her eyes widening at her idea, she glanced down at the map of New York. She moved out of the hideout, she walked quickly, knowing exactly where she had to go and what she had to do to keep Kamilah alive. 

---Abandoned Base----

“So we have to kill her, can’t we just shoot her?” Darius huffed, Kamilah standing up and nearly choking him.

“No.” 

“Why not? She’s a loose-end like you sai-” In a flash Kamilah had Darius against the wall, handgun held against his stomach. 

“There’s other ways to deal with loose ends.” Kamilah withdrew her gun, her eyes still hardened. 

“Oh I see. You liked her didn’t you?” Darius smirked, crossing his arms in victory. “You liked her, you like her, so you refuse to kill her.” Kamilah looked away, a feeling of weakness growing in her stomach. “Who would’ve thought that the toughest Mafia arms dealer would’ve fallen for a detective who wants nothing more but to see you dead. But I was in love once too, Kamilah, so I will help you, even hardasses like ourselves deserve something right?”

“Perhaps, but let’s stay focused. Obviously this was a setup but I doubt the FBI was smart enough to realize we wanted control of that boatyard. If there’s a rat we need to cut it off before anyone gets killed.” Kamilah composed herself, the image of Amy sleeping soundly replaying in her mind. Kamilah walked out of the hideout for a quick breath of air, contemplating her decisions in the past few days. 

“How’d we end up like this…” She let out a sigh, taking in the cool, crisp air of New York. 

“I don’t know but I can assure you it’s one for the storybooks.” Kamilah turned and met Amy’s familiar eyes, she let out a sigh before shaking her head and drawing her handgun. 

“How did you find us? It’s been two days.” Kamilah took a half-step forward, her heart racing. 

“It wasn’t hard. We caught the mafia here once and it was the closest hideout from the boatyard.” Amy leaned against the wall of the hideout, unphased by the gun being held towards her. “I’m not here to kill you, if that’s what you think I’m going to do.” 

“Well what are you here for then?” Kamilah lowered her gun, her eyes meeting Amy’s. 

“A proposition.”